Picking an appropriate title to one of my stories is perhaps the hardest part of writing them. I try to keep titles no longer than three words—just because that seems the proper thing to do. For this piece, Galveston might seem a bit odd, yet will make perfect sense at the end.
More than one person has told me, that dealing with the public is one of the toughest jobs there is. Customers can be demanding and rude at times. Over the course of 60 years, I have bumped into several such people.
The other morning in a convenience store, I stood in line waiting to pay for my breakfast burrito when a guy rambled on and on regarding the price of diesel. The tone in which he was venting made it seem the clerk was responsible. I wanted to interject, saying that perhaps he should place the blame where it belongs—on the big guy in Washington, DC—yet didn’t. I’m sure those customers standing at the back of the line were glad I refrained.
Grocery stores are always good places to hear people whine. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been in a supermarket, hearing someone behind me pipe up for everyone to hear, “Somebody needs to call another checker!”
The best comeback I’ve ever witnessed, and probably never will see again, is when an old guy blurted out for the cashier to call for backup help. This was early in the morning, minutes after the store opened. Hearing this request, the veteran employee stopped what she was doing, and then politely called over the intercom,
“Rhonda, would you check please, Rhonda.”
Without hesitation, the man moved out of line with his hand basket and scurried to the adjoining register, obviously anticipating he’d be next. At the most one minute went by with no new clerk appearing. The impatient Havasuian then demanded one more time,
“You need to page her again!”
At this point, the cool and calm store worker offered up the following,
“She heard me the first time. My name’s Rhonda and I’m the only checker here at the moment!”
Our Lake Havasu City Post Office is always a good place to hear whining and negative comments. The hard working folks working there do a tremendous job, yet there’s always someone in line thinking they’re not moving quite fast enough for them. Whenever I hear one of these complainers moaning about such, especially if they’re standing at the rear, I sometimes give them the 30-second stare.
Try staring at someone for 30 seconds without cracking a smile. It’s not easy. If they complain a second time, another stare session is in order. This usually cures them of their impatience. If the person’s directly in front of me, I merely burn a hole through the back of their head with my eyes.
It was in 1971 when the following happened to me. A beautiful and sunny Sunday—I was the only employee running my father and his partner’s Texaco gas station that day.
Sometime in the late afternoon, a young military man behind the wheel of a red convertible Mustang drove through, ringing the bell out front signaling he needed fuel. Back then, a rubber hose ran across the gas station driveway, and when a car or truck rolled over the hose, the suddenly compressed air inside of it rang a loud bell.
Hurrying outside to wait on him, the man replied, “Could you please check all four tires.”
My job was to take care of such requests, but I also wondered why this perfectly healthy guy didn’t check his own tires. Afterall, the gauge was on the end of the hose. I’d easily copped a negative attitude having to do this for him, yet kept my composure knowing that was what they paid me for.
After inspecting all four tires, out of the blue, this young Army soldier wearing a black cowboy hat, stuck his hand out with a couple of dollar bills. I only knew he was military by the large Fort Richardson Army sticker on his Mustang front bumper.
With the offer was so out of the norm, initially, I refused his money saying that air’s free, but he was insistent. Taking the cash, I stuck it in my coverall’s pocket and thanked him.
Before leaving the station, the fellow plugged an 8-track tape into his car stereo. It was a Glenn Campbell tape with the song “Galveston” suddenly booming from both rear speakers. Now 52 years later, I can still visualize the scene perfectly. That song greatly helped me remember things.
As he quickly drove away with music blaring, a small amount of dust and sand particles from unswept concrete lingered in the air. Sunlight reflected off it for a brief few seconds. I stood there somewhat shocked until he disappeared from sight. I’ve never forgotten that moment nor the kind act left behind by this perfect stranger. Strangely enough, I never saw him again because I would’ve been more than happy to check the air in his tires.
Years ago, I was telling my late Mom this story and she had a perfect explanation. During the 1940s, Mother worked in a small café in Vernon, Alabama. This was during her teenage years.
Mom told me that she didn’t exactly recall those folks stiffing her on tips, which happened all the time, yet remembered instead those few customers always leaving behind a nice tip, sometimes a couple of quarters just for a cup of coffee. Their kind faces evidently stuck in her brain like that soldier’s did mine.
Now, whenever I hear “Galveston” playing on the radio, I flash back to 1971 and that urban cowboy. He definitely left a positive impression on me. In an attempt to emulate the man, I make a humble effort to treat all employees of businesses with respect, no matter where they stand on the company ladder. One such way is by giving those folks bringing food or drink out to my car, a small token of appreciation—usually a dollar.
In the long run, people will undoubtedly remember me more this way, than if I’d treated them with rudeness and disrespect.
I like to write junk... 