Finally Asserting Myself
I am an easy going person. I rarely get angry. When I do get angry, I seldom do anything about it. I know I will cool down quickly and the alternative conflict is not worth the hassle. If I order chicken and they bring me fish - I eat the fish. It's no big deal to me. Some might say this behavior is passive and it is, but I choose it. I can assert myself if I want to, but most of the time I choose to roll with the punches. Except for one Sunday morning when I decided to assert myself.
The boys, Brian, Claude, Marty, and yours truly were headed to New Orleans for a Saints football game. We live about an hour from the Superdome so to get there in time to soak in the NFL pre game atmosphere we have to leave about 9:30 AM.
We cannot, of course, travel on empty stomachs. So we stopped in at the local Burger King. I ordered first and selected my usual sausage, egg, and cheese croissant combo. I got my change and moved out of the way for my compatriots to order their cholesterol laden breakfast. Then I realized I was $10 short. I gave the lady a $20, but she gave me change for a $10. I told Brian, "That chick shorted me ten bucks." Saying it in front of someone almost forced me to do something about it. I could not very well blow off ten dollars - I would look like a wuss.
After the last of our gang ordered, I said to the lady, "Excuse me, but I gave you a twenty and you gave me change for a ten." The woman said politely and firmly, "No sir, you gave me a ten dollar bill." The ball was in my court again. "No, I am certain I gave you a twenty dollar bill," I said equaling her polite firmness. We went back and forth another exchange or two, when she offered me a solution. "What I can do sir is count out the register. If it is over by $20 then we will know you were right." I had some hope, but would just have to take her word for it.
The lady started counting the money in the drawer. I was certain I had given her a twenty. My friends were making little comments. Marty said, "we can't take you anywhere without you causing a scene." Claude, looking ahead, said, "what are you going to do if they say the drawer counts out correctly?" We are a polite bunch and derive no pleasure out of making someone's job difficult. But I was short changed $10 and I was not going to let it go. My friends realized that my protest was delaying their breakfast. They brought that up too, "so we have to starve to death because you got shorted $10?" They were joking. I was too busy planning my moves based on the lady's next play.
She completed the drawer count then announced from 20' away her drawer counted out correctly - so there was nothing she could do. I was about to ask her for the phone number of her manager when she started getting our food orders ready. With all of the distractions she had forgotten who ordered what. "What did you order?" she said to me. I fired back, "I had the $15 croissant combo." At those words, my friends burst into laughter, but the lady was not amused. It really let the pressure off for me, but certainly not her. "Sir, all I can do is give you my manager's name and you can call her tomorrow," she said less polite and more firmly. "I would like that," I said with a bit of bite in my own words. After all, what is she doing copping an attitude? I was right. The lady disappeared around the corner for a moment, then returned with a little piece of paper with her manager's contact information.
We got our food and left. Driving across the lake toward New Orleans we all continued laughing and reliving the event. I stood up for myself and the laugh was worth $10 any day.
Sometime during the game, I had a recollection. I recalled spending some money Saturday night. I did not have four twenties in my wallet after all, I had three twenties and a ten. I was wrong. Then I was reminded of why I usually choose to be passive, because every time I stand up for myself, I am wrong. I felt like the cartoon when a persons head morphs into a jackass head braying away. That poor woman was professional for the most part and handled herself well. She was right. I thought about going down there on Monday to apologize, but I never did. My friends punished me for her.
Another Story of Injustice: My parents had set bedtimes for us kids. It always seemed way too early. Therefore, I have a lot of memories lying in bed staring at the ceiling and waiting for the sun to set, (slight exaggeration). My brother is six years older than me and we shared a room. I was probably 5 years old this particular evening. My bed was closest to the door. My dad shaved and bathed at night. He was often shaving in the bathroom when we were in bed. If he needed to come in the room to yell at us or threaten us he was proceeded by the hall light being flipped on and footsteps coming our way.
Dad had been in our room a couple of times. This particular time he was explaining that if it were necessary for him to return this evening, someone would get a spanking. That was it for me, I decided to settle down, but my brother had other ideas. For some reason, George clapped his hands together three times, then said, "quit clapping your hands Johnny."
Boom, my dad's hand hit the light switch and the hall light brightened our room. Then the footsteps getting louder as they neared. My dad was not wearing a shirt and he had shaving cream all over his face. He was mad. He pulled down my covers, rolled me over, then gave me a few well placed swats.
I was crying and whimpering. Along with my backside, my pride was hurt. I had suffered injustice at the hands of my own brother. I knew how Able must have before Cain killed him. I had a brief window of time to make noise. My parents believed in letting their children cry if they just received a spanking. As I cried, I blubbered, "I didn't do anything, waaaaaa, George clapped his hands and said it was me, waaaa, sniff, sniff." The only sound coming from the bathroom was a razor being dipped in the water and swirled around. I guess dad was thinking. Finally, my dad said, "George." George replied sheepishly, "What." "Did you clap your hands and blame it on Johnny?" Dad inquired. "Yes," he said as if confessing murder to Perry Mason. I sat there waiting for George to get his punishment. Finally, justice would take place. Then the words came from the bathroom where my dad continued to shave, "well, that is for something you did that I don't know about." Even at 5 years old, I knew I had just been screwed.
I am certain I have gotten away with more than my share in life. When people talk about God's justice I say, "Hold on, I do not want what I deserve, I want God's mercy." I will take mercy and forgiveness over getting justice any day.
Until the next time
John Strain