An Illustrative Anecdote

DJ writes from NYC:

This posting was originally going to be about how much I miss everybody. It still is, although it has taken somewhat of a different form. If you don’t feel in the mood for reading a long anecdote, skip to the end. (I love you anyway.)

The following events happened around 5:30 PM on Tuesday, August 10, Eastern time:

I walk into this furniture store with my father – the Macy’s Furniture Gallery. We weren’t necessarily going to buy anything, just doing some comparison shopping because my father wanted to furnish his new office. A saleswoman immediately materializes in front of us and asks if we need assistance. I tell her no, we’re just looking around. She disappears for about five seconds and promptly reappears every time we stop at a piece of furniture, mumbling promotional gibberish and spewing price quotes.

This wasn’t particularly annoying for the first few minutes, just amusing. At one point, I started chuckling to myself. (I’m not sure why I started laughing randomly – I’m usually not Mr. Jocularity. Perhaps I was acting strangely because I miss TASP.) The furniture saleswoman promptly asks my father, but loudly enough that I could hear, “What does he find so funny?”

Geez, some people are so insecure! I wasn’t laughing at her or anything. In fact, I’m not sure what exactly I was laughing at. It was probably some fond memory of our time together at TASP, now that I think about it. Anyway, I was really incensed that she should dare to take issue with me. So what if I chuckle to myself? I have the right to do that. It’s a free country.

So I start objecting to the pieces of furniture she shows my father. I wasn’t being cruel, really, just voicing some issues that should be considered when buying furniture – i.e. lack of back support in a chair, misplaced armrest, discordant colors, etc. I pointed out problems with chairs and desks that Dad agreed with me on, so I wasn’t even being unreasonable.

But right after I tell Dad how I disapproved of the rough surface on one particular desk, this saleswoman channeled all her repressed rage (and presumably all her discontent with her station in life) at me in one furious torrent.

“Listen, kid…son, do you have to complain about everything? Do you find something wrong with every single piece of my furniture? Is there anything you like at all?” (and so on).

Whoa, whoa, whoa. There were too many things for me to understand all at once. First, she made the condescending gesture of calling me “son”. Secondly, her tone was openly hostile. Thirdly, she tried to make eye contact with my forehead, as you should when talking to a dog to give the impression of superiority. Fourthly, she referred to Macy’s furniture as “my furniture”, as if she owned it all. Fifthly, she actually took my comments personally, whereas they reflected not on her but upon the designers of the furniture. Sixthly, via her generalizations about my inability to like anything, this saleswoman was basically questioning whether I could relate to anything in the world at large, whether I had the right to be alive. (Okay, so maybe that’s a bit of a stretch, but I felt the implicit question very strongly in her tone of voice.)

I was tempted to reply that first of all, I was not her son – as my father, who was sitting next to me, could attest to; also, that it was not “her” furniture we were discussing, that it belonged to Macy’s; also, that she should do well to listen to her customers rather than offend them. The saleswoman also obviously misunderstood the power situation at play, because she assumed that by scaring off the wayward child she would have a better chance at persuading the parent to buy her wares. In fact, the opposite was true – Dad would probably only buy a piece of furniture after I approved, and driving me off would be counterproductive.

Instead, I replied briefly that I was offering a few reasonable objections and a second opinion on the furniture, and that I did not understand what her problem was. I then stared blankly at her for a few seconds. Good taste prevented me from saying any more.

This saleswoman then made the mistake of insulting my good taste. “Okay,” she said “I guess you must like all that high-tech stuff, glass and metal and what-not.”

Again, I was tempted to reply that I was more of a baroque and rococo guy, but I restrained myself to a more concise reply.

“You’d be surprised how wrong you are,” I said to her with a slight smile. With that Parthian shot, I turned on my heel and left. My father soon followed, after successfully persuading this unfortunate creature that I had been grievously injured by her comments and eliciting an apology from her.

She’s probably still kicking herself, because we were looking for an expensive desk for Dad’s office and appeared as if we were indeed planning to make a major purchase. We didn’t buy anything from her.

That’s why no one should ever insult my good taste.

The point of this anecdote was that I really miss you guys. Think about it. Hopefully, you understood from my story that I find it really frustrating not being at TASP and not being able to see everybody. It’s really, really tragic, being torn away from a group of good friends, and it’s doing funny things to my head. I miss you all very, very badly!

Talk to me when you get the chance.

Love,

David