Every little triumph counts

            People always like to think that I am brave and fierce, a thing which is just completely untrue.  I’m verbal, which is a kind of armor, I suppose.  But I am not brave, and rarely fierce—only when I’m protecting someone or something I love.  And even that statement doesn’t stand if the situation involves wasps.  Or bears.  Probably Sharks.  Nazis.  Yeah – not brave.

            But I am here to tell you that there actually have been a few times when I’ve practiced chutzpah to my own advantage, one of which happened today.

            I hate to be rude.  I hate to make people feel like I don’t trust them, even when I don’t.  I don’t even want to imply an insult.  I don’t think I’m all that different from most nice women (in that way, at least).  Which is why nice women so often get taken advantage of, sometimes in terrible ways. (The man, sitting behind the wheel of his car, looks at her reproachfully and says, “What?  Don’t you trust me?”)

            So I don’t stand up for myself.  And when something happens and I don’t speak up about it, I spend days feeling sick to my stomach, or mad—especially when it’s a matter of money, and that, especially when I don’t have any to waste.  As was the case many, many years ago when G and I went out to dinner in LA with his brother and wife, his other brother and wife, and his sister and husband. 

            We went to TGIF.  Back then, I think it was a California institution with a menu that was about 30 pages long and an atmosphere like the old Provo Jimba’s used to have: true chaos, weird memorabilia all over the place – kind of like the present Friday’s except genuine.  We were visiting from out of state.  M (the 2^nd brother) and his wife were from out of town.  V and her husband were living in Utah back then, I think and Q and his wife – I think they were living with her folks in LA.  So, anyway, it was a big deal.  A big sort of reunion deal.

            We sat there talking and laughing in the roaring chaos after they’d taken our order.  It was kind of an exciting time, no kids – good conversation. And we had definitely splurged; the place was not cheap.  The talk was fun enough that we didn’t notice the time go by.  Not until somebody noted that the table next to ours,  which had been seated when we were, had been re-seated since and was now being served.  So we called the waiter over and said, “Umm – what gives?” 

            Evidently our own waiter had gone home in the middle of our order, and one of the chefs had burned himself with hot oil and had to be taken to the hospital by another of the chefs – and an earthquake had torn off the kitchen: a number of things had happened.  He promised he’d get us our food.  Which he did, very soon after.  It wasn’t hard for him; the food had been sitting under the warming lights for an hour, as witnessed by the tepid French fries and the limp lettuce.

            We ate the stuff because we were starving.  But with every bite, I was thinking of the money this had cost.  And I was getting sicker and sicker at the thought of having spent that much for something so short of promise.  And I knew that I would be feeling even sicker and more disturbed when I had to write the check and get in the car and drive away to face the rest of my life – which really could have used that money.

            So I said something about it to the others.  Like, “This just isn’t right.”  Which started an interesting conversation.  Each couple reacted in a different way.  M, whose philosophy had always been “the customer is always right,” (and he meant it both ways – as customer and as owner of a business), agreed, but wasn’t sure he wanted to make drama.

            Q simply refused to do anything about it, even though his wife was feeling just like I was, so he paid his bill and left us, announcing that he would wait in the car, thank you very much.   G, who doesn’t ever like to make waves of any kind, left with him.  V and her husband, both of whom are quiet people, also stayed. And then they all looked at me.

            While we’d I waited for the waiter to bring the bills, I was quaking inside.  Confrontation is not my thing.  I wasn’t brought up to it, really.  But it was either slink away, heart-sunk, or stand up and simply state the case.  I didn’t have to be angry or unkind, I told myself.  This just wasn’t right, and all I had to do was explain my feeling.  Still, my hands were shaking and nerves were standing out like toothpicks all over my wee self.

            The waiter came.  I smiled at him and said, “Here’s the thing.  When we ordered this food from the  menu, it was with the understanding that it would come to the table hot and ready to eat – and in good time.  It didn’t.”

            He said, “I’ll get the manager.”

            Yeah. 

            Like somebody saying, “I’m telling the principal.”  Or “I’m calling the police.”

            I was now a plasma ball around a tiny core of personal terror.

            When the manager came up, I took a long, slow breath and repeated my calm and reasonable complaint.  And he apologized.  Volubly.  Generously, with a flourish, he wrote something on the back of his business card.  “There,” he said, handing it to me.  “Free  bar drinks and appetizers the next time you come in.”  Which would have been nice, “Except we live out of state,” I said firmly.  “And, ummm—we don’t drink.” 

            “You do?” he said. “You don’t?”

            “Yeah,” I told him.  “I’m afraid this doesn’t help.”  And then the negotiation started.  In the end, the man very kindly gave me our two dinners free, and did the same for M and his wife.  I can’t remember what happened with V and her husband, but because money, once put into the registered, could not be retrieved, Q and Les did NOT get their dinner free.  Instead, they inherited the drinks and appetizers card (they don’t drink, either).

            I’d argued a little—getting the food completely free didn’t seem fair to me, but the manager wanted us to want to come back.  So I was feeling pr-etty darn good as we went out to the car.  I’d stood my ground, remained civil and respectful and – as I climbed into the car where Q and G had been hiding out, I said, “I just earned myself $48.72.” 

            I meant it.  That money was now mine and mine alone. 

            The rest of them piled in, all wired and laughing about the whole thing.

            When Les got into the car, Q—from a dark corner of the very back seat—said, “So did you get our money back?”  Like she was supposed to have done that for him, the big idiot.

            On the way home,  I felt like I was flying.  Like I’d just finished a final.  Like school was OUT.  I said, “I can’t believe I did that!  I stood up for myself.  I can’t believe it.”

            And M made some caustic remark, something about “so what’s the big surprise?”  Like he thought that had been easy for me.  Like he thought I did that kind of thing all the time.  Like I hadn’t been scared to death.  He thought he knew me.  But he was way, way wrong.

            So this was a very long story—remarkable only to me.  It was supposed to be a set-up for what I just did, about which I feel very good and self-congratulatory.  But it’s not going to make much of a story really.

             It’s just, we have to replace our Suburban’s windshield so we can get it inspected, and it’s months over due because we keep forgetting to do it.  But I remembered today.  And I got out the phone book and picked a place and called, and the lady was really nice, and said they could come out and do it right here in my driveway, which is perfect, and quoted me a price.  Along the way, we’d sorta made friends – and I didn’t want her to feel bad, but I did manage to say, “Now, if I call around—is somebody going to quote me a price that’s gonna embarrass you?”  And we laughed, and she said, “Well, if somebody underbids, we can come down.”  So I said, “Deal.”  I hung up, and for two seconds, I felt really good about the whole thing.

            Then I started feeling antsy about not getting another bid.  But I didn’t want to betray all that friendliness by going behind her back.  About then, my head started blowing up, so I called another place we’d tried, and they came in forty dollars cheaper.  I started imagining trying to explain to G why I was spending forty dollars more than I had to because I didn’t want to hurt this lady’s feelings and back out on a commitment, and maybe make it so the Diamond Auto Glass people, who were probably on their knees, thankful that they’d have food on the table that night, would end up with hungry children.

            But the awfulness of explaining all that won; I called Diamond back and got the same nice lady and said, “My GM would hit his head against the wall (right – blame him) if I didn’t get two bids.  And this other place came in at $120. I’d rather use you guys.” 

            And you know what?  She didn’t feel betrayed at all.  There were no recriminations.  Nobody yelled at me.  She just reworked her numbers, came in ten dollars higher, and I suggested that she charge me five more than that (I know – I’m an idiot – but they are driving ALL THE WAY out here, and the other place wasn’t).  Saved myself twenty five dollars.  TWENTY FIVE DOLLARS.  Just by being brave.

            Cool, huh?

            Anybody wanna go to Friday’s???