Hi, There. Have a good day. "Hi, There." The greeting, verbal or written, fritters every fiber of my being. Its cold, impersonal tone shrieks: “If I know your name, I’ve forgotten it, and if I haven’t forgotten it, I simply don’t want to use it lest my oral or written salutation exudes a deep, meaningful, personal touch.” In our twenty-first-century sphesterium of suspicious humanity, normal people are not scrooched by such coldness from anyone. I am. Doubt and anxiety clobber my soul, forcing me, when I hear/read such a travesty-greeting, to instantly retrieve my birth record, driver’s license, insurance I.D., credit card, and social security certificate to verify my name is not “There.” I ponder too often about it: “Who started this uncaring, quite-often-mouthed greeting? How can so many people have the same first name as “There”? Why not substitute it with, “Hi -- yeah, you with the face whose name I can’t connect to it”? Better yet, how ‘bout: “Hi, whatever your name is, which I can’t recall even though I’ve known you for so long and have been your fellow-employee for x-number years,”….
It’s almost as demonic as the farewell mandate, “Have a good day,” to which I must practice great restraint in responding, “You have the blatant audacity to order me to have a good day – in a mumbled, tape-recorded tone, totally devoid of any sincerity?”
I just left my dentist who drilled the tooth -- without a Novocain -- down to my pancreas. As I departed his office, getting slammed with a $150 bill for the filling, which vied in size with a toothpick's head, I hastened to visit my other Medicine Man, Dr. Killersly, to initiate his chiropractic skills in kneading the pirate’s knot out of my neck, a natural result of my rope-twisted upper spine muscles via my excessive squirming in the dentist’s chair. Since I was pushed into the “New Patient” category, a delightful prowess-subterfuge, utilized by medical personnel to siphon more funds from those patients who have failed to visit the office within 2-weeks’ time, I was clobbered with another $275.00 debt for the 15-minute procedure, which did not include the processing fee, usury fee, office-rental fee, application fee, and bathroom fee. I told Dr. Killersly I hope I didn’t have to return anytime soon. Exiting the Chiropractor’s office, I received a call from my mistress, Dilly, informing me her home pregnancy test proved positive. She demanded pre-payment child support and all upcoming medical costs; otherwise, she will inform my wife in their Baptist Sunday-school class of our 12-year tryst. I informed Dilly that my wife would not believe her. Dilly threatened to walk down the aisle again during the Sunday service, “accepting Jesus as her personal Savior,” and to mouth names while confessing her sinfulness. I agreed to pay. Getting into my car, I noticed the front tire was flat. AAA informed me I am over my limit of 3 Emergency calls per year, information that is purposely omitted in the membership's delightfully colored literature, and I will have to pay the total fee to the towing company, which was being immediately dispatched from its garage, 2 miles away. My membership fee of $165 does not count any more. Reluctantly, I agreed and took a taxi to the bank in attempts to withdraw the $95.00 necessary to pay the tow truck driver – only to be informed by the Bank of America’s sugar-sweet-smiling teller that the 3 checks I wrote yesterday all bounced. I was liable not only for the amount of each check, but also for the $85 “NSF” fee on each one. Screaming for any available manager at the bank, in efforts to make a small $700 loan to stifle all my debtors, I was graciously told, after lengthy “consultation,” and bickering time, that the loan can be awarded to me – at 82% interest because of my poor credit rating. I was initially upset, but upon inquiring, the Bank of America’s loan officer, Ms. Eloise, calmly strutted into the office’s cubicle and explained to me that a perfect credit score is 850. Anyone with a score of 849 or below is considered poor. Ms. Eloise strongly suggested that I seriously consider the offer since most “poor” credit-rating applicants are slammed with an 85% interest rate. Because of my comely, youthful appearance, I was being given a gift on the “low” interest rate. I declined.
Returning to the taxi driver and mumbling that I couldn’t pay him, but was working on other potential options, he instantly, accusing me of robbery, called Law Enforcement.
…and I mumbled to myself, “Who was it that told me, 'Have a good day'”?
WJK-9/09
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