Common Sense and Courtesy

I have come to the conclusion that we’re simply not as much fun as we used to be. We’re far too busy. I suppose, in a world gone mad (and I wouldn’t argue with you if you described us that way), there is little to grin about.

I hang out sometimes in a restaurant and bar a mile or so down the road from my house. Like most such places in this area, it is primarily staffed by what my father would have called “the younger crowd.” One of the crowd is a busperson, an attractive young lady who has, for my money anyhow, one of the prettiest smiles I have ever seen, the kind of smile that melts hearts, causes birds to suddenly appear and fosters a belief in Powers-That-Be. I have seen this smile a half-dozen times at most. And while I understand that cleaning up plates and wiping down tables is not the sort of activity that creates an overabundance of joy in most people, I find this paucity of pearly whites distressing.

Anyhow, it occurred to me that maybe this young lady is a metaphor.

I asked her about this the other night: “Cindy,” I said, even though—in long-standing tradition—that’s not her real name, “have you ever thought about the fact that you are a metaphor, perhaps, for the world-at-large, a society gone mad with multi-tasking, a world too busy and self-involved even to smile?”

“Aw, hell,” she said, “did the towels run out in the men’s room again?”

“Well,” I replied, “I suppose you could put it that way. If we take the men’s room as a symbol for the current world-state and the towels as, say, common sense and courtesy….”

She gave me a weary look. “Bill, it’s Friday night. I’m a little busy.” And sure enough, for the first time I noticed she was carrying a high chair and balancing a large tub full of dirty plates; servers and managers were calling for her from all around.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You know how I get sometimes. I just got to thinking about something and thought maybe you could help me.”

“I’d love to,” she said earnestly, “but your timing could be better. Maybe tomorrow?” She arched an eyebrow and gave me one of her nuclear grins.

I nodded, I think, thoughtfully. “Sure. That’ll be fine.”

“So what about those towels?” she asked, rearranging her grip on the tub of plates.

I shook my head as a very loud and proudly obese family pushed us out of their way, heading for the exit.

“The towels are fine,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, not unkindly. She headed for the back of the restaurant. “You know what?” she called over her shoulder. “You should smile more.”