My wife and I got our invitation to a black tie event next month that we attended last year as well. I had a string of formal events close together last year, and I knew I'd be having at least one a year for work, so I purchased a tuxedo at my boss's suggestion. I went into the closet to take a look at it and see if it needed drycleaning or not, and I stopped and looked at my suits for a minute. My wardrobe has grown quite a bit in the past couple of years, and it's still a little strange to me. There was a time that I owned one suit, and that suit was my only option for weddings, bar mitzvahs, funerals, important meetings, and interviews. I still have that suit, a nice charcoal grey one, and it plays a large role in today's story.
After college graduation, I began working at the Writing Program on campus for a few months. That led to an academic advising position in the main college office, where I was for a couple of years. Then my dream job on campus opened up: Assistant Director of Orientation Programs. I had worked for Orientation for two years as a student, and they were formative and eye-opening years in terms of who I would eventually be as an adult. I wanted that job badly, and thought of it as something I could do for the next decade.
So I sent in my application, waited for the position to close, then set up an interview for about a week from then. The next day, I took my suit pants and my dark blue dress shirt to a drycleaners pretty nearby. They told me it would be ready on Thursday morning, and my interview was the following Monday morning.
Time passed, and I prepared for my interview. Actually, it was a set of three interviews in one day, so that increased the nervous factor a bit. Then Thursday after work, I went to the cleaners and handed them my ticket. The young woman looked in the computer, made a confused face, then went to the back. She returned and told me, "There was a little stain on it that you didn't tell us about, so it'll be ready tomorrow instead." I didn't know there was a stain, or I would've told them so they could try to get it out, but I decided to swallow that point. Instead, I said, "Ok, well it's very important that I get it tomorrow because I need it for an interview. What time will it be ready?" She told me to call around 11am, and I said I would.
At 10:58 the next morning, I called. "If you call back at 1pm, it should be ready then," I was told. "Ok, but please remember that I absolutely need it this afternoon," I said. I did more work, I ate lunch, and then I called back at 12:56. "Hi, this is Peter Klein, I was told to call back now to see if my shirt and pants are ready." "Hold please." I heard talking in the background, and then a woman came on who identified herself as the manager. "Hello sir, what color is your shirt?" That was not at all what I wanted to hear. "It's dark blue," I said. "And what size?" "Um, I think it's something like a 15 1/2 and a 32-33, but I might be off a little - what's going on?" "You don't know what size your shirt is? How do you expect us to find it if you don't know the size?" One word really stuck out there: find. "You can't find my shirt? An hour ago, and you seemed to know where it was then." "Call us back in one hour," she said, and then she hung up.
As I've said several times in this space, I'm a pretty mellow guy in person. Oh sure, I have a lot of anger in me toward things like "PIN number" and the pronunciation of "H," but I've never been the type to yell at anyone besides players in televised sporting events and horrible drivers who can't hear me. However, this was very important to me, I had higher stress levels involved, and I was totally screwed if they couldn't do their job correctly. In other words, I was this close to completely going off on this woman.
I called an hour later and identified myself. "Hello sir," she started. "What color is your shirt?" That's where I started to lose it a little. "What color is my shirt!? I told you, it's dark blue. You lost it?" She repeated her previous argument, repeating that it was my fault for not knowing the size. I said, "No, no, it's not my fault. It's your job to not lose people's clothes. Cleaning them is secondary to not losing them." She said something about how since there was a stain, they took it out of the normal routine and now they can't tell which one is mine because a tag fell off. My pants were all done though, if that was any consolation. "How many dark blue shirts without tags do you have there?" I asked, hoping it was a rhetorical question. "I don't know," she said, "we do the actual cleaning off site, so unless I drive over there, I can't tell you if we have it or not." Then I channeled a bit my dad and told her, "Here's what's going to happen. I'm coming there after work at 5:30, and you're going to have my shirt ready. If it's not, you're buying me a new one and pressing it for me so it's ready to wear for my interview." She started to argue, but I cut her off and told her that I was hanging up, and I did.
That was possibly the meanest I'd ever spoken to someone. I realize it might not sound all that mean, but it was for me, and I was agitated enough that I had trouble concentrating on work for the rest of the afternoon. None of my other dress shirts matched the suit at all, so if they truly lost this one, I needed a new one right away, and I'd be damned if they weren't paying for it. I could feel myself getting worked up as I drove over there, preparing myself to stick to my guns.
I walked in, calmly introduced myself, and said I was there to pick up my shirt and pants. The pants were already sitting out there, and the young woman asked me to hold on as she picked up the phone. She called the off-site cleaning place and asked for the manager lady, but she was already en route back to where I was. So I waited a few minutes. Then a car pulled up, and a woman came out with around seven or eight shirts on hangers in her hands.
Without a greeting, she approached me and asked, "What color is your shirt?" I bit my tongue, took a deep breath, and said, "I've told you a couple of times already when I shouldn't have needed to, it's dark blue." She rifled through the ones in her hand. "Is this your shirt?" she asked, holding up a light blue shirt with a white collar that could've fit two of me in it. "No," I said, getting exponentially more agitated by the second. "Why isn't that your shirt?" she demanded. That's when it happened: Peter left the building. "Wh-Wh-Why isn't that my shirt? Why? Um, let's see, I didn't buy it, it doesn't belong to me - what do you mean, 'Why isn't that my shirt?' It's not my shirt!" She looked at me like I was insane. "You said it was blue, right?"
I took another deep breath, and then very flatly said, "I'm going to Macy's down the street and coming back with a shirt and a receipt for you to reimburse me." She didn't like that plan, and argued, "Why should we have to pay for a new shirt when we might be able to find your old one?" I didn't even know where to begin with that, so I just told them that I'd be back soon. I turned toward the door, and just then a van skidded to a stop in front of the store. A man jumped out carrying my shirt. (I knew it was mine because it was the color and size of my shirt, and also because I had bought it.) I took it from him and thanked him, glaring back at the woman as I started to head out. She called after me, "Next time, you need to tell us the size and-" I cut her off and said with a slight laugh, "Oh, there won't be a next time, believe me."
There it is folks, one of the angriest moments of my lifetime to date. It's been over five years since that incident, and I still clearly recall the flood of emotions. Was it worth all that tension and spike in blood pressure? Well, I got the job, and I got complimented on my charcoal grey suit and my dark blue shirt during the interview, so absolutely. Happy Monday, gentle readers, and I hope none of you reach that level of anger this entire week.
After college graduation, I began working at the Writing Program on campus for a few months. That led to an academic advising position in the main college office, where I was for a couple of years. Then my dream job on campus opened up: Assistant Director of Orientation Programs. I had worked for Orientation for two years as a student, and they were formative and eye-opening years in terms of who I would eventually be as an adult. I wanted that job badly, and thought of it as something I could do for the next decade.
So I sent in my application, waited for the position to close, then set up an interview for about a week from then. The next day, I took my suit pants and my dark blue dress shirt to a drycleaners pretty nearby. They told me it would be ready on Thursday morning, and my interview was the following Monday morning.
Time passed, and I prepared for my interview. Actually, it was a set of three interviews in one day, so that increased the nervous factor a bit. Then Thursday after work, I went to the cleaners and handed them my ticket. The young woman looked in the computer, made a confused face, then went to the back. She returned and told me, "There was a little stain on it that you didn't tell us about, so it'll be ready tomorrow instead." I didn't know there was a stain, or I would've told them so they could try to get it out, but I decided to swallow that point. Instead, I said, "Ok, well it's very important that I get it tomorrow because I need it for an interview. What time will it be ready?" She told me to call around 11am, and I said I would.
At 10:58 the next morning, I called. "If you call back at 1pm, it should be ready then," I was told. "Ok, but please remember that I absolutely need it this afternoon," I said. I did more work, I ate lunch, and then I called back at 12:56. "Hi, this is Peter Klein, I was told to call back now to see if my shirt and pants are ready." "Hold please." I heard talking in the background, and then a woman came on who identified herself as the manager. "Hello sir, what color is your shirt?" That was not at all what I wanted to hear. "It's dark blue," I said. "And what size?" "Um, I think it's something like a 15 1/2 and a 32-33, but I might be off a little - what's going on?" "You don't know what size your shirt is? How do you expect us to find it if you don't know the size?" One word really stuck out there: find. "You can't find my shirt? An hour ago, and you seemed to know where it was then." "Call us back in one hour," she said, and then she hung up.
As I've said several times in this space, I'm a pretty mellow guy in person. Oh sure, I have a lot of anger in me toward things like "PIN number" and the pronunciation of "H," but I've never been the type to yell at anyone besides players in televised sporting events and horrible drivers who can't hear me. However, this was very important to me, I had higher stress levels involved, and I was totally screwed if they couldn't do their job correctly. In other words, I was this close to completely going off on this woman.
I called an hour later and identified myself. "Hello sir," she started. "What color is your shirt?" That's where I started to lose it a little. "What color is my shirt!? I told you, it's dark blue. You lost it?" She repeated her previous argument, repeating that it was my fault for not knowing the size. I said, "No, no, it's not my fault. It's your job to not lose people's clothes. Cleaning them is secondary to not losing them." She said something about how since there was a stain, they took it out of the normal routine and now they can't tell which one is mine because a tag fell off. My pants were all done though, if that was any consolation. "How many dark blue shirts without tags do you have there?" I asked, hoping it was a rhetorical question. "I don't know," she said, "we do the actual cleaning off site, so unless I drive over there, I can't tell you if we have it or not." Then I channeled a bit my dad and told her, "Here's what's going to happen. I'm coming there after work at 5:30, and you're going to have my shirt ready. If it's not, you're buying me a new one and pressing it for me so it's ready to wear for my interview." She started to argue, but I cut her off and told her that I was hanging up, and I did.
That was possibly the meanest I'd ever spoken to someone. I realize it might not sound all that mean, but it was for me, and I was agitated enough that I had trouble concentrating on work for the rest of the afternoon. None of my other dress shirts matched the suit at all, so if they truly lost this one, I needed a new one right away, and I'd be damned if they weren't paying for it. I could feel myself getting worked up as I drove over there, preparing myself to stick to my guns.
I walked in, calmly introduced myself, and said I was there to pick up my shirt and pants. The pants were already sitting out there, and the young woman asked me to hold on as she picked up the phone. She called the off-site cleaning place and asked for the manager lady, but she was already en route back to where I was. So I waited a few minutes. Then a car pulled up, and a woman came out with around seven or eight shirts on hangers in her hands.
Without a greeting, she approached me and asked, "What color is your shirt?" I bit my tongue, took a deep breath, and said, "I've told you a couple of times already when I shouldn't have needed to, it's dark blue." She rifled through the ones in her hand. "Is this your shirt?" she asked, holding up a light blue shirt with a white collar that could've fit two of me in it. "No," I said, getting exponentially more agitated by the second. "Why isn't that your shirt?" she demanded. That's when it happened: Peter left the building. "Wh-Wh-Why isn't that my shirt? Why? Um, let's see, I didn't buy it, it doesn't belong to me - what do you mean, 'Why isn't that my shirt?' It's not my shirt!" She looked at me like I was insane. "You said it was blue, right?"
I took another deep breath, and then very flatly said, "I'm going to Macy's down the street and coming back with a shirt and a receipt for you to reimburse me." She didn't like that plan, and argued, "Why should we have to pay for a new shirt when we might be able to find your old one?" I didn't even know where to begin with that, so I just told them that I'd be back soon. I turned toward the door, and just then a van skidded to a stop in front of the store. A man jumped out carrying my shirt. (I knew it was mine because it was the color and size of my shirt, and also because I had bought it.) I took it from him and thanked him, glaring back at the woman as I started to head out. She called after me, "Next time, you need to tell us the size and-" I cut her off and said with a slight laugh, "Oh, there won't be a next time, believe me."
There it is folks, one of the angriest moments of my lifetime to date. It's been over five years since that incident, and I still clearly recall the flood of emotions. Was it worth all that tension and spike in blood pressure? Well, I got the job, and I got complimented on my charcoal grey suit and my dark blue shirt during the interview, so absolutely. Happy Monday, gentle readers, and I hope none of you reach that level of anger this entire week.
3 comments:
Hey Pete, we were out to dinner a couple weeks ago with your parents. Another party at the restaurant was talking very loudly, practically shouting so your dad told them to be quiet as we could not even carry on a conversation. He was pretty forceful with his mean face when he said it. I was just glad my back was to them so I did not have to make eye contact. Was that the Paul you were channeling ?
Oh yeah, Sue. That's the one. Normal volume, but a stern enough face that they know he's meaning business. When channeling that Paul, I usually start my sentence with either "Look" or "Listen." If you hear either of those sense commands from me, then you know it's on.
Look, I'm getting a bad rap here. People depend on me to be forceful and to speak up when they compain privately about something and bite their tongues. I learned to meet things head-on from my father and I'm glad you have the ability to be strong when necessary. ARE YOU LISTENING?
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