I was standing third in line at Walmart recently, holding a toaster that I was returning. The toaster was recently purchased and proved to be defective. I’d had it long enough that the box and sales receipt were long gone. But that’s not really the point, is it? The man being served was an older gentleman who used two canes for walking, so that understandably took some time. The young man ahead of me in line was cashing his paycheck, which it turns out, was his last as he was moving on to employment elsewhere. Good for him. His new job would pay more and give him better hours. I know all of this because I couldn’t help hearing the entire conversation. Maybe now he’ll be making enough to open a bank account. All to the good, but do we in line need to know that narrative? I’m thinking . . . . . . The lady ahead of me mercifully made swift work of her return, for which the growing line was grateful, but then she asked a question about the return policy the clerk couldn’t answer. Really? You got your money back for the paper plates, move on. Nay, nay. Two or three phone calls, an announcement over the public address system and several cameo appearances by other employees, some resolution was achieved. Great. I’ve now got about 15 minutes of my life invested that I’ll never get back.
Three and four year olds will speak to anyone because they’re uninhibited and developing language and social skills. And quite honestly, who can resist a child’s smiling face as they tell us what bad words mommy used in the car on the way over or that the dog ran away with their favorite stuffed rabbit? One plus for teenagers is that they travel in packs, so their conversation is limited to the inner circle. Anyone perceived to be paying attention to them will be treated to a varied, highly developed repertoire of looks and comments designed to dismiss and reject external contact. As we grow into adulthood, many of us become less selective about our audiences, and we tackle complete strangers with polite abandon. All of this brings up the compelling question – why do people feel it necessary to provide extensive backstories when, in really they only need to transact business? Yes, a smile and a friendly comment is not to be taken amiss. But why do they choose to do this when I’m standing behind them in line? Pick our moments, people! For some, I’d say that a trip to the grocery store could be a rarity for human interaction, and we can certainly afford them a bit of patience and support. None of us really cares too much if the storytelling goes on while items are being rung up or a bit after. For a number of people, though, the line at Walmart is an extension of their Facebook page. You hear shuffles, clearing throats, people rearranging items in their carts for no reason. I should point out that I am the milk of human kindness in the grocery store, reaching up to get items on tall shelves that some can’t reach or getting the heck out of the way when someone needs to reach something. I step back, smiling politely, when folks who haven’t quite mastered the motorized carts they’re driving come down the aisles like snowplows in a North Dakota blizzard. I allow folks with just a few items to go ahead of me. However, when the person several ahead in line is merrily chatting away or is relating a long and complicated sequence of events on a cellphone and doesn’t realize that their transaction is complete or has logged out because they didn’t put in a PIN number as requested, our collective blood pressure begins to rise.
When I take my car in to be checked or repaired, the person in front of me invariably is waxing eloquently a detailed account of how the light came on, documenting their driving habits over the past month, why allowing their teenage son to take the car was a mistake, and any / all research they’d done on line leading up to this visit. The person on the desk then feels compelled to join in the narrative, explaining in greater detail than a surgeon just exactly what they’re going to do, and what they’re going to do is just another example of their superior quality work. Come on, people – all of those parts comes from the same two factories in Malaysia. (Factories in China are too busy cranking out iPhones and defective plastic pet toys. But I digress.)
What is this compulsive need to talk it all out? Why are people’s life narratives vital to the purchase of toothpaste at the drug store? Didn’t we invent the self-service check-out to avoid just that? I consider myself a friendly person, and certainly not averse to making a comment or two, as my family will readily admit. But let’s collectively figure out when our stories have gone on too long. The person trying valiantly to address our needs has long since stopped listening, responding, or caring. Their eyes are rolling backward, their smiles aren’t genuine, in fact they’re only moments away for seeking oxygen. Aren’t those clues? Customers of all ages just can’t seem to pick up those signs. They’re like the folks in line to make a left turn. In their minds, safety dictates that they leave ten to twelve car lengths between them and car in front of them. They are totally unaware that the light cycle is short, and nobody behind them is thinking, “Good for that careful driver. So what if I and eight others missed the light.”
Storytelling is all around us. It’s perhaps a fabled tradition, when villagers stopped by the general store to chat with the shopkeeper and get caught up on the latest doings. We know how this happens. I’ve watched “The Rifleman” too. That new family out at the Barker ranch bears keeping an eye on. Hattie has been feeling poorly lately. There was a stranger in the saloon last night wearing a black hat. That must mean something. Now that so many of us do our shopping on line, stores are doing whatever it takes to keep foot traffic. The folks ahead of me at the pharmacy invariably have concerns about their new medications. That I understand, and certainly I’m sympathetic. I’m at the multiple prescription stage of life too, and they’re confusing. But then, here it comes. Oh, yes, they had a cousin that took that and it didn’t end well. The cousin also had bunions, unrelated to the medication, but it adds ornament to the narrative. The pharmacist replies, “if there’s a problem, just stop taking it.” I could have told them that, and I’m not wearing a lab coat. There’s the person in the department store that will provide way more information than we need on how she’s going to accessorize whatever she’s buying. That’s often after she’s bustled ahead of several other people to immerge at the head of the line. I wanted to make a simple purchase at a department store a few months ago, which was stalled by a lady that was attempting to use discount coupons above and beyond the conditions clearly printed on them. She was insistent that the store, the mall in which it sat, the sales person, and society as a whole was against her. She launched into the time-honored, “well, when I go to . . . . . to shop, they always . . . . .” A litany of purchases then follows, more clerks and the floor manager magically appear. I’m thinking, “this could go all the way to a shoot-out in the parking lot.” Again, another fifteen or twenty minutes of my life gone forever.
Come on, people. The poor shmuck in the seat next to you in the airport waiting room does not want to know your life story, or strategic bits of it, or even one side of a loud phone conversation. The person next to you wants to be texting or playing games on their own phone. Get a clue – if they’re nodding and half smiling, they’re not listening. More importantly, they want to be critiquing the outfits and relative importance of those walking by – the guy in the cowboy hat and alligator boots (in New England), the woman in the bright fuschia caftan and matching beret in January. My wife does this a fair bit. In fact, she even has cards printed that say “About your outfit: please me call – I can help you.” It’s way more fun to invent their narratives than to actually hear the reality. If you’re sitting next to me in the doctor’s office, don’t fill me in on your history of medications or your medical conditions. In deepest appreciation, I won’t tell you mine. If you’re in line at the bank, deposit your money or take some out and be gone. There was a lady at the bank just the other day explaining in excruciating detail how she allocated her money. Checking to savings, the other way around, something to money market. I tried to block it all out. None of us wants to know about your adventures in banking – not the teller, not the people behind you, not the other bank employees gathering around because they sense the teller may need backup, like the lady with the faulty coupons. This isn’t North Fork, and Lucas McCain isn’t waiting for Mark outside the feed store with his rifle ready. Put everything on Facebook or Twitter like everyone else, text to a bunch of people if you must reach out, or write a memoir if you really feel you need to share. For those of us strangers that happen to be in your proximity, I’m thinking . . . . . . definitely no!
I'm Thinking...No! 