"COFFEE, MEGG AND ILK, PLEASE"
Give me any topic in current sociology, such as "The Working Classes
_vs._ the Working Classes," or "Various Aspects of the Minimum Wage,"
and I can talk on it with considerable confidence. I have no
hesitation in putting the Workingman, as such, in his place among the
hewers of wood and drawers of water--a necessary adjunct to our modern
life, if you will, but of little real consequence in the big events of
the world.
But when I am confronted, in the flesh, by the "close up" of a
workingman with any vestige of authority, however small, I immediately
lose my perspective--and also my poise. I become servile, almost
cringing. I feel that my modest demands on his time may, unless
tactfully presented, be offensive to him and result in something, I
haven't been able to analyze just what, perhaps public humiliation.
For instance, whenever I enter an elevator in a public building I am
usually repeating to myself the number of the floor at which I wish to
alight. The elevator man gives the impression of being a social
worker, filling the job just for that day to help out the regular
elevator man, and I feel that the least I can do is to show him that I
know what's what. So I don't tell him my floor number as soon as I get
in. Only elderly ladies do that. I keep whispering it over to myself,
thinking to tell it to the world when the proper time comes. But then
the big question arises--what is the proper time? If I want to get out
at the eighteenth floor, should I tell him at the sixteenth or the
seventeenth? I decide on the sixteenth and frame my lips to say,
"Eighteen out, please." (Just why one should have to add the word
"out" to the number of the floor is not clear. When you say "eighteen"
the obvious construction of the phrase is that you want to get _out_
at the eighteenth floor, not that you want to get in there or be let
down through the flooring of the car at that point. However, you'll
find the most sophisticated elevator riders, namely, messenger boys,
always adding the word "out," and it is well to follow what the
messenger boys do in such matters if you don't want to go wrong.)
So there I am, mouthing the phrase, "Eighteen out, please," as we
shoot past the tenth--eleventh--twelfth--thirteenth floors. Then I
begin to get panicky. Supposing that I should forget my lines! Or that
I should say them too soon! Or too late! We are now at the fifteenth
floor. I clear my throat. Sixteen! Hoarsely I murmur, "Eighteen out."
But at the same instant a man with a cigar in his mouth bawls,
"Seventeen out!" and I am not heard.
[Illustration: "At the same instant a man with a cigar in his mouth
bawls, 'Seventeen out!'"]
The car stops at seventeen, and I step confidentially up to the
elevator man and repeat, with an attempt at nonchalance, "Eighteen
out, please." But just as I say the words the door clangs, drowning
out my request, and we shoot up again. I make another attempt, but
have become inarticulate and succeed only in making a noise like a man
strangling. And by this time we are at the twenty-first floor with no
relief in sight. Shattered, I retire to the back of the car and ride
up to the roof and down again, trying to look as if I worked in the
building and had to do it, however boresome it might be. On the return
trip I don't care what the elevator man thinks of me, and tell him at
every floor that I, personally, am going to get off at the eighteenth,
no matter what any one else in the car does. I am dictatorial enough
when I am riled. It is only in the opening rounds that I hug the
ropes.
My timidity when dealing with minor officials strikes me first in my
voice. I have any number of witnesses who will sign statements to the
effect that my voice changed about twelve years ago, and that in
ordinary conversation my tone, if not especially virile, is at least
consistent and even. But when, for instance, I give an order at a soda
fountain, if the clerk overawes me at all, my voice breaks into a
yodel that makes the phrase "Coffee, egg and milk" a pretty snatch of
song, but practically worthless as an order.
If the soda counter is lined with customers and the clerks so busy
tearing up checks and dropping them into the toy banks that they seem
to resent any call on their drink-mixing abilities, I might just as
well save time and go home and shake up an egg and milk for myself,
for I shall not be waited on until every one else has left the counter
and they are putting the nets over the caramels for the night. I know
that. I've gone through it too many times to be deceived.
For there is something about the realization that I must shout out my
order ahead of some one else that absolutely inhibits my shouting
powers. I will stand against the counter, fingering my ten-cent check
and waiting for the clerk to come near enough for me to tell him what
I want, while, in the meantime, ten or a dozen people have edged up
next to me and given their orders, received their drinks and gone
away. Every once in a while I catch a clerk's eye and lean forward
murmuring, "Coffee"--but that is as far as I get. Some one else has
shoved his way in and shouted, "Coca-Cola," and I draw back to get out
of the way of the vichy spray. (Incidentally, the men who push their
way in and footfault on their orders always ask for "Coca-Cola."
Somehow it seems like painting the lily for them to order a nerve
tonic.)
I then decide that the thing for me to do is to speak up loud and act
brazenly. So I clear my throat, and, placing both hands on the
counter, emit what promises to be a perfect bellow: "COFFEE, MEGG
AND ILK." This makes just about the impression you'd think it would,
both on my neighbors and the clerk, especially as it is delivered in a
tone which ranges from a rich barytone to a rather rasping tenor. At
this I withdraw and go to the other end of the counter, where I can
begin life over again with a clean slate.
[Illustration: "Placing both hands on the counter, I emit what
promises to be a perfect bellow."]
Here, perhaps, I am suddenly confronted by an impatient clerk who is
in a perfect frenzy to grab my check and tear it into bits to drop in
his box. "What's yours?" he flings at me. I immediately lose my memory
and forget what it was that I wanted. But here is a man who has a lot
of people to wait on and who doubtless gets paid according to the
volume of business he brings in. I have no right to interfere with his
work. There is a big man edging his way beside me who is undoubtedly
going to shout "Coca-Cola" in half a second. So I beat him to it and
say, "Coca-Cola," which is probably the last drink in the store that I
want to buy. But it is the only thing that I can remember at the
moment, in spite of the fact that I have been thinking all morning how
good a coffee, egg and milk would taste. I suppose that one of the
psychological principles of advertising is to so hammer the name of
your product into the mind of the timid buyer that when he is
confronted by a brusk demand for an order be can't think of anything
else to say, whether he wants it or not.
This dread of offending the minor official or appearing to a
disadvantage before a clerk extends even to my taking nourishment. I
don't think that I have ever yet gone into a restaurant and ordered
exactly what I wanted. If only the waiter would give me the card and
let me alone for, say, fifteen minutes, as he does when I want to get
him to bring me my check, I could work out a meal along the lines of
what I like. But when he stands over me, with disgust clearly
registered on his face, I order the thing I like least and consider
myself lucky to get out of it with so little disgrace.
And yet I have no doubt that if one could see him in his family life
the Workingman is just an ordinary person like the rest of us. He is
probably not at all as we think of him in our dealings with him--a
harsh, dictatorial, intolerant autocrat, but rather a kindly soul who
likes nothing better than to sit by the fire with his children and
read.
And he would probably be the first person to scoff at the idea that he
could frighten me.