CIVIL OBEDIENCE
I heard a great story the other day at my barbershop, that time-honored venue for a good conversation and the occasional bawdy tale. Things have changed, of course, and the barbershop is now not always a stronghold for the masculine sensibility. And that can be a good thing.
The story I heard concerns my barber, an affable, intelligent, and kind-hearted man. We’ll call him Bob. Bob is a big guy who sports a pony tail and a goatee, trademarks of coolness that have never, at least as I’ve known him, gone out of style. But maybe it’s not just the style, maybe it’s the man. He’s just that cool. I’ve been going to him for years, partly because he’s very good at what he does, but also because Bob is a master raconteur.
I walked into the shop a few weeks ago; I’m bad about haircuts, so I only get there about once every two months. It was a beautiful fall day, the kind we remember but never really look forward to. Summer is the season we dream about; we anticipate it so badly, autumn gets overshadowed.
Anyway, I walked in and we exchanged pleasantries. I sat in one of the barber chairs. As Bob put the smock over me, I started going on a little about a rude person I had recently encountered. Bob shook his head.
“People are jerks,” he said. “I am so sick of the way some of them act, I’m ready to move out to the mountains or something.”
I asked him what had happened. He leaned against the counter opposite me and started the tale.
“I have a client who’s got really severe dementia. He lives across the street in that high-rise, and whenever he needs a haircut, his wife walks him over. She leaves, I cut his hair, and call her when he’s done. He’s always been a really happy, amiable guy. No problem whatsoever. His speech is pretty much gone, so he usually just sits there and smiles.”
Bob moves beside me to start working on my hair. I watch him in the mirror as he continues.
“So last week, she drops him by as usual, and leaves. I notice he’s kind of nervous, jumpy, so I start talking to him a little bit, you know, to calm his down a little, but then, boom, he’s up out of the chair and running down the street.”
Bob snaps his fingers.
“Just like that,” he says, “and I’m like, man, I gotta go get him, so I tell my partner to call the guy’s wife, and I take off running after this guy. Well, he’s already halfway down Farwell (a busy artery on that side of town) and all of a sudden, he darts out in the street and just freezes. Now cars are honking at him and swerving and people are yelling at him, and I’m trying to tell them to slow down and hang on. I get out next to him on the road and cars are whizzing by. I’m waving, trying to get people to slow down, but they’re not even looking at us. So,” he continued, “I got next to him and tried to grab him and pull him back to the sidewalk, but,” and here he raised his fist over his head, “he goes at me like this and I’m like, no way man, this guy is big, like six foot three.”
Bob falls silent and continues to cut my hair. “I couldn’t believe,” he continues, “that people are so inconsiderate and rude. They couldn’t even slow down for one second. Where are they going that’s so important?” He shakes his head.
“So I finally get him back on the sidewalk and there’s this guy standing on the corner texting somebody with his cellphone. I yell at him, ‘Hey, call 911, this guy’s endangering himself. I need help.’ The guy looks up me with this blank expression on his face and then turns his back on me. I couldn’t believe it.”
“So then,” he continues, “I’m chasing this guy up and the street, in and out of traffic. He almost got killed a couple of times, but nobody stops or even slows down. They’re just whipping by. Absolutely no consideration for anybody. So then, I chase him up past North up to Newberry. Now this was the last week in July and it was hot, in the nineties and I’m sweating like a pig. I’m tired. So this guy gets up to the island in the boulevard and lays down in the flowerbed. I’m just standing on the sidewalk, waiting. Now I’ve already been out of the shop for an hour, and I’m missing appointments, but I just can’t let this go. This guy might get killed.”
Bob keeps cutting my hair. I glance at his reflection in the mirror. He is frowning. He sighs and continues.
“So I keep trying to tell people to call 911, but nobody will do it. People are just ignoring us, treating us like we don’t exist. So, finally, after about twenty minutes, I start walking up to the flowerbed real slow, but as soon as he sees me coming, boom, he’s off and running, but at least he’s going back toward the shop. So I’m following him and we’re going right by the library. He sees himself in a mirrored window and just stops and stares and starts talking gibberish at his reflection. It’s so hot, I can barely move anymore. Anyway, he’s fixated on the reflection, so I start looking around for help. People are passing by, but nobody’s listening to me. Finally, the security guard from the library comes and I yell at him to call 911. He says, ‘Sorry, sir, but we are not authorized to do that. I need a librarian to do it.’ I can’t believe it; I ask him to get one and he goes back in. My guy is still standing there talking to his reflection. He comes out a minute later with this librarian who looks like she’s about twelve years old. She’s wearing these big glasses and carrying a cellphone. I ask her to call and she shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she says, ‘but only the head librarian is authorized to do that.’ Now I’m about ready to scream. The security guard comes over and I ask him to get a head librarian. In the meantime, this young librarian goes over to my guy and watches him for a minute. God knows why, but all of a sudden she says to this guy, ‘I have a cat named Bert.’”
He chuckles and shakes his head.
“I’m wondering what the hell she’s thinking saying that, but the guy stops, looks at her, and—I swear to God this is one of the first times I heard a coherent word come out of his mouth—he says, “Pussyc..” with a c sound on the end, like he’s trying to say pussycat, but it’s coming out pussy. So this librarian starts backing up and my guy’s following her, all the time saying ‘pussy.’ The guard joins up with us and we all get into the library. Now the head librarian comes over asks what’s happening. I tell her and ask her if she could call this guy’s wife to come get him. I give her the name and she looks it up and I ask her to call. She says she can’t. I ask her for the phone so I can call. She hands it over and I ask for the number. Then,” he pauses, shaking his head, “she says, ‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t give out that information. That was it, man, that was the last straw. I lose it. I’m yelling at her, at the security guard, everybody.”
“Well,” he continues, “she finally called and the wife came and collected him. It’s been three hours and I’ve missed some appointments, but you know, how could I let this guy run around unsupervised?”
He gives my hair a final comb and I’m done. I climb out of the chair and say, “Bob, you went above and beyond. I think most people would have let the guy go.”
Bob shrugs and smiles. “The guy was my customer, left in my care. I couldn’t desert him. I just couldn’t believe all those people who just turned their back on us, like texting their boyfriend or whatever is the most important thing in the world. It’s uncivil.”
It truly is uncivil, I thought, as I left the shop. But what Bob did was beyond being simply civil. He took care of his customer–not even a friend, but a customer. It’s what should be expected from all of us: common human decency and a willingness to connect with our neighbors, our acquaintances, and ourselves.
Thank you, Bob.