JazzManJim
On the Downbeat
- Joined
- Sep 12, 2001
- Posts
- 27,360
Tale One: I was on a delivery to a fairly nice neighborhood and it was getting well into twilight. The only real problem this neighborhood has is that the house number placards on the houses aren't all that big and, unless the porch light is on, you can't see them. Of course, my house didn't have their porch light on, so it took me a couple minutes of driving up and down the street, counting houses, before I found the right one.
When I finally made it to the front door (navigating over a garden hose sprawled across the walkway and driveway in the dark), the women who answered the door proceeded to harangue me about the pizza arriving late. She blasted through my customary "Good evening! How are you tonight?" with a true tirade, curse words and hand-flails in full effect. She had three small dogs behind her doing their best Temptations impression, barking in a cheerful, brain-piercing counterpoint to her shrill yammering.
Now I knew something that I was sure she forgot. Her pizza wasn't late. I knew for a fact that when she called, she was told that it would take approximately 40 minutes to get the pizza to her. I know that because I took the order at the store. It only took 35 minutes. I was pretty proud of that.
I was about to point that out to her, rather gently. I didn't feel much like yelling because my head really did hurt and having to listen to Ms Loud Mouth and the Pips wasn't helping me any at all. I don't like to yell anyhow, especially while I'm at work. I do buy ito the whole customer service idea and the biggest part of that is that you really shouldn't be rude until you have no other option.
Finally after five minutes of my trying to politely interrupt her, I couldn't take it anymore. My head was pounding, the Heat Bag I had been holding the whole time had been slowly scalding off my fingerprints and I just didn't want to hear any more of her crap.
I said, not quite yelling, but close, "Ma'am, would you shut up those god-damned dogs and stop yelling at me so I can talk for a minute?". Her mouth closed like a bass claming down on a juicy worm. I took great pleasure in telling her that her pizzas weren't late and that I had been the person to take the order, so I knoeew exactly what I was talking about. I then showed her the timesamp on the pizza box label and my watch. Then we did a little math to demonstrate that 35 minutes is less than 40 minutes.
And I managed not to raise my voice beyond that initial holler. I think I showed pretty laudable self-restraint.
Though I did hear an alarming "crunch" when I backed out of her driveway. I accidentally (honest..I didn't even see the damned thing) ran over the nozzle of the garden hose which was sitting int he middle of the driveway. I can't say that I feel bad about it, though.
Tale Two: I got the rare and satisfying priveledge of yelling at a motorist last night. Normally, I keep my invectives safely within the confines of the JazzMobile. Not last night, though.
I'm not going into the whole story, but it culminated with a middle-aged couple who had been going ten miles under the speed limit on a rather busy highway waiting next to me at a stop light looking at me as if my flashing lights behind them were an offense to their very nature. I rolled down my window and the driver leaned over and said "You know, sonny, flashing your lights is illegal in thie state. I could put you in jail." I replied with a very polite, "No, Sir. Someone flashing their lights briefly behind you means that you're goind too god-damned slow and you need to get your slow ass the hell out of the fast lane. And don't tell me what is and isn't illegal unless your an officer. Have a good night!". And the light turned green and I pulled away. He didn't look happy to have been rebuffed.
All in all, though I felt rotten, it did feel good, in a completely petty way, to get those little vents out of my system. Sure, I was probably a bastard, but I really didn't much care.
When I finally made it to the front door (navigating over a garden hose sprawled across the walkway and driveway in the dark), the women who answered the door proceeded to harangue me about the pizza arriving late. She blasted through my customary "Good evening! How are you tonight?" with a true tirade, curse words and hand-flails in full effect. She had three small dogs behind her doing their best Temptations impression, barking in a cheerful, brain-piercing counterpoint to her shrill yammering.
Now I knew something that I was sure she forgot. Her pizza wasn't late. I knew for a fact that when she called, she was told that it would take approximately 40 minutes to get the pizza to her. I know that because I took the order at the store. It only took 35 minutes. I was pretty proud of that.
I was about to point that out to her, rather gently. I didn't feel much like yelling because my head really did hurt and having to listen to Ms Loud Mouth and the Pips wasn't helping me any at all. I don't like to yell anyhow, especially while I'm at work. I do buy ito the whole customer service idea and the biggest part of that is that you really shouldn't be rude until you have no other option.
Finally after five minutes of my trying to politely interrupt her, I couldn't take it anymore. My head was pounding, the Heat Bag I had been holding the whole time had been slowly scalding off my fingerprints and I just didn't want to hear any more of her crap.
I said, not quite yelling, but close, "Ma'am, would you shut up those god-damned dogs and stop yelling at me so I can talk for a minute?". Her mouth closed like a bass claming down on a juicy worm. I took great pleasure in telling her that her pizzas weren't late and that I had been the person to take the order, so I knoeew exactly what I was talking about. I then showed her the timesamp on the pizza box label and my watch. Then we did a little math to demonstrate that 35 minutes is less than 40 minutes.
And I managed not to raise my voice beyond that initial holler. I think I showed pretty laudable self-restraint.
Though I did hear an alarming "crunch" when I backed out of her driveway. I accidentally (honest..I didn't even see the damned thing) ran over the nozzle of the garden hose which was sitting int he middle of the driveway. I can't say that I feel bad about it, though.
Tale Two: I got the rare and satisfying priveledge of yelling at a motorist last night. Normally, I keep my invectives safely within the confines of the JazzMobile. Not last night, though.
I'm not going into the whole story, but it culminated with a middle-aged couple who had been going ten miles under the speed limit on a rather busy highway waiting next to me at a stop light looking at me as if my flashing lights behind them were an offense to their very nature. I rolled down my window and the driver leaned over and said "You know, sonny, flashing your lights is illegal in thie state. I could put you in jail." I replied with a very polite, "No, Sir. Someone flashing their lights briefly behind you means that you're goind too god-damned slow and you need to get your slow ass the hell out of the fast lane. And don't tell me what is and isn't illegal unless your an officer. Have a good night!". And the light turned green and I pulled away. He didn't look happy to have been rebuffed.
All in all, though I felt rotten, it did feel good, in a completely petty way, to get those little vents out of my system. Sure, I was probably a bastard, but I really didn't much care.
