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RIPOSTE
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LTSEWH & crackers. . .
(May 14, 2003)
Call them "Less Than Satisfying
Encounters With Humanity," or LTSEWH for, um, short. Only some of the names
are occasionally omitted to spare the particularly wretched from public humiliation.
LTSEWH # 1: Phoney Call
"Hello? Hello?"
Nothing on the other end of the line but
silence. As always, it took a moment to realize that I had once again been suckered by a
computer. It was the see-if-someone-answers silence.
The lurking human suddenly cut in.
"Hello, may I speak to
Rip Rense?"
It was a faraway voice, unfamiliar, and
obscenely friendly. The solicitous phone solicitor.
There was only one possible response:
"No, you may not, you---"
I had questioned this perfect stranger's
relationship to his mother. What got into me? Then I hung up.
The phone rang regularly for several hours,
with a fax beep on the other end.
LTSEWH # 2: Crackers
Now, my closeness to crackers might be
considered more slang than literal, but the fact is, I really like them. Their dependable
crunch and unpretentious flavor are without peer. Good ol' crackers! I also really like to
take vigorous walks. Recently, on a whim, I combined the two!
There I was, striding through a quaint Santa
Monica sidestreet on a gorgeous afternoon, reaching into a small box of saltines as I
went. Crunch, step, crunch, step, crunch, step. You get the carefree picture.
An aside: allow me to point out that
I do not appear terribly reputable on said walks. Whatever chance I have of being invited
to a White House dinner would vanish if Laura Bush got a gander at me. Denim and cordouroy
define my sartorial elan, with a cavalier dash of mild beard growth. What's more,
there is another aspect of my presentation that not only suggests homelessness and
joblessness, but Republicanlessness. In other words, I don't look real likely to donate to
Focus on the Family.
Top it all off with a Grateful Dead baseball
cap, and. . .can you say Bolshevik?
No one would ever suspect that this all
disguises a fair-minded, patriotic, clear-thinking writer of repute, esteemed by millions!
Okay, dozens.
The driver of the SUV certainly
suspected no such thing. She was blonde, manicured, coiffured, dressed to the nines (or
maybe tens), and her black SUV gleamed like polished obsidian. Her elevated driver's perch
put her far above the street, literally and symbolically. I probably registered somewhere
between "detritus" and "roadkill."
Naturally, she tried to run me over.
It happend at a four-way stop intersection. One
large male-occupied SUV crossed in front of me, having the clear momentum and right of
way. Then I took my turn and stepped into the crosswalk---but wait! Ann Coulter's bastard
daughter roared right behind SUV Man, and she was not going to hang around, polishing her
nails, as I crossed. I made brief, cautionary eye contact, reaching the half-way
point---but she simply floored her magnificent 21st century 12 mpg machine right at me!
Aside two: this was at the height of
the Iraq attack, and the peace protests. I put up my hands and waved, to make sure she
hadn't mistaken me for Arianna Huffington. Then I saw the flames shooting from the irises
of her eyeballs. Yup, she had a dirty homeless hippie lefty creep in her sights.
Like a good lefty, I protested. I stopped, to
see if she might follow suit. (Yes, I am nuts enough to play chicken with an SUV.)
Fortunately, neo-Coulter's politics were not so intractable that she went ahead and killed
me, stopping about five feet short of my ragged old tennis shoes.
I shrugged at her, as if to say,
"what the hell are you doing?" This prompted a display that invited sexism back
into the word, "hysteria." She peeled her lips back and said what I presumed
were vile things. She flailed her arms.
Well, I don't know what came over me.
After all, I was still alive, thanks to this woman's forgiving heart---but, as I said, I
like crackers. And it just so happened that at that moment, I had a gigantic mouthful.
Must have been five or six of them in there.
How convenient!
I launched all over the front of her shiny
obsidian SUV hood. A big pile of half-masticated unknown white material. Coulter
Doppleganger took off like a bat out of hell. Which is, of course, her ultimate
destination.
Good ol' crackers!
LTSEWH # 3: Fine dining
"How IS everything?"
"Fine. Very good, thank you."
"YOU'RE very WELcome!"
Hey, he was doing a good job. He'd taken our
order correctly, he'd brought the repast promptly, he'd refrained from small talk, and
he'd only said that the desserts "are to die for" one time. This was tip
country. But then. . .
"How IS everything?"
"Fine. Very good, thank you."
"YOU'RE very WELcome!"
Hadn't he just asked us that,
my friends and I, three minutes ago? Ah, well, just being conscientious. We resumed our
conversation, ingesting some splendid pasta dishes, on a calm, mid-Sunday afternoon. The
restaurant was small, and we were the sole customers. The talk was as good as the
food---or at least, I thought so, as I was doing most of it.
"How IS everything?"
"Fine. Very good, thank you."
"YOU'RE very WELcome!"
Eh? The waiter was a young fellow, late-20's,
and seemed an earnest chap. But. . .couldn't he see that we were all chowing down, merrily
yapping, yucking? That our water glasses were full? Oh, well, I resumed my anecdote---no,
wait, I didn't. Having incipient senility, I had been thrown off course by the waiter's
inquiry. What, I asked, was I just talking about? My good companions reminded me, and we
were back on anecdotal track.
"How IS everything?"
"Fine. Very good, thank you."
Now my friends were chiming in, too, smiling as
if to reassure the poor fellow that things really, honestly, definitely
were. . .fine.
"YOU'RE very WELcome!"
It was when I found myself
wondering about the difference in degree between "you're welcome" and
"YOU'RE very WELcome" that I knew all was conversationally lost. This was a
manic border collie with three sheep.
It was the seventh or eighth "How IS
everything" that made me just concentrate on eating and getting the hell out of
there. I was actually considering killing the pain with dessert, but then he said it was
"to die for" again.
LTSEWH # 4: Money in the
bank
I opened a bank account a few months back. As
this is a novel experience for a freelance writer, I guess I got a little excited, and
didn't pay close attention. I thought the guy said I would receive monthly statements, but
when none came after 90 days, I got worried. I mean, I had enough money in there to buy a
couple dozen pieces of apple pie. A la mode, even. I phoned the bank and explained.
"So I just want to verify that my account
exists, really."
A nice female voice asked the exact date I
opened the account, which, of course, I didn't remember.
"Then you'll have to phone
customer service, sir."
"Uh, but this is the bank where I opened
the account. Why should I phone someone who doesn't work at this branch?"
"That's just the way we do it, sir. But
they will be able to help you."
"Thank you."
I waded up to my ears in a smelly phone menu
bog for about five minutes, before a "customer service representative" pulled me
gasping to shore. I explained the matter again, clear as a church bell on Sunday.
"When did you open the account, sir?"
I had just told her that I didn't
know the exact date, but I was glad to repeat this information.
"What is the account number, sir?"
I had just told her that I didn't know the
account number, but I was glad to repeat this information.
She asked for my social security number, which
I supplied, and then. . .
"I'm sorry, sir, but I will require more
information in order to assist you."
"More information? You have my social
security. What more do you need?"
"When exactly did you open the account,
sir?"
"Uh. . .I've already told you---twice---that
I don't recall. It was about three months ago."
"I'll need the exact date,
sir."
"I don't have the exact
date!"
"And what is the account
number?"
"I've already told you---twice---that
I don't know."
"Well, we can't give out any
information---"
"Wait a second! I don't want
'information!' I just want to know if my account exists! Just tell me yes or no! I'm
worried that you've lost my money!"
"I understand that, sir, but---"
"No, I don't think you do! If you did, you
would tell me if my account exists!"
"Sir, this is to protect you from identity
theft---"
"Don't! Don't protect me! You want to
protect me? Tell me if you have my money!"
"Sir, can you tell me the exact date you
opened the account?"
"GET ME A SUPERVISOR! NOW!"
Well, for those readers who haven't
fallen asleep, the supervisor went into a long, canned "how may we assist you
today" spiel, but I cut him off and explained the whole deal. He told me the solution
was simple: that I should just drive to my bank and show them my ID.
"Jesus H. Christ!" I said. "Why
didn't your trained seal tell me that, instead of acting like a damned robot!"
P.S. I strolled into the bank,
and they recognized me right away. Never had to show any ID at all. Yup, now that's
identity theft protection!
For more LTSEWH's, watch this space.
