Let me set the scene for you.
Paragon of healthy living and bastion of excellent taste that I am, I decided that the true gourmand’s choice when selecting a midday meal locale was none other than Taco Bell. Heavy with anticipation, I arrived at the establishment around noon. The thought of low-grade beef (ish) swirled in my thoughts along with the promise of innumerable calories in the form of cheese (ish) sauce, cascading into a whirlwind of devilishly indulgent delights.
I was not prepared for the scene that unfolded before me.
There were well over a dozen cars in the drive-through. The dining room was pure bedlam: every table occupied, a line that wrapped through the greasy confines of the cattle/customer chute, and nearly a dozen people standing while waiting for the arrival of their sustenance. Given that I am mildly claustrophobic (or maybe I just don’t like being near other people), this was a personal hell of sorts. Nevertheless, the desire for delectable and undoubtedly authentic Mexican cuisine helped me to stay the course. As I placed my order, the young man at the register noted that perhaps “to go” was the correct turn of phrase for the present condition.
I heartily agreed.
As I stood waiting for the arrival of the promised comestibles, I noticed something rather curious: the restaurant’s crew was performing flawlessly. I know, I know, idle flattery is not my strong suit- but I meant what I said. As overwhelmed as they were, they responded to every customer need with a combination of agility and grace that I have seen before… in Michelin-starred restaurants. The orders were executed efficiently, the quality of the food was identical to that which I’ve experienced in more relaxed business hours (as hollow as that may seem, my point is to emphasize that quality did not suffer as a result of the extreme demand- my tacos were well made and carefully wrapped, the order was exactly what I had previously specified, and it was delivered with a genuine smile), and things seemed to be going remarkably well, given the unique circumstances.
That was when she walked into the dining room.
Rushing through the door, thinning hair shiny with countless attempts to defy time and the elements, she promptly made her way to the chute, clutching what appeared to be Danielle Steele’s latest efforts at literary immortality. Her dress was impeccable: a cheaply made corporate T-shirt (some fantastic promotion must have been going on at her place of “employment”- a bank which is not, thankfully, mine) over a poor attempt at the emulation of Donna Karan linen pants (polyester does not imitate linen), topped off (?) with a pair of scuffed shoes that would have embarrassed Sam Walton.
Please don’t misunderstand me: I put very little stock in one’s outward appearance. However, I have always felt that if an “air” is to be “put on,” the substance must back up the hype. This was obviously not the case. Swooping in as a captain of industry in between trans-Atlantic teleconferences, her demeanor was instantly disagreeable to someone of the style and wit for which I am recognized the world over- or so I assume. To be honest, I wouldn’t have given her a second thought had it not been for the events that unfolded within a matter of less than a minute.
An elderly woman, obviously with more than a few physical infirmities limiting her mobility, inquired of the young man at the register whether it might be possible to eat her meal in the dining room. Scanning the area quickly, he honed in on a table made recently available. Apologizing to the woman for the delay, he informed her that he would clean off the table (a matter of 45 seconds and a damp rag), and then take her order. Her appreciative smile was lost in what happened next: grasping the literary masterpiece firmly in the swollen and poorly colored hand of a debauched ingrate, the captain-of-industry announced in a loud voice (replete with a rolling of the eyes, an impatient shifting of the feet, and a slight upturn of a malformed nose):
“I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!”
I beg to differ.
You have all the time in the world, my dear. As pointless as your existence is, my mind boggles at the thought of you finding your time worth more than the breath expended discussing it.
The young man was understandably taken somewhat aback by the exclamation, and with a sheepish grin, he returned to the counter (having taken a grand total of four steps in the direction of the table) to take the orders of the elderly woman and the most important person in the world- a middle-aged frump of an inconsequential human being (ish) who obviously had better thing to do. I cannot remember the last time I was as close to cursing someone for inhabiting the same planet as I was at that moment. Unfortunately, the induced stupor of the tableaux could not be overcome. The moment having passed, I left quietly (being no fan of the ubiquitous after-wit) and said nothing.
I will now rectify that mistake, that lack of courage and fidelity to principle I displayed during the episode. Pray listen to an open remark:
Madam (if one may use the term loosely),
I have an unfortunate revelation with which to greet you: you are NOT special, exalted, unique, or consequential. You are a trivial being, the spawn of generations of mediocrity that have finally culminated in the shapeless mass of the nominal existence you represent. Your intransigent attitude towards your own self-assured sense of importance would be laughable were it not so pitiable. Those of your ilk are as countless as the flies that buzz around steaming heaps of excrement- and remarkably similar in value. Given a situation where grace and dignity (not to mention respect for one’s elders) would have been the order of the day, you distinguished yourself as a blatant example of foppery writ large and foist on a numbingly addled public.
You apparently have decided that your time is of infinitely greater value than that of others. Even supposing that this were the case, could you not have displayed a modicum of patience commensurate with the situation? Evidently, you could not. I therefore recommend the following to you:
Please continue your current course of action: shout at customer-service representatives who are barely paid minimum wage to endure your abuse, act as if an additional 90 seconds is the difference between gain and loss in your life, and- above all- regard yourself as more than the painful reality of your purposeless existence. With each epithet you hurl, my position is further solidified: no human being is possessed of a “divine spark” that distinguishes us from other animals. In fact, there exist in the world a nauseating number of people who are as rude and insensitive as to deny the point of their being. They are best left to their own insignificance; observed and valued, they will be led to the false sense that they are more than (as I have mentioned) the mediocre spawn of slack-jawed, drooling idiots who could not grasp the intricacies of condom usage.
Let that suffice.
Yours in anger,
Someone Who Once Worked in Customer Service
(and, because of people like you, will never do so again…)
The Unrepentant Elitist 