by Rona Altrows
When I found my way to the stationery department last Wednesday, I was disappointed that the pads of lovely vellum stock I prefer were sold out. There was only one pad of any kind left and, as you will see from examining the paper on which I am writing now, it was full of much plainer paper. But to be honest, in this email-dominated age of ours, I am grateful you carry letter pads at all.
The letter pad was on the top shelf. By raising myself to my full height and getting on to my toes, I was able to reach the item I needed. The store was slow at that hour and I brought it to the cash, intending to pay right away and leave without incident.
It was not to be.
The price tag on the back of the pad read $6.99 so with tax, the price should have been $7.34. (I have always been good at doing arithmetic in my head.) That was not what the cashier said to me. “Five eighty-seven,” she said. I quickly calculated that the price was $5.59 plus tax, and that $5.59 is a twenty percent reduction from $6.99.
“Oh,” I said, “there is a twenty percent sale on that pad?”
“Nope,” the cashier said. “It’s not on sale.”
Then I realized what this all had to do with—the day of the week.
“You have given me the Pharmabella seniors’ discount. Haven’t you?” I said.
“You bet,” the cashier said. “Every Monday.”
“But I didn’t ask for the discount.”
“That’s okay. I don’t make other seniors ask either.”
“So… you’ve simply assumed that I’m eligible.”
“No problem, honey,” she said.
Wanting more than anything to end the conversation, I opened my wallet. The cashier pointed out to me where in my wallet my Pharmabella points card was to be found. I was well aware of its location and needed no assistance.
“I often help older folks find the card,” the cashier said, with pride in her voice. “You’d be surprised where some of them put it.”
I paid. By now there was someone else in line at the cash. But the cashier was in no rush to get on with her job. Apparently, talking to me was more entertaining.
“The starting age is only sixty. And you are a spring chicken of—what—sixty-one?” she said. Then (and I am recounting the facts without embellishment), she winked.
As I was walking out of the store, she called, “Of course, you don’t have to take the seniors’ discount just ’cause you’re old enough. But I’ve never had anyone turn it down yet!”
In spite of your cashier’s certainty to the contrary, I can tell you I have not reached the magic age of sixty. I can see it, but I am not there. I did want to pay the regular price for my letterpad. But your cashier wore me down.
I like for people giving me service to conduct themselves in a civil, professional manner. Is that too much to ask?
I am disappointed in your company, in which I have put so much trust over the years. Do you not have a protocol that could be followed? If so, please enforce it. If not, please set one up. I would not like for your other customers to be subjected to the treatment I received.
Thank you for hearing me out.
Sincerely,
Ariadne Jensen
TO THE OWNER OF THE CAFÉ VERSAILLES FROM AJ—SECOND LETTER
March 27, 2015
Dear Owner of the Café Versailles,
I hope this letter finds you in superlative health. My own health is at an acceptable level but unexceptional for a woman in her fifties. I will not trouble you with particulars. Suffice it to say I have learned over the years that both physical and mental health can benefit if a person takes a holiday or otherwise shifts her routine. Lately I have been feeling like I am in a rut, and of course, that perception can lead to loss of focus, despondency, and symptoms such as joint pain, for, as we all know, the knee bone is connected to the head bone.
I cannot let myself sink, I told myself. I am going to set out on some kind of adventure. Today. But as I am a woman of modest means, I will not be embarking on a cruise, checking into a spa, booking an all-inclusive. My adventure will need to be much less costly and, for that matter, less time-consuming, as I lead a busy life.
I was contemplating what form my adventure might take as I strolled into the Café Versailles shortly after two o’clock today for my customary mid-afternoon pick-me-up. I was about to order my usual small cappuccino, to which I had been looking forward for hours, when I saw a sign on the counter next to the till. The sign, which I had never noticed before, featured a photograph of a long-tailed, furry animal that looked like a cross between a raccoon and a cat. The caption: Ask about our wild civet coffee. So I did.
Your well-informed barista explained that the creature in the picture, the wild civet, consumes the cherries of the coffee plant and either regurgitates or poops out the beans, which are indigestible. The beans are cleaned by stout-hearted people and undergo further processing and, voilà, wild civet coffee. The barista said the effect of the civet’s alimentary enzymes is such that the pooped coffee tastes nutty. Today, alas, none was available at the Versailles. However, the regurgitated variety, which tasted fruity, was on hand, and the barista would be pleased to brew me a cup.
Well, I thought to myself, this may well be the adventure I crave. Yes please, I said.
Then the barista told me the price. Twenty-five dollars. For one little cup of coffee? Yes, but not just any coffee. Exotic coffee—coffee that has been lovingly spat up in Thailand by a shaggy-haired creature. Well, at that price, I said, I suppose I can rest assured the beans were cleaned with extreme thoroughness. The barista laughed.
I watched her as she measured out the beans, ground them, and put the coffee on to brew. In a few minutes, it was ready. She poured it into a lovely white ceramic mug.
I found a table and took my first sip. Impossible. Second sip. Same experience. Then I downed the rest. I couldn’t believe it. That coffee was, I can tell you without exaggeration, the blandest I have ever drunk. Completely tasteless.
So while my adventure did not cost me the earth or take a long time, I can’t say it gave me the lift I so desired. I will not ask for a refund but I do think you should reconsider offering your customers wild civet coffee, especially at that fancy price.
And I wish you robust health.
Sincerely,
Ariadne Jensen
p.s. In fairness, I must admit I cannot speak to the pooped kind. I had only the regurgitated.
TO THE TOWER II ENGINEERING TECHNICIAN AT THE HOTEL POSEIDON FROM AJ
October 12, 2013
Dear Engineering Technician:
Allow me to introduce myself as the individual who, earlier today, placed a small load of clothing into the dryer on top of which you find this note—Dryer #1. I emptied the lint filter, put my eight quarters into the slots, selected the permanent press setting, pushed the start button. Nothing happened. I assumed the dryer’s failure to start was just a temporary thing, rather like the gap between the moment the conductor raises his baton and the moment the orchestra begins to play. However, the machine’s music never did begin. Had I made a mistake? In view of the simplicity of the model—a feature I admire, as, most of today’s appliances are too full of unnecessary options that only make the machines more susceptible to breakage—I did not think I had erred. Still, I reviewed. Lint filter emptied: check. Money properly inserted in and received by machine: check. Desired setting chosen and start button pushed: check and check.
I was prepared to give up and try Dryer #2, when a porter appeared in the hallway leading into the guest laundry room. I got his attention and he generously came to my aid. I saw from his badge that his name was Frank. I explained the situation and he had the perspicacity to do what I had not done—check the back of the machine. There he discovered a paper tag approximately the size of a business card on which was written, in small letters, the words “out of order.”
Frank said he would call the engineering department. He did so. He asked me to wait. In just a few minutes, he said, an engineering technician would come by and do whatever was required.
“But would it not make more sense for me to simply use Dryer #2?” I asked.
“Engineering will assist you,” he said. And he repeated he was sorry.
“Really, there is no need to apologize,” I said. “You’ve been nothing but helpful.”
Frank said goodbye and walked back into the hall. Because I do not like to hurt anyone’s feelings, I waited until I heard the elevator doors close, so that I could be confident Frank was on his way to his next destination. Then, I emptied the lint filter of Dryer #2, moved my load of laundry into it, placed my quarters into the slots, selected permanent press, and pushed the start button. Immediately, the dryer began to whir.
Despite what I told Frank, I actually have no intention of waiting for you, although if you do arrive here while I am writing this note (which is now turning into more of a letter), then of course I will be pleasant and will wish you well in your efforts to repair defective Dryer #1. But really, what purpose would be served by my waiting? I don’t think Frank thought the situation through quite carefully enough. I have no expertise in dryer repair and can spend my time more profitably reading in my own room, Room 253, until it is time to retrieve my clothing from Dryer #2.
Since you are expected soon and it is likely we will miss each other, I would like to share a couple of items with you. First—if I may—a word of advice. Should you not repair Dryer #1 on this afternoon’s visit, I would recommend you affix a sign to the front of the machine. The words “Out of Order” should be printed clearly in large letters, preferably with a felt-tipped pen. Until your baby gets fixed, you and I want the same thing: to spare other Poseidon guests the inconvenience and frustration of placing their clothes for drying in a machine that simply does not work. And I know Frank would want that too; indeed, I am sure he would say so if he were still here, standing stalwartly by my side in the laundry room.
The second matter is equally practical, but more delicate, as it concerns, well, money. According to the old adage, if someone says “It’s not the money; it’s the principle,” it’s the money. But that is not always so. Not when we are talking about two dollars. That is not a sum that will change my life. Still, it is a fact that after placing eight quarters in Dryer #1, I did not get what I had paid for. I hope and expect that someone representing the Hotel Poseidon will contact me before my departure tomorrow and make arrangements to reimburse me. Of course, you need not repay in quarters.
Sincerely,
Ariadne Jensen
LEO
Friendship, the highest form of love. No explanation possible. No justification required.
AJ
TO LADY GAGA FROM AJ
April 2, 2012
Dear Stefani,
I know you prefer to be called by the name you have given yourself, but perhaps, under the circumstances, you will tolerate my addressing you as your parents do. If the article I just read is accurate, I believe you had a bad day today, and I would imagine you are quite upset. If you let me, I would like to help you recover. I hope you will take comfort in leaving celebrity behind for a few moments to read a note from somebody who cares for you as she would a daughter.
As it happens, I too had a bad day. I admit with embarrassment that my clumsy ways with technology played a large part. As you can see from this letter, my preferred tools for communication are pen and paper. I do send and receive email, but with a certain degree of reluctance—it simply does not carry the same value for me as handwritten correspondence. Email messages often strike me as rushed, lacking in depth, not well thought through. In any event, this morning, I received an email from someone whose name I did not recognize, but because of a tendency to trust people, I assumed there was a valid reason this individual had chosen to contact me. The email read like this: We have important news about Lady Gaga. If you are over eighteen, click on the link below. When I did, I found a message about you that was so vile, I will not repeat it to you. Within minutes, several friends alerted me to the fact that they had received the same message, through an email that had appeared to come from me, but had not. In short, I had been hacked, and consequently played an unintentional role in spreading a lie about you. I am so sorry. I spent the remainder of the day emailing everyone I know, one person at a time, with a personal note, an apology, and an assurance that the message about you was utterly false. I explained, as best I could, that I had been an innocent, if dimwitted, accessory to the smearing of your good name, and that in fact, I hold you in the highest regard.
If only we could find the one who started the attack. I fear we never will, given the ease with which people hide their identities in the Internet universe. I must learn to be more suspicious of communication that comes my way from strangers in this age of so-called connectedness. I am furious that someone has so viciously distorted your name and image.
My friend Leo tells me I should not take the incident so much to heart. Leo, who is in his twenties, knows the online cosmos well and does his best to explain it to me. He assures me the unpleasant event had nothing to do with either you or me personally. A phisherperson with issues was attempting to spread a virus, Leo says. Anyone’s name could have been used as a lure, he says. But you and I know he has not paid enough attention to the human dimension of the problem. How would he feel if he were the one who’d been duped, as I was? Or if he had been used as the lure, as you were? And how would he feel if a malicious rumour were spreading all over the world wide web, not about you, but about him?
I would contend that through that hack, you and I were, in different ways, simultaneously hurt. And that makes me feel protective of you, dear Stefani, because I am much older than you and more accustomed to coming back from undeserved assaults. Feel free to lean a little.
Now, if I may, I will move on to discussion of the unpleasantness to which you were subjected today in your own city. If I have correctly understood the news item I just read, it seems that this afternoon, you were compelled to dismiss your choreographer, who had been loudly and widely proclaiming that she had created you, and in the image of Madonna. When a person says she has made another, she suffers from a goddess delusion. That choreographer deserves no credit for what you yourself have achieved. Moreover, you are one person and Ms Ciccone is another. Yes, you both perform in outré outfits. Many of Leo’s contemporaries do the same, yet each is an individual. If that were not so, we’d have to conclude that every person who wears jeans is made in the image of some other person in jeans. Call me old school, but as I see it, when you pay a person to do a job for you, she owes you loyalty. In dismissing that choreographer earlier today, you acted justly. Yes, the choreographer is Canadian and I am Canadian, but that does not make what she did to you okay.
So this has not been a good day for either of us. For me, it has been challenging. For you, I fear, it has been one of too many difficult days. The verbal pummelling to which you are subjected is not only undeserved; it is constant. And what inane questions people throw at you. Whether you are a she or a he-she. Whether your dress is really made of meat. Perhaps your detractors, instead of cross-examining you, should ponder on the questions you ask. Such as, why did your fan Jamey die by his own hand at fourteen? Because he was gay and spoke out for tolerance, in spite of constant harassment? In advocating for Jamey, you advocate for so many others, including Leo. And I, for one, salute you for that.
Fifty percent of the world’s population seem to understand you are an uncompromising artist and a fearless fighter for justice; regrettably, the other fifty percent are in cahoots with the ne’er-do-well who tricked me this morning (maligning you in the process) and the choreographer who treated you so badly this afternoon. As
the young people say, you do you. I am with you, and so is Leo.
What a fine young adult you have turned into, Stefani. You want the return of the super-fan, you say. I hope you consider me qualified, for I am your oldest little monster.
Sincerely,
Ariadne Jensen
TO LEO’S MOTHER FROM AJ
November 15, 2012
Dear Mrs. Ellison,
I am sorry I hung up on you yesterday. When a person shouts at me, I become rattled, sometimes to the point of what used to be called shell shock, and may actually lose the ability to talk.
Since you had three complaints and made each repeatedly, I saw no value in keeping the receiver glued to my ear. I do, however, have a strong dedication to courtesy and would at least have said goodbye if I had not temporarily lost the power of speech.
In any event, I am clear on your three points and am prepared to deal with them in turn now. If you do not mind, that is all I will do, and I do not expect a response. It would, in my opinion, be both unwise and unproductive for us to engage in ongoing correspondence.
Your first complaint is that Leo is twenty-two, while I am in my fifties and not his aunt or teacher, but rather, to use your words, “a complete stranger,” and therefore, in your view, I must be a corrupting influence on Leo.
Let me assure you, the relationship between Leo and me is platonic. Even if that were not the case, the matter would be out of your hands, since your son is of age. However, I am no predator, and if I were to choose a romantic partner, that man would be considerably closer to my age. He would also be heterosexual.
That brings me to your second complaint—that Leo apparently tends to choose my company over yours. I would invite you to hearken back to your own early twenties. Who did you prefer to spend time with—your parents or your friends?