I want people to like me. There, I said it. If that makes me a terrible person, or weak in some way, too bad.
I think most folks, if they’re honest with themselves, would admit to wanting the same thing. Nobody wants people to not like them. I’ll bet even Hitler and Saddam, in the quiet hours before dawn, sat on the edges of their beds and wondered why they didn’t have more friends, wondered how many folks they’d have to kill to make people like them.
I’m more likable than Hitler or Saddam, at least most of the time. But I ain’t exactly Mother Theresa, either. I have my bad days; I’m guessing you do, too. And on my bad days, I can be a difficult person to like. Ask any of my friends, they’ll tell you. In fact, they’d love to tell you. In detail. The Lovely Mrs. Taylor is actually writing a tell-all book about it, I think.
My “grumpy days” were never a real problem until last year, when this column began appearing in various editions of the Advance. Now, I’ve been writing this column for nearly 20 years, but mostly for small papers in Northern Michigan, where nobody knows me and I know nobody.
In Central Lake, for example, I was just a mug shot sandwiched between three columns of 10-point type. The only time I got recognized was when I was up north vacationing. While on vacation, I’m in the best of moods, a jolly fellow anxious to engage in idle pleasantries, so it’s the perfect time to meet a reader.
My grouchy days I spend for the most part within 100 miles of home, where previously, nobody was likely to I.D. me.
The Advance has put a big dent in that comfortable anonymity. See, the Advance, in its various area-specific incarnations, goes out to too many homes, too many communities.
Don’t misunderstand, I’m a long way from famous. Leonardo DiCaprio’s not staying up nights wondering why Mike Taylor’s getting all the attention. The paparazzi do not chase me through the streets of Paris. But I do get recognized on a fairly regular basis.
At the grocery or in a restaurant, someone will walk up and say, “Hey, you’re that guy who writes that column. I read that every week!”
I always answer, “So you’re the one!” I say this because I think it’s a moderately funny comment, and because I never really know what else to say. (I’m a lot cleverer in print than in person.)
Then we’ll talk for a couple minutes about a particular column or writing in general, or about bass fishing when I can nudge the conversation in that direction.
It makes me feel good that people read what I write, and I generally enjoy these encounters. The ones I don’t enjoy are those I call the “gotcha” recognitions, the “R” bombs. I had one of these this morning, which is why I’m thinking about it at the moment.
I had just spent an hour in voice mail hell with the company from whom I purchased my cell phone. Well, OK, not an hour, but at least ten minutes. OK, five. But I really hate voice mail.
My new phone wasn’t working right and after navigating through several audio robots, I landed a real, live person in tech support. Together, we pushed a lot of buttons, reprogrammed the phone twice, reinitiated the startup sequence, sacrificed a goat and applied leeches to the Bluetooth headset. The usual stuff didn’t work.
Then the tech person informed me that my phone has a “known software issue.” I don’t know who the issue is “known” by, but it wasn’t me, otherwise I wouldn’t have purchased the damn thing in the first place.
But the phone company rep said I could simply return the phone to the place I bought it, and they would exchange it for an identical phone, sans the software glitch.
“Are you sure they won’t give me any grief?” I asked.
“No, not at all,” said the tech person. “They’ll be happy to do it.”
I said OK, thanked the nice lady, and hung up.
Because I live a good 20-minute drive from the cell phone store, I called first, just to make absolutely sure they wouldn’t give me any grief about the exchange.
I got a real person on the third ring. We’ll call her Cindy, just in case she doesn’t want to see her real name (Patty) in print here and has an uncle that’s an attorney.
Cindy tried to help me out, but it turns out Cindy’s store is not an “official” dealership, but rather an independent something-or-other. Only the official stores can perform the exchange I needed.
“Well you looked like an official store when I was in there a couple months ago buying this phone,” I said, in as sarcastic a tone as I can muster, which is pretty sarcastic, lemme tell ya.
Cindy was undaunted by my crabbiness and remained positive and helpful.
“You can take the phone to a dealership in Big Rapids or Grand Rapids,” she said. “They’ll be happy to do an exchange for you there.”
Cindy also offered to order a new phone for me directly from the company and have it sent to my home. I whined, groaned and complained bitterly, but Cindy refused to sink down to my level and call me the names I know she must have been thinking of.
My belligerent grumbling was rapidly reaching an apex, when Cindy dropped the “R” bomb.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know how you hate dealing with cell phone companies. I read about it in one of your columns. I thought it was really funny.”
“Oh, uh, thanks,” I said. Cindy knew me. And now she knew that – in addition to being a funny guy – I am also a jerk.
To make matters worse, at that exact moment – and I’m not making this up – my phone suddenly started working again. Apparently, the leeches had taken a while to kick in.
I told Cindy I would appreciate it if she could have the company send me the new phone just the same. The software glitch is bound to return eventually. I thanked Cindy repeatedly for her help, hoping this might cause her to forget some of my earlier comments.
But now she knows the real me. And I don’t think she likes me anymore.
I either have to start being nicer, or go back to writing for smaller newspapers.
Addendum: Cindy called back an hour after I wrote this with the news that the company won’t be sending me another phone after all. Apparently, they don’t have any. A phone company without phones. Go figure. Still, Cindy assures me I’ll be able to exchange it at the G.R. store, but I no longer believe in Santa or the Easter Bunny. Looks like I’d better keep a supply of leeches handy.
To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or anger management seminar dates, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.
Oh heck, I doubt that either Saddam or Hitler would have been as much fun to hang with. Although I'm told that Adolf did pick a pretty mean lead.
Posted by: BT | June 23, 2007 at 08:34 PM