Norm is middle-aged and whiny. He’s the kind of guy who spends so much time talking about how much better life was in New York that you wonder why he doesn’t just move back. He’s been divorced three times, which is no surprise; I am just stunned that he was able to find three women who would marry him.
He was a client years ago but he left us when he found the same product elsewhere for a hair less money: He actually wrote me a scathing letter about “price gouging.” For anyone else I would have probably adjusted the bill but I didn’t. As customers go he’s high maintenance and impossible to please.
That’s why I was not pleased when I discovered he was in line behind me at Panera. I had just ordered my favorite sandwich when I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard a familiar whiny voice say, “Guy?”
“Norm,” I said without enthusiasm.
Norm was delighted to see me because he was not happy with our competitor. “So I’ll be coming back,” he said magnanimously and I told him that the staff would be dancing in the streets when they heard the news; Norm beamed.
A minute later as I was getting my soda Norm was beside me again. “These kids,” he said with contempt. “They don’t know how to count.” Apparently his bill was $9.42 and he gave the teen-aged cashier a ten dollar bill and a dime and she got confused. I did the arithmetic and I was confused too, but I didn’t say so.
“Kids are so stupid today,” he said. We were waiting at the pick-up counter and I prayed that my sandwich would be ready soon. “Do you know they’re too stupid to remember phone numbers? They use their smart phone instead.”
“I don’t remember phone numbers,” I said, “but I do remember a million different passwords, all of which are a mix of letters and numbers with at least one capital letter.”
Norm ignored me. “They’re also too stupid to tell time,” he said. “They just use digital clocks instead.”
“Things change,” I said shortly. “Can you use a slide rule?” The kitchen was moving slowly; our food was nowhere in sight.
“Kids can’t even write anymore,” Norm continued. “They’ve stopped teaching cursive writing.” I shrugged: I always hated cursive writing, to the despair of the nuns who were convinced I would be a skid row bum because I wrote sloppily.
Norm was about to respond, but the teen-aged sandwich maker interrupted. “Sorry, for the wait Dudes,” he said politely. “It’ll just be another minute.”
Norm glared. “’Dudes’” he said. “That’s how he talks to a customer? I should demand a refund a walk out.”
“That’s the manager over there,” I pointed out helpfully, but Norm ignored me.
“Teenagers have no respect. Lazy slackers: How long does it take to make a sandwich? All they want to do is get high and play video games. We weren’t raised that way.”
Now I was annoyed. “We were teenagers in the 70’s,” I said. “Our ‘respectful’ generation spent our time protesting the war and burning college campuses. Most of the kids in my high school were so high on Quaaludes they don’t even remember high school. We had hair down to our shoulders and only stopped smoking dope long enough to make a beer run or have sex.”
I was all set to keep going but our sandwiches were ready. Norm was furious. “I need to rethink my plan to utilize your company again,” he said loftily.
“Do what you need to,” I said. “Dude.”