Could It Be the Boor Gene Is Hereditary?

Call them “Less Than Satisfying Encounters With Humanity,” or LTSEWH, for short. I swear they’re true. Only the names have been omitted to protect the imbecilic.

*

LTSEWH 1:

I don’t find a lot of peace in each day, but a morning cup of coffee at a local Starbucks doesn’t disagree with me. I gnaw on a low-fat six-grain scone and read what I can stomach of the paper. The other morning, a well-dressed gentleman was discoursing about the laudable precepts of Alcoholics Anonymous to a lady friend--at a volume about as lulling as a leaf blower.

“No,” he thundered, clearly audible to all 20-plus persons in the place, “Alcoholism is a disease! You inherit the gene!” and so on.

I looked him over. Well-dressed, not intoxicated, not hearing-impaired. Diamond earring twinkling in the morning light. After five futile minutes of trying to read amid such outbursts as “I have an addictive personality!” I began grumbling.

“Alcoholism is a disease,” I said quietly. “Maybe. So is being a great, snorting boor. I didn’t come here to listen to your damned lecture.”

A young fellow in a business suit eyed me nervously, then got up and left.

“My daughter’s got the gene!” boomed the boor, his lady friend spellbound. “If she becomes an alcoholic, I’ll be there for her! But I’m not going to let her take me down with her! We call that ‘tough love!’ ”

I turned and looked toward the guy’s table.

“I call you a loud jackass,” I muttered, then hustled my wretched breakfast out to my car and drove off. Hot, steaming coffee promptly spouted out that little hole in the lid of the cup, momentarily threatening to compromise my ability to reproduce.

“Boorishness is a disease,” I boomed. “You inherit the gene!”

LTSEWH 2:

Standing in line at a music and video store with about 10 items to purchase, I noticed the gentleman behind me carrying but a single CD.

“Go ahead of me,” I said with a smile. “I’ve got a lot more stuff to buy than you.”

The gentleman, middle-aged and gray, eyed me indifferently, and stepped in front of me.

Without a word.

And charged it, which took about five minutes.

LTSEWH 3:

Needing a particular ZIP code for West Los Angeles, I phoned the West L.A. post office. The conversation went about like this:

“Postal Service.” The voice was bored and lazy.

“Good morning, ma’am, how are you?”

Silence.

“You want something, sir?”

“Uhh. Yes. Uhh, how are you today?”

Long silence. Then. . . .

“What do you want, sir?”

“Well, I thought maybe you could say ‘fine, thanks,’ or something. I’m just trying to be courteous. I would like a ZIP code.”

“You want a ZIP code?”

“Yes.”

I then told her the address so she could look up the ZIP. She insisted there was no such address in West L.A.--that it was in Santa Monica. I explained that this was incorrect; that the address is two blocks from her West L.A. post office--in the direction of West L.A., not Santa Monica. I repeated the address twice more. (I later confirmed that it is a West L.A. address) Finally . . . .

“Just give me the ZIP of your post office. That’s almost across the street from the other address.”

“That address is in Santa Monica”

“Your post office is not in Santa Monica, so give me its ZIP code.”

“You want the ZIP code for the post office?”

“That’s what I just said.”

“90025.”

“Thanks. Tell me, why have you been so rude and argumentative?”

To call her response sarcastic is to call Newt Gingrich a bit conservative.

“Have a nice day,” she sneered.

I suggested she do something very far afield of having a nice day, to which she responded:

“Your mama!”

LTSEWH 4:

One of the last things you ever want to ask for in this world is . . . change. As in “for a dollar.”

I was in a mall, and I needed to call an editor--fast. I had omitted a crucial fact from an article. A gift shop clerk had refused, apologetically, to give me change for a dollar, suggesting I instead try the nearby theater ticket office. There, a teen-age girl regarded me as if I had just asked for her wallet.

“We don’t have no change,” she said, her eyes wide. Her register drawer was open, however, and inside I could see a small civilization of shiny doubloons.

“What’s that in the drawer, then?” I said. “Look, I need to make a phone call. Can you please give me four quarters for a dollar?”

She merely shook her head slowly, as if hypnotized. I moved on to a nearby greeting card store and politely made my request again.

“We need our change,” said another unsmiling young woman, staring toward an opposite wall.

“Look, dear,” I said, “you’re the third business I’ve been to. No one will give me change! I don’t know why. It’s very strange. I really need to make a phone call. I’m not lying. Can’t you please just give me change for this dollar? I’d really appreciate it.”

Her face plainly soured, and she grudgingly opened her cash drawer and made the exchange--without eye contact.

“Thanks very much,” I said.

“We need our change!” she snapped, as I turned. I stopped.

“Yes, yes, I know that,” I said. “You’ve made that very clear. You don’t have to be snotty. Don’t you know how to say ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we need our change,’ or ‘you’re welcome?’ ”

Her face flushed with anger, and I left. A few minutes later. . . .

“Hi,” I said, walking back into the store with a grin. “Here are your precious quarters which you so desperately covet!” I billed the call to my home phone--at extra expense--just so I could give you back your quarters! Pretty nice of me, huh? Now may I have a dollar for them, please?”

This actually happened. The young woman did not look at me, did not speak to me. She stood, unmoving, waiting for a customer to write a check. I repeated the request. The customer wrote on. The young woman still would not respond.

“You know, honey,” I said, “somebody really ought to teach you courtesy.”

I asked for her name, and her supervisor’s--which she airily supplied--and then I promised to call and complain. Of course, I never did.

I’m too nice a guy.

For more LTSEWH’s, watch this space.