Although I don’t remember that I uttered any profanities upon encountering the day’s irritations, in all likelihood I did. Like most people, I’ve never been known to have a lily-white mouth.
On that particular evening, I was eager to get home because I was giving a dinner party However, my main concern was that I couldn’t make it without first obliging the car’s needs. I whipped off the freeway and headed for the nearest convenience store, only to find all eight pumps taken.
“Damn,” I remember exclaiming as I impatiently waited my turn. But I soon found myself using another expletive when a cheeky woman in a Volvo tried to nudge ahead of me and cheat me of my already established territorial rights.
Eventually I was able to sidle up to a pump and fill the tank. Then I darted inside to pay–only to have to wait in line for the privilege of forking over money. As I stood, swearing under my breath about another delay in my life, I was only vaguely aware of a young man in front of me. He had plunked a Pepsi on the counter and was reaching into his pocket for money.
“Ninety-four cents, please,” declared the middle-aged clerk. “Oh, and I’ll take this pack of cigarettes, too,” the young man stated matter-of-factly, as he pitched his selection on the counter.
“ID,” countered the clerk, in a tone that suggested he had made this request many times before. The casual command caused me to focus on the person ahead of me. He was extremely slight with delicate features and a face as smooth as a baby’s heel. I silently agreed with the clerk’s decision to question his age. He could have been 21 -or he could have been 15. It was impossible to tell.
“ID,” said the clerk a second time, after the customer failed to respond with anything but a surly look.
Apparently the question about his age was more than he could stand, and upon being asked twice, the young man burst forth with a string of verbal garbage. “Goddam it! I don’t have any f—ing identification with me. I don’t haul the f—ing thing everywhere I go!” To which the clerk calmly remarked, “Then, it will be 94 cents for the Pepsi. No ID, no cigarettes.”
With that rejection, the angry young man spewed a stream of obscenities that have become part of today’s vocabulary. “I just a’in’t got my f—ing ID with me today. I told you.”
I’d been observing the exchange more out of a sense of indifference than anything. All I wanted was to pay for my gas and get on my way. But my indifference vanished when the clerk, reacting to the profanity, suddenly reached across the counter with both arms, grabbed the fellow by the collar and literally plucked him off the floor. With fire in his eyes and passion in his voice, he growled, “That is enough! You watch what you say in here, do you understand? There’s a lady present!” Then he shoved the guy away with obvious contempt.
The foulmouthed offender was stunned. So was I! Instinctively, I looked around to see where the “lady” was. I glanced up and down the nearby aisles and peered high into the corners where mirrors reveal all activity in the store. I had an image of some little old woman in a housedress, shuffling along in sturdy orthopedic shoes, her white hair done up in a bun, her purse dangling from her arm. I didn’t see her anywhere.
All I saw in the mirror was the reflection of the two combatants –and my own. The obvious hit me hard. I was the “lady.” I was flabbergasted by the clerk’s stern admonition on my behalf. No one had tried to protect me from offensive language before. With considerable speed the astonished young man paid for his drink and scurried from the store. I did likewise, still so startled by the clerk’s actions that I didn’t respond to his gallantry..
It was only after I began driving from the convenience store that I .realized the significance of the episode. Profanity seems to be one of those problems about which almost everyone agrees something should be done. Yet few of us ever do anything about it. On the contrary, most of us contribute, if not to its proliferation, at least to its continuation, by swearing ourselves or making no attempt to curb it in others.
I recalled with guilt all the less-than-delicate language that had rolled off my tongue through the years–when I was mad, when I was glad, when I was trying to be dramatic and, yes, even when I had to wait in line for a few seconds. But nothing as crass as what I’d just heard.
And now, in an act of omission myself. I had failed to respond. Why hadn’t I told the culprit to knock it off when the first raunchy words foamed out of his mouth? Why hadn’t I given so much as a second’s thought to rebuking him about his language? It’s so familiar that it passes unnoticed, just runs off our backs. At the very least, why hadn’t I thanked the clerk for taking a stand against offensive language in his store?
Recently I read a newspaper article that stated although Americans do have a concern about all the unbridled profanity around us every day, the reality is that we are swearing more, hearing it less.
Unfortunately, there must be some truth to the story–as shown by my experience in the convenience skate. Grained it seems only natural that someone might be in shock after being subjected to a string of raw expressions while waiting to pay for gas. What surprises me is how much more astonished I was by the store clerk’s gallant intervention and stand against vulgarity in his establishment than by the cussing of an angry young punk denied a pack of cigarettes.
