Ricochet is the best place on the internet to discuss the issues of the day, either through commenting on posts or writing your own for our active and dynamic community in a fully moderated environment. In addition, the Ricochet Audio Network offers over 50 original podcasts with new episodes released every day.
On Decorum and Entitlement
The point was driven home repeatedly while in combat training, that one should leave no trace whatsoever of one’s tracks. If necessary to set up camp for awhile, the area should look pristine enough upon our departure that Euell Gibbons himself would be content to relax and chew on a pinecone in the area, oblivious to the fact that a bunch of us had been there only a short time earlier. In a tactical sense, such an approach was necessary to forestall enemy forces from discerning our whereabouts. The lesson, it seemed to me, could also apply to life in a larger sense.
My grandmother was the reigning world champion of this approach in life and manners generally. She would have been perfectly mortified to learn that she had made any sort of imposition on anyone at anytime, anywhere. The lessons I learned from Grannybob, in addition to military regimentation, instilled in me an almost fanatical devotion to leaving as small a footprint as possible anywhere I go, even in my own home. And so it is that I compulsively pick up after myself so as to leave zero obstacles for others in my wake — striving even to rinse the spoon after I stir my coffee on the presumption that others prefer not to stir their coffee with the half-dried, sticky dregs of my coffee left for their enjoyment on the spoon. It’s why I move through a crowd as carefully as possible so as not to disrupt others, or why I typically defer to others as to who goes through a doorway first, etc. I simply don’t think it my place to impede those around me.
The downside is that I’m left baffled as to why others apparently think nothing of making impositions on the people around them. From driving slow in the fast lane and blocking innumerable people on the manifest assumption that wherever these people are going, it is not nearly as important as getting in their way; to cutting in line (either in traffic or inside a business); to taking as much time as possible when making a purchase knowing that are great throngs of people still waiting behind you; there is simply no end to the wellspring of rudeness. It’s tough to contend with in daily life and, I’ve learned, nearly impossible to conceal one’s disgust at this sort of rudeness when working with the public in a retail setting.
My mother reminds me, pretty regularly, that my eyes usually give away whatever attempt I might make to let such aggravations roll off of me without remark. I might not say a word, but my facial expressions give away the game every time. It’s part and parcel of life in the retail lane, of course, and I’ve been showing a great deal more patience lately than I did years ago. Age does that, though I don’t know if that’s because age instills patience or because by the time you reach a certain point in life, the vast array of human idiocy has already of unfolded before your eyes so that there are few surprises left.
Which is why the thing that transpired a week or so ago, and my reaction to it, left me stumped. Stumped and furious, actually. The lady at the counter was quoted a price for repair of some items by our jeweler. As it transpired, the price was a full third lower than the normal cost of the repairs. As the guy behind the counter, and in particular the very new guy behind the counter, it was not my place to contradict a senior employee and jeweler, and so the price stood. I quoted the price to the customer, including tax, and she demanded a military discount. Now, I’m a retired veteran myself, and not one to shrug off giving whatever accolades and credits I can to those who served, but a whopping discount had already been given.
Indignant at my hesitance, the lady turned abrasive as she reached into her purse and whipped out her Department of Defense….Dependent ID Card. Granted, families serve as well, but I can’t remember ever seeing seen such entitled impudence from someone who actually wore the uniform and went into harm’s way, let alone someone who never donned a gas mask, dodged incoming fire, or ate mud while trying to become one with the ground. The anger was instantaneous and I could feel my blood pressure spiking. My eyes closed for one brief instant to gather my composure before looking at the lady and saying, “You know what? I’m not going to argue because it isn’t worth it. But I’ve served in the military and I wouldn’t act this way.”
Then I proceeded with the transaction with a courtesy that was more curt than courtesy, but it worked. She mercifully left the store causing everyone and everything to breathe a sigh of relief at the departure of Attila the Customer. Yes yes, I’ve seen entitled ingrates before. I see them at the grocery store. I see them at other businesses. I see them in traffic putting others at risk for their own amusement. I’ve even worked for a few of them (quite recently in fact). But I expect more from those in possession of a Department of Defense ID Card. Even dependents. What angered me was, of course the brazen imbecility of it all — but there was something more; the violation of the idea of service which that ID card embodies.
Of course there are veterans who walk around asking for discounts at every turn, and while I don’t necessarily begrudge them that benefit, as you might surmise, that’s generally not how I operate. I didn’t serve so I can stuff my face for free at a chain restaurant. I will make occasionally enquiries when we make a large purchase, but I’d rather slit my wrist than make a big honking disturbance about it all.
Meanwhile, content with what little wisdom age has bestowed, chiefly the wisdom of keeping a steady paycheck coming in, I’ll remember and apply the words of Queen Elizabeth I, that: “Anger makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor.”
Published in General
Same thing happens to me at the store. And at the bank. And at fast food places. And most importantly, in multiple lanes of traffic. If I ever find that Murphy guy…….
Sprint is the worst company, in regards customer service, with which I have ever dealt. They once billed $600 for one phone call. It was a fax from my designated fax line to the counterpart of the company from which I was ordering. I called them laughing at what they had done, thinking that they would immediately realize the absurdity of the situation and make the proper correction to my bill. Again, like you @annefy, after being transferred 3 or 4 times, I got absolutely nowhere. I finally just deducted the $600 and paid the bill with a note. The next month I received a past due notice. I called, wrote but to no avail. Again I paid the bill, but deducted that $600. Next came the letters from their legal department threatening action. I wrote them back explaining, but nothing…until one day I was out of the office and I received a call on my cell from my highly agitated bookkeeper telling me we had no phone service at my business. I called Sprint and demanded they turn my phones back on immediately. The next week I was with ATT.
Later a new gismo came walking in my door with a salesman attached. It was this cool combo phone and walkie talkie push button device called Nextel. They became all the rage in the construction industry, as well as others. I bought a half dozen or more of them. We used them for several years. They were expensive and the thrill was starting to evaporate as the rather shortened sentences of walkie talkie speak became aggravating. Then a salesman I hired went out and bought a Nextel phone. My employees owned their phones, but I paid for the service. He didn’t last long, and I called Nextel (which at this point had been purchased by, guess who? SPRINT!) to cancel that service line, still, of course, maintaining 7 or 8 other lines. You can’t cancel, they said. You have a two year contract. I said, Really? I do not remember signing a contract and we have no record of one in your file. PLease send me a copy of that contract, or even a voice recording. Of course they had neither, but continued charging me for the line. I spent way too much time discussing this with them. I pointed out what a no win situation they had put themselves into. I had already spent tens of thousands of dollars with them and they were about to lose my business completely over a two year contract that didn’t even exist for a single phone. I was amazed as I tried to get someone on the other end of the call that had a brain. I pointed out that we could ultimately go to court, but the first thing the judge will want to see is the contract, which you do not have. You’re Fired!
Funny :) :)
Guilty as charged, and seemingly getting a little worse as I get older. Emotional poker face, I do not have.
As an Air Force dependent, in the early 80’s, it was drilled into me the fact that my Dependent ID card was a privilege, not an entitlement. Yes, I could get on and off base, shop at the BX or the Shoppette, go bowling without my parents. But it also meant that a certain level of behavior was expected of me, and any behavior to the contrary would eventually come to the attention of my dad’s superior, my dad, and back to me. Obviously a different situation here with this lady, and I admit I’m not sure how I feel about dependents qualifying for discounts. I suppose that up to the policy of the business in question.
Life doesn’t owe me anything. But as much as I believe that, perhaps it is still a failing that interactions with those who do exhibit an unhealthy sense of entitlement routinely gets my hackles up. Grace is hard sometimes, eh?
Dave,
Sure wish you’d picked up that (tan-colored, still?) Dependent ID and looked at the rank of the active duty (maybe) SM. Whatever it was, it would’ve been illuminating.
Like you, I almost never inquire about military/veteran discounts. My favorite Thai place knows me well, and just automatically affixes a 10% military discount to my tab whenever I wander in on “Military Monday.” Once I retired, I told them, “hey, I’m not military anymore.”
“Oh no, hon. We know you. You always military.”
Okay.
The only time I’ll play the vet card, is when I get pulled over. Then, along with the DL, the blue vet ID comes out, the current military CAC card comes out, and of course the CCW comes out.
I wouldn’t do that if I got pulled over doing 75 in a 35, but I don’t do 75 in a 35. If I get pulled over, the reason is guaranteed rooty-poot. So I hand over the deck of cards as my way of saying, “Go ahead, jerk face, screw me over. But I know that you know that I know you’re just being a jerk.” Petty, but cathartic.
When I got my first carry permit in South Carolina, the law required it be handed to any lawman who asked for ID. It’s not the law everywhere, but I do it anyways. I’m pretty sure several warnings I’ve received would have been tickets in its absence. It hasn’t been 100% effective, though. /-:
And that is why I love this country so.
Please do not construe anything I’ve written on this post or another to mean that I’m not all about the “blue dot” Glock. Straight up.
The first time I ever went out shopping with just my girlfriends back in junior high, my mom stopped me, just as I was headed out the door. I was expecting a laundry list of “do’s” and “don’ts” along with a last-minute lecture on how to comport myself in public, sans chaperone, but all she said was this:
“Have a good time. And remember, there’s a picture of you sitting on your father’s desk, at work.”
I was completely puzzled by that for a second, then realized I’d just been put on notice: “Best behave yourself. You never know who’s watching . . .”
Oh, she’s good.
I believe (though I didn’t look closely enough to be sure), that I saw a MSgt rank on that (still) tan card. To be candid, jerks come in all ranks. I remember back in mid-80s when we did 100 percent ID checks at the gate and some of the officer’s wives would get their knickers in a twist when we didn’t salute them. There were random ID checks during daylight hours since we looked for DoD stickers on the vehicles before granting entry. Of course, blue stickers denoted officer rank and so we would salute automatically. Methinks some of the spouses thought we were saluting them. Then there was the not-quite-quantifiable feeling of seeing a blue sticker and rendering a crisp and sharp salute only to see a kid that looked like Cher with a beard driving the vehicle and flashing a “peace sign.” Ah them were the days.
I didn’t even know that was a thing. It does explain something, though.
When I was attending school in Leavenworth, Kansas, some friends and I had an unpleasant encounter with one of Leavenworth’s Finest. (Nothing major, mind you, the worst I’d accuse the officer of having been to us was “unnecessarily rude.”) It bothered me enough afterward that I went to the police station and asked to speak to the Chief.
He looked wary — and a bit annoyed — when I was shown in to his office so I immediately made it clear that I had no wish to get anyone in trouble or lodge an official complaint — I just wanted to make him aware of what had happened and tell him I thought the officer in question could and should have handled things better than he did. He listened to the whole story and then, looking much more relaxed and amiable than when I’d arrived, he asked, “So . . . you’re a student at the college?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” he said. “When they told me some lady was here with a complaint, I figured it was one of the Fort wives, again.”
When I did my year of CGSC at Ft. Leavenworth, I lived in a brownstone duplex on a street that looked like somewhere Ward and June Cleaver would live.
Not every one got those great houses. There were a lot of apartments and townhouses.
One Army guy who was working to get into an advanced program would spend every lunch hour in the library; thus his Air Force neighbor would go home for lunch every day and doink the Army guy’s wife. She was probably making him sammiches, too.
One day Army guy decides unexpectedly and unannounced that he’ll go home for lunch. He finds Air Force guy doing the dooby-doo with his wife, a fight breaks out, and spills into the front yard of the apartment complex.
MPs show up. Air Force guy is arrested (probably as much for his own safety as for anything else). As he is being loaded into the patrol car everyone there hears his plaintive wail: “Well, this wouldn’t happen if you didn’t cram us in here like sardines!”
Well that’s interesting! Oddly enough, I’m sitting in my little study this afternoon finalizing some questions for my podcast interview tomorrow with @richardeaston on the development of GPS, and interservice rivalry plays a fairly prominent role in that story,…though this takes it all to different level entirely. Then again, I suppose sardines will be sardines.
It was still an open fort when I was there and the first time we took a drive around the older section I remember thinking “wow, this place is like a sweet little period piece set for a movie!”
A few years later, my roommate was dating an enlisted guy there and I went along to a party at a place he and a buddy shared.
Yeah . . . very different movie.