Text 19 payback for a punk

(condensed)

It was a day filled with the little vexations of life. In the morning I got a speeding ticket after having had a root canal. At work my computer fouled me up by going down. Finally, as I left the office eager to get home because I was giving a dinner party, the needle on my car’s fuel indicator shook convulsively in its demand for gas. I whipped off the freeway and headed for the nearest gas station, only to find all eight pumps taken.

“Damn,” I exclaimed as I impatiently waited for my turn. Soon I used another expletive when a cheeky woman in a Volvo tried to nudge ahead of me. Eventually I got to a pump and filled the tank. Then I darted inside the convenience store to pay – only to wait in line again.

As I stood swearing under my breath about another delay, I was only vaguely aware of a young man in front of me. He had plunked a soda on the counter and reached into his pocket for money.

“Ninety-four cents, please,” said the middle-aged clerk.

“I’ll take this pack of cigarettes too,” the young man stated matter-of-factly.

“ID,” countered the clerk. 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. He could have been 21 or 15 – it was impossible to tell.

Apparently the question about his age was more than the young man could stand. He burst forth with a string of verbal garbage, using a widespread four-letter word repeatedly to explain, emphatically, that he didn’t haul his identification around with him everywhere he went.

“Then it will be 94 cents for the soda. No ID, no cigarettes,” the clerk calmly remarked. With that rejection the angry young man spewed forth another stream of obscenities. Suddenly the clerk reached across the counter with both hands, 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’s enough! You watch what you say in here, understand? There’s a lady present!” Then he shoved the cusser away with obvious contempt.

The foulmouthed offender was stunned. I was flabbergasted by the stern admonition on my behalf. No one had tried to protect me from offensive language before. The astonished young man paid for his drink and scurried away. I did likewise, still so startled by the clerk’s actions that I didn’t respond to his gallantry.

As I drove home, I realized the significance of the episode. Profanity is a problem that everyone agrees something should be done about, yet few of us actually do anything. On the contrary, most of us contribute to its continuation by our own swearing. I recalled with guilt all the less-than-delicate language that had rolled off my tongue through the years whenever I was mad, glad, trying to be dramatic or just had to wait in line – though never had I said anything as crass as I’d just heard.

And now, in an act of omission, 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? 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 stating that although Americans are concerned about unbridled profanity, the reality is that we are swearing more and hearing it less. It’s so familiar that it passes unnoticed. Unfortunately, there must be some truth to the story – as shown by my experience. What surprises me most is how much more astonished I was by the store clerk’s gallant stand against vulgarity than by the cussing of an angry young punk.

(by Sandra Flahive Maurer, http://www.rd.com)