There’s a talking blues song from the 1920s—the singer I can’t recall, but it’s on several compilation CDs I play—that has the random lyric, “Ain’t it nice to be nice, when you can be nice.” That’s a pretty good rule of thumb when interacting with other people, whether on the street or in a retail store.
Not long ago, I was in a Charles Village supermarket here in Baltimore, and as usual there was only one cashier open out of seven lanes. Sometimes I hit the lottery—and that’s no exaggeration—and slip right up to the counter with my 10 or so items. But this time it was different: the line was eight-deep and the grumpy dark cloud, understandably, was contagious. There was an older guy (probably in his 60s) in front of me and at first I thought he was talking to himself—endorsed!—but it turned out he was trying to jive with some of the Safeway employees. I wasn’t in the mood, and uncharacteristically made a mental note of his hideous wardrobe—all budget sportswear with an Under Armour cap—and then he turned around and made small talk.
I was game! A very good guy, it turned out, for the 20 minutes I was there, and he knew almost all the workers on hand. There are about 100 unofficial Mayors of Baltimore you see around town—anyone of them could do be a better job in City Hall than the feckless, and likely corrupt, Brandon Scott—and if this fellow wasn’t as loquacious as my longtime friend Jim Burger, he made it up with enthusiasm. As we inched to paydirt, the man called over to a woman, “Hey, Janet, how’s Joey doing in college? He’s about to graduate, right?” Janet (Jan!) was tickled and mouthed a response.
Then another buddy asked about his physical therapy—he’d fractured a leg three months ago, hence the athletic garb—and my anonymous Mayor went into a four-minute progress report, which drew five more people into the conversation. Including me. What the hell, there was nothing to do but wait, so why not go on a brief stoned soul picnic, and join in, as if it was an in-person trunk line. I completed my purchase, said “See ya later, alligator” (it was now a very familiar atmosphere) to my fleeting confreres and walked back to the office whistling, no reason why, Ricky Nelson’s classic 1961 song “Travelin’ Man.” Eighth-wave feminists would point fingers at the lyrics, but fuck them. Oops, I was being nice!
As it turned out, it was a businessman’s high, for when I returned home hours later, our Comcast internet/cable service was down, which always blows, and after four unsuccessful attempts to re-set the modem, I ground my teeth, wiggled my ears, rubbed my irritated eyes and called the company, knowing that some drone in another country (or AI-facsimile of a person) would keep me on the line for an hour, asking a lot of stupid questions, before we could arrive at a solution. I was yelling into the phone—pointless, but instinctual—and he promised a technician would come three days later. Unacceptable. After more horse-trading—on my part, he had nothing to gain from a irate customer (of 20 years, which counts for nothing) he said a representative would be there at 10 the next morning. Not quick enough, but okay.
It wasn’t to be: I received a text saying the appointment was scheduled for six p.m., and when I called the number attached I reached a really nasty lady who said there was nothing she could do and I should be happy someone was coming at all. “So the previous person I spoke to was lying?” She said, “Yes, I guess so. Can I send you a text for an evaluation of this call?” As always, it must be said that my predicament was minor in scope, but it was my predicament and more than inconvenient.
Stupidly, later that night and the next morning I phoned a few more times hoping for an earlier appointment, but that just aggravated the crick in my neck that I’ve had since I was 11. As it happened, at five, an all-business Comcast guy showed up, and it took him half an hour to figure out the problem—a Comcast dedicated line near a telephone pole in our back yard had conked out—and then we were up and running. I was tense at first, but Gerald assured me it was kosher and while he was working we talked about the Orioles—he thinks President of Baseball Operations (fancy title for GM) Mike Elias should be fired and Gunnar Henderson traded—and the increasing theft and violence in the city. (Just four days later, there was a skein of robberies on our block, including four Amazon packages my wife ordered, and a lot of incidental damage to the front lawns of neighbors.)
As Gerald left, I handed him two $20 bills (he was gracious, said he wasn’t “allowed” tips, but I assured him it was our secret), we shook hands and I left him with this remark: “You have no idea how cool it is to talk in person with someone from Comcast.” He sort of laughed, and said, “You’re telling me! I deal with robot morons two hours every single day.”
Full circle in less than a week: Ain’t it nice to be nice!
The photo above shows the storefront of Leon’s Pig Pen at Greenmount and North Aves. (one of six locations of the mini-chain that began in 1965 and went bankrupt in 1981), and in my two dozen visits to a Leon’s there was nothing but smooth and relaxing chatter as you waited for ribs or a minced pork sandwich. One exception: at two a.m. one Friday night my late friend Peter Koper and I stopped by the Pennsylvania Ave. location, and made a quick exit (after buying some fried chicken) upon seeing six men, and one hooker, out for blood with their long knives.
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: Nouvelle cuisine was the trendy choice of “foodies”; William Wharton’s Birdy, John Updike’s The Coup, Ian McEwan’s The Cement Garden and David Hare’s Plenty were published; the U.K.’s Booker Prize was still based on merit, not fly-by-night politics; James Badge Dale is born and John Cazale dies; The Hillside Strangler runs loose in Los Angeles; Woody Allen wins Best Director Oscar; the horrendous film Grease is released; WKRP In Cincinnati premieres; John Carpenter’s Halloween is released; The Pirates’ Dave Parker wins the N.L. MVP; and Warren Zevon’s Excitable Boy is released.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023