I was raised to say “please” and “thank you” and “excuse me” and “yes ma’am” and “no sir” — it’s practicaly grafted into my DNA.
So I’m generally surprised by people with bad manners. And I don’t mean the normal, day-to-day lack of formality or courtesy. That’s just life and there’s nothing to be done about it.
But there are people who take good manners when evidenced and try to one up them with a clever comeback or even faint mockery — as though to say “You are an idiot to speak to anyone with courtesy, your parents were fools to teach you, and I am here to remind you that it is all in vain.”
I can remember being at a street fair when I was younger, making my way through a crowd of people towards something or other. At one point, there was a group of people standing in a cluster and I had to pass through in order to continue on my way. As I did so, I said “Excuse me..” as a reflex, without even thinking about it.
“Why?” One of the men replied with a snort. “Did you fart?”
I don’t know what I did, I don’t know how I reacted and what was visible on my face. I remember feeling vaguely embarassed of my own manners and a little disgusted with his.
The woman who was standing next to him jerked his arm and said, sharply, “Shut up, asshole. At least the kid’s got some manners.”
The guy kind of sheepishly nodded, suddenly humble, and mumbled “Sorry dude.”
That was a long time ago, but it all came flooding back to me tonight while I was walking through a store. The aisle was narrow and I passed a man, probably in his fifties. We both had to kind of scoot out of each other’s way.
“Excuse me,” I murmured out of force of habit, passing.
“Is there?” He stared at me for a moment grinning.
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you have one?”
I was starting to wonder if he thought I worked there. “Uh…”
“You said ‘Excuse me,'” he explained. “I was wondering if there was an excuse for you.”
I don’t know what my face did, but it was obviously not the reaction he was looking for. “I guess not.”
“Sorry,” he said, playing-at-but-not-really apologizing. “Just jerking your chain a little.”
I nodded and looked back to the shelves, thinking “Whatever pal. Have your fun on someone else’s time.”
But he wasn’t done. “Just yanking your chain. You looked like you needed it.”
When I didn’t say anything, he said, again in that good natured tone of voice, “You look like somebody ought take you down a peg every so often.”
(For the record, I was still in my work clothes — just a couple of notches above “Business Casual” as they call it. He was in faded, stained jeans and a flannel shirt, with three or four days growth of scrubby gray beard — I assume, his work uniform as well.)
“I’m sure my grandfather would agree with you.” Granted, it wasn’t a purposeful shot at his age or a particularly powerful response, but I was slightly gratified to see him take offense as it slowly sank in.
I stood my ground, carefully studying the shelves in front of me. After a moment he moved off.
It could have been worse, I suppose. I could have suggested he yank something else.
Although, I doubt that I would have done so — that would have been rude.