One bright spring morning, I decided to go to the dry cleaners. This was a singular event, considering I carry around at least a quarter of my wardrobe at any given time in a brown paper bag in my trunk. I dressed faster than usual that day, had a few extra minutes and was feeling productive. As I approached the dry cleaner’s door, a man walked up from the other direction. I was closer, stepped through first, and held the door open for him to grab and follow me. He said, “Thank you,” and we smiled.

I dumped my bag on the counter and stood in front of a heaping tangle of clothing. The man walked to the other side neatly holding his receipt ticket and a filled-out check. The woman who works at the dry cleaner took one look at my jumble and asked in her gentle but halting Korean-English if I would mind waiting while she retrieved the man’s order. I said, “Of course,” and thought, like a fellow retailer, “Great customer service decision.”  As she walked over to the man he said harshly, “Help her first,” gesturing to me. “She was here first, that’s how we do it here in America.” 

I whipped my head around to see him grinning at me like he had just surprised me with flowers. I stared at him like he had just stepped out of his human suit and revealed himself to be a cockroach. The Korean woman had his clothes hanging on the pick-up rack before either of us said another word. Then he shrugged, smiled as if to say, “What can we do?” and left the shop.

It would be easy for me to chalk this up as a simple moment in small-town America — David Lynch geniality masking a climate of distrust and division. I could just go with my initial assessment of Insect-Man being a bigoted asshole and move on. But as I relived this story over and over in my head, it began to turn with kaleidoscope complexities, the patterns changing from one point of view to another.

First our gentleman picking up clothes: not much taller than my five and a half feet, with messy black hair and beard. He was sort of tussled looking, according to common stereo-types either a grown-up comic book guy and/or computer guy. Maybe his comment was ironic, some socially stunted attempt at insult humor, going for what he perceived as her hilarious weakness. I could see him repeating his witticism at the water cooler, imagining himself as Jay Leno for the Rush Limbaugh set. Funny is funniest when it is tinged with truth, and I could see him nudge his buddies: “Tell me you haven’t seen the same damn thing.”

Maybe he just didn’t hear her ask me if she could help him first. It may be that our man thought he was doing something nice, I had held open the door for him — he was returning the favor by fairly declaring my place in line. Then he upped the ante by defending me against the misguided actions of the perceived foreigner. He had assumed that he and I were on the same side and had established an alliance. He was probably feeling comforted walking out: “At least I tried to set things right. It wasn’t my fault she had to wait.” He considered himself one of the good guys, a notch on his ego as he started his day.

What about me, the card-carrying liberal? Our man with the check did not pick up on my “blue” clues: loose, long kinky hair, way too much black clothing, HRC bumper sticker. He may not have even noticed the horrified look on my face at his casual banter. Yet if judgment were water, the deluge would have drowned him.    

When we lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts, we talked to our boys about the difference between ethnicity and circumstance. This was a difficult but essential conversation.  Cambridge is a socio-economically fragmented city where bike paths run alongside subsidized high rises and ancestral mansions. Unfortunately, at one of my children’s school, the kids who came from very poor, struggling families were most often of color. This meant that when these kids lashed out their frustrations, bullying, heckling the other kids, my son came to some dangerous conclusions about race. We spent intent and careful time discussing poverty — including the deprivation of his grandfather’s family — and other social issues that ravage humanity indiscriminately. We tried to communicate the values of inclusion, developing an openness to and respect for everyone’s story, beliefs and experience.

Meanwhile, I make retching noises every time NPR mentions Ralph Reed or Karl Rove. I snort, roll my eyes, and freely throw around words like “idiot,” “warmonger,” and “hater” when the commander-in-chief is quoted. I mock the slack mouth, the ears, and the laugh that sends me up the chandelier like a bristled cat. There I stood, attributing to Insect-Man the burden of Red America as easily as he marginalized the dry cleaner woman by her accent. I was a good guy too, my indignation separating the two of us: the Neanderthal from one who is enlightened, evolved.                                  

And finally, the Korean woman who works at the dry cleaner: middle-aged, with a warm smile and nodding manner that always seems happy to see you.  She made the shrewdest judgment of all.  In a split second she deduced that I would be willing to wait, and the man probably wouldn’t.  Maybe she could tell how pleased I was that I had made time to be there. Maybe she trusted me as a sister woman; the two of us would dutifully dispense with the man’s needs and then get on with our business. More likely she has excellent customer service skills. At the cost of a random remark, she efficiently helped both of us, giving me time to sort my mess while she rewarded the person who came prepared.  

I’m not sure if she heard or understood his comment, and even if she did, she was unruffled. Customers are rude all the time, but poor behavior is excused by the validation of payment. As long as they pony up the cash, we don’t care how they treat us. When the rudeness goes the other way — from service person to customer — the customer can walk away. But a person in the service industry dares not alienate an unpleasant wallet.  The competition could leverage with more patience. In a world where you can buy anything, anywhere, anytime, the customer has been elevated from always right to god.

When I went back a few days later, the dry cleaner lady remembered me. She held up the hem of my skirt; I think she was chiding me for using iron-on tape before bringing it to her. She showed me my sweaters and pointed here and there. Truthfully I didn’t understand, and it made me sad. I wanted to ask her about the man the week before. I wanted to know what she really thought about the whole matter. As I left with my hangers I looked back and smiled but she was already busy, sorting receipts, waiting for the next customer.