They Call Me Willie
This is one of those stories where you kinda had to be there in order to truly understand how I reached the point of telling an elderly lady I was Willie McCovey. You'll see what I mean.
For those not dripping in baseball history, you'll also need to understand that Willie McCovey was a hall of fame first baseman, spending the majority of his illustrious career with the San Francisco Giants. He was also black.
Knowing who Willie McCovey was - a hall of fame baseball player - and knowing that he was black is at the heart of my friend Jon's reaction, which you will read about soon.
My college roommate, Jon, and I exited the Vermillion Hy-Vee with a cart load of groceries, anxious to get home and make a couple thick, juicy burgers for supper. Jon went to get the car while I waited out front of the store with the groceries. When he backed my car out of the parking spot he decided to drive the wrong way down the aisle, as the car was only a few rows into the parking lot. It was a cold, mid-week winter day, so there were very few cars in the parking lot. And although I rolled my eyes when he drove the wrong way down the aisle, the fact is he drove the wrong way for about a total of twenty feet. No harm, no foul.
Then again.
Before we could get the first bag of groceries into the trunk a very kind-looking, elderly lady approached us. I was excited at the prospect of not having to eat macaroni and cheese for the fifth night in a row, so I cheerfully greeted the nice lady with a friendly, “Hello. How are you today?”
“Do you know what you just did?” she snarled, glaring at Jon.
I noticed she'd paid my cordial, respectful greeting no mind whatsoever. Jon noticed he’d been blindsided by an angry, elderly strand of barbed wire.
Jon, at about 6’ 2” and 230 pounds, looks over at me as if to ask, “What the hell am I supposed to do?” Seeing how Jon was suddenly mute, I maintained my polite disposition, asking her what was the problem.
“You drove the wrong way, young man,” still glaring at Jon, but now with her bony finger almost jabbing him in the chest. “You could cause an accident doing that.”
Jon, looking like a first-grader being scolded by his teacher for picking his nose, offered a rather stunned, awkward apology. I did the same, but without the deer-in-the-headlights look Jon was sporting.
“There could have been kids walking around,” she said. “What would you say then?”
“Ma'am, we apologize,” I said, still being very polite. “He only drove a little ways. It was a mistake. No one got hurt.”
“I just drove from there to here,” Jon said, gesturing with his hands. “I wasn't even going five miles and hour.”
She may have been short and stringy, but this lady was like a badger. There was no back down in her whatsoever.
“It doesn't matter how fast you were going,” she continued angrily. “You went the wrong way.”
“Okay. Thank you,” I said, now getting a bit perturbed. “We have to go now.”
Hoping she would drop her case if I ignored her, I began loading groceries in the trunk. Jon stood there like he was trying to figure out what to do with the booger on the end of his finger that drew the teacher's ire in the first place.
“Do you think this is funny?” she drilled on. “If there was a policeman here I'd report you.”
Her teeth were bared full now, and I was starting to realize how angry she really was. For whatever reason, Jon's indiscretion seemed to offend her on a personal level.
“We already apologized,” Jon said as he shrugged his shoulders. She really had him on his heels, and I struggled not to laugh. “What else do you want us to do?”
“Don't talk back to me, young man. You don't sound sorry.”
“Ma'am, we are sorry,” I said, “but that's enough. We won't do it again. Jon, let's go.” I shut the trunk as Jon handed me the keys. He seemed to have lost his appetite for driving.
“Who do you think you are?” she growled at me. “You think this is funny, too, don't you? Do you think you own this parking lot?”
I was now cold, as I'd failed to wear my winter coat for the simple reason I'd not anticipated an open field badger attack in the Hy-Vee parking lot. I was also very anxious to break my macaroni and cheese streak with a thick, hot, juicy homemade cheeseburger repleat with pickles, lettuce, a tomato slice, onion and mustard. That's now I like my burger, but my near-poverty-line college finances ensured I'd not had one for ages. Now, standing on the threshold of ground round bliss I was instead enduring a prolonged tongue-lashing from Frau Parking Nazi.
And that's when the very last, single-strand thread of my patience snapped.
“That's it!” I quasi-yelled, arms thrusting out like I was trying to make the letter “Y.” “No more! We've said sorry over and over. No one was hurt. Hell, nobody's even out here. We're done, so drop it!”
Of the two, Jon was far more gobsmacked, gawking at me like I'd just told him I was dating his mom or something. Frau Fury wasn't so much stunned as she was dug in. Now, she stepped towards me and pruned her face in preparation for wave two of her assault.
“How dare you yell at me,” she yelled at me. “What's your name?”
“Willie McCovey,” I said proudly and without a speck of hesitation.
I wish Jon had just taken a drink of Coke at that very moment because every last drop would have exploded out his nostrils as he let out a howling laugh.
Jon knew I wasn't Willie McCovey.
Lying to a frail, estimated-to-be septegenarian about one's identity comes across as very cowardly, which I understand. However, I didn't lie about my identity out of fear, but rather as a way to mock the utter ridiculousness of badger woman's tirade. It would have been better had she known who Willie McCovey was, but that might have been asking a bit much.
I hadn't anticipated Jon's outburst, for now she was really, really pissed off. “Do you go to college here?” she asked.
“Yes," I said.
“Who's your advisor?” she said, hinting a threat.
“Dr. Benno Wymar,” I said. “He's in the business school. I hope you do call him. Do you want his number?”
This part was the truth. Dr. Benno Wymar had been my business school advisor for three years, and in that time I came to understand that he viewed everyone else as either an idiot or well on their way to becoming an idiot. As such, I would have given up my cheeseburger to see her call Dr. Wymar.
Dr. Benno Wymar grew up in Germany, and he was literally a Hitler Youth during World War II. Not by choice, mind you, but the blonde hair and blue eyes of his formative years were the genetic traits cherished by the Nazis. So, he was essentially forced to be a Hitler Youth.
I always assumed the awful experiences of his youth help shape him into someone who refused to suffer fools gladly. The sharp, bald head and hardened eyes of his aged years were the perfect look for someone as stern and intimidating as he.
Jon started laughing again when I mentioned Dr. Wymar, even though he knew I was telling the truth. The image of Dr. Wymar scolding this lady for wasting his time with such a frivolous complaint (which is precisely what he would have done) was a bit overwhelming for him, I guess.
Frau Fang was now thoroughly beside herself, and Jon's laughing was making it worse.
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Willie McCovey,” she said. (More Jon laughing, followed by more Frau rage.) “I'm going to call Dr. Wymar and let him know what kind of student he has.”
Dr. Wymar had more than once rolled his eyes and muttered inaudible German curses during our periodic student-advisor meetings. So, yeah, he already knew exactly what kind of student I was.
Jon was now practically beside himself with laughter, and I was having difficulting keeping a straight face at this point. The thought of stern, impatient, steel-eyed Dr. Wymar saying “Vhat are you talking about? I don't know any Villie McCovey” in his thick German accent in response to this poor lady's complaint was more than I could take.
As my giggling surfaced, the Angered One seemed on the verge of violence. “You'll be sorry you told me his name,” she threatened before boiling away into the store.
Jon and I silently watched her disappear behind the automatic doors.
“I can't believe you told her you were Willie McCovey,” said Jon. “You are such an ass.”
“She wouldn't shut up. And you basically stood there with your thumb up your ass,” I said as we climbed into the car.
“Do you know what's going to happen if she calls Dr. Wymar?” asked Jon.
“Well, duh. Why do you think I told her who he was?”
“What if she describes you to him?”
“Seriously?” I asked incredulously. “He's gonna chew her ass for wasting his time. Hell, he suggested I was lazy for getting two questions wrong on his last test. I just wish I could be there to witness the phone call.”
“You are an ass,” Jon said giggling.
“Yeah, but I'm a hall of fame ass.”
“God, your mom would be so proud of you right now.”
“Like I'm going to tell her about this? How dumb to you think I am?”
I guess that question's now answered.
Unintended Consequences
I've a thing for unintended consequences, borne out of my fascination with history, and in particular World War I. Unintended consequences often arise when a poorly thought out solution is introduced.
The Treaty of Versailles, which officially ratified Germany's surrender at the conclusion of World War I, is one of the most disastrous examples of unintended consequences.
Most of the Allied Powers were determined to punish Germany for starting a war that cost almost 20 million lives, including 8 million civilian lives, and innumerable billions of dollars in property and economic destruction. Some within the Allied Powers rationalized that crippling Germany's economy and essentially stripping them of their armed forces would ensure Germany never again unleashed such wanton destruction.
Instead of caging a dangerous beast, the Treaty of Versailles cornered and enraged it.
The treaty's excessively harsh provisions eventually plunged Germany into an economic depression far worse than what Americans experienced during the Great Depression. As well, the treaty forced Germany to accept 100% responsibility for the war, which was not actually the case. The combined impact of these measures inflicted great shame on the German people, stripping them of their pride and dignity.
Before long a charismatic, narcissistic megalomaniac named Adolph Hitler harnessed the desperation, rage and shame of the German people, synthesizing it into the racist and revenge-driven Nazi movement. Thus, the unintended consequence of the Treaty of Versailles became World War II, which included the murder of 6 million Jews in the Holocaust.
It should be noted that some forward-thinking individuals of the time warned that the Treaty of Versailles would ultimately be disastrous and even lead to another world war. French General Ferdinand Foch predicted the treaty would lead to a second world war within 20 years. He hit the nail on the head. Legenday British economist John Maynard Keynes also predicted an economic and social collapse of Germany as a result of the treaty, and warned that the consequences of such a collapse could be worse than World War I itself.
Few listened to them because most of the world was focused more on revenge against Germany than sustained peace with them.
Fortunately, we ultimately learned from the mistakes of the Treaty of Versailles, and instead of punishing Germany and Japan after World War II, we helped rebuild them. As a result, Germany and Japan are now two of America's staunchest allies.
The coronavirus pandemic is already spurring hastily-fashioned “solutions” that will likely prove to be fertile ground for unintended consequences. One of those may already be taking shape.
Although there are encouraging signs that an effictive coronavirus vaccine will be available before too long, the very real possibility exists that a vaccine may actually take decades to develop - forty years later we still don't have an HIV/AIDS vaccine - or, once developed it will have limited effectiveness, such as with the flu vaccine. If either of those scenarios comes to fruition, we'll have to find a way to live with the coronavirus, much like we already live with the flu. And that's where working from home to mitigate the spread of the virus comes into the unintended consequences equation.
Not everyone has the luxury of being able to work from home. Most white-collar workers, such as myself, can effectively work from home. But blue-collar workers in manufacturing are not so lucky. So, while I've had the good fortune to avoid potentially becoming infected at a workplace teeming with over 200 people working in close proximity under one roof, the same cannot be said for those who work on our production and assembly lines. And what's the primary determining factor between why I have my job as opposed to working on our production floor? Education.
I would be surprised if 10% of our production staff have any post-high school education at all. As a result, their employment prospects are largely limited to jobs such as manufacturing, retail sales, food service, etc., which are the very jobs that cannot be conducted from the safety of home.
How could this play out if coronavirus becomes a long-term fact of life? Americans may gravitate towards post-high school educations that qualify them for work-from-home careers, which would diminish the available workforce for blue-collar jobs that cannot be perfomed from home.
Measures then would have to be taken to make up for the lack of blue-collar workers. Three examples would be a change to our labor laws so that children as young as fourteen could work in manufacturing; reversing course from the current trend and actually encouraging unskilled immigrant laborers to come to America; or expanded investment into robotic labor, which would be devastating to the manufacturing job prospects of unskilled workers. However, jobs like trucking, farming, etc. could actually experience an increase in popularity as they typically involve minimal close contact with other people.
Such a scenario could also create a sort of “pariah class" of people, who would find themselves ostracized by those that work from home, as the “work-from-home class” of people could decide to avoid, or greatly limit contact with those not fortunate enough to work from home.
All of this, of course, is just speculation. But it's this sort of examination of possible outcomes, if you will, that must be part of any and all solutions put forth to deal with this pandemic. Unfortunately, it appears very little such forethought is being applied to the shoot-from-the-hip solutions being bandied about by government, business, education, etc.
No one truly knows what road this pandemic will take us down, but one thing is sure: If we fail to apply a reasoned, insightful approach to the solutions necessary to navigate this path, there will almost certainly be distasteful, if not disastrous unintended consequences we will be forced to deal with at the end of that road.
Thoughts While Standing in a Shower Drinking Irish Whiskey From a Shampoo Bottle
A car built by Congress would either have only two wheels, but they would both work, or ten wheels and none of them work. Either way, we'd be handed the keys to a car that gets us nowhere.
We stand on our feet, but spend more money on hair care than foot care. Fortunately, I have more hair on the top of my feet than the top of my head.
The Bible says the meek shall inherit the earth. It doesn't say what condition the earth will be in when this happens.
Taxes are a necessary evil, made worse by those committing unnecessary evils.
The early bird often doesn't make it to the third Sunday in October.
You Don't Know Your Own Name
Poetic justice can be as rare as an obedient house cat, but far more enjoyable.
One day a strange man walked into the golf shop of the private country club I was working at in the Omaha area and somewhat rudely tried to check in for his tee time at “Shoreline Golf Course.”
This wasn't the first time someone confused Shoreline Golf Course with the one I worked at, Lakeshore Country Club, as they were similarly named and in the same area. So, I politely informed him that Shoreline Golf Course was on the other side of town, and that he may be at the wrong golf course.
“No I'm not,” he said. “I've played here a number of times. This is Shoreline Golf Course.”
If you're paying close attention you might have noticed that this individual was telling the golf professional that he was wrong about which golf course he worked at. I'd worked at Lakeshore Country Club for a couple years at that point, so I was fairly confident I'd learned the name of the place by then.
Golf professionals are trained to deal with customers like this in a way that's akin to giving him the rope needed to hang himself, as opposed to arguing with the customer that he's wrong.
“Well,” I said, “maybe you're playing with one of our members and the tee time is under another name.” I knew this wasn't the case because not only had I learned the name of the golf course that employed me during those two years, but I also knew the name of every single member we had, without a single exception. And this guy was not only not a member, but I knew he wasn't playing golf with any of our members that morning because there were no tee times on the books that morning.
“This is a public golf course. Why would I need to play with a member?” he insisted very rudely.
Now this individual was telling the golf professional he not only didn't know the name of the course that employed him, but he also mistakenly believed it was a private country club.
“I'm just trying to help you out, sir,” I patiently and politely offered, letting out a little more rope in the process. “Who are the other golfers in your foursome? If I recognize a name, I'd be happy to give him a call to see if he's running late.”
He told me their names, and as expected none were members of my golf course, even if I didn't know its name.
“I'm sorry, sir,” I again offered, “I don't recognize any of those names. And I don't see any of those names on the tee sheet. Would you like me to call Shoreline just in case there was a mix up?”
“I made the tee time,” he said, obviously very perturbed that I had the audacity to think such a thing could happen. “I know where I called.”
“That's fine. You're welcome to have a seat while you wait for the rest of your foursome, if you like.”
He didn't respond, but just as he sat down his cell phone rang. “Hey, where the hell are you guys?” he barked. After the caller spoke, he said, “I'm at Shoreline. Get your asses over here. We'll miss our tee time.”
I couldn't tell if he was more perturbed with his buddies for being at the wrong course, or me for not knowing which course I worked at.
“What?” he barked again. “Bullshit. I'm at Shoreline. I don't know where you guys are.”
As he listened to the caller's reply his entire countenance sank noticeably.
“Oh, shit. I'll be right there,” he said almost inaudibly.
That was the sound of our wayward golfer running out of rope.
“Goddamn, those assholes f$%€@d up the tee time,” he mumbled as the door tried its best to hit him in the ass on his way out.
And that was the poetic sound of our wayward golfer realizing he'd just made an ass of himself, but was not man enough to face up to it.
I wish I could say every encounter with a difficult customer ended that way, but there were a few times where sparks flew when I failed to follow my training. I'll save those fireworks for another time.
Stay safe, distanced, connected and well.
Sluggo