The Dangerfield Syndrome
It comes down to one thing: the fading of respect. Like the guy who stands there and says, “I just don’t need any clothes. I’m not going anywhere.” As if to say Hiltons Princeton isn’t part of “anywhere.”
I smile blankly, trying to think what to say in response. His wife bought him some pants for his birthday and here he is to pick them up wearing sweatpants, a worn tee shirt under a fleece bearing his kid’s college’s logo, and some gym-weary trainers. Is this an apology? An explanation? Or just something to say – out of awkwardness?
The need for comfort I understand; believe me. I’m sitting here as I write this, in my house at 7 AM, wearing slippers and pajama bottoms, a Derek Rose T-shirt and a “Bloomberg For President” hoodie my kids gave me. There are two important differences, however, between me and my imaginary customer. I would never go anywhere further than to the garage in this outfit – not even to the mailbox. And I think it’s impolite to tell a butcher, “I don’t want any meat, thanks. I’m a vegetarian.”
Not for you guys. I see you there, smiling from the choir stall. I know you’re reading this because you care – about how you look, about clothes. No matter where you go. Anywhere. You know what I mean. (This is an age of preaching to the converted, isn’t it? Strengthening our “position” with our “base,” talking trash about the opposition?) Please understand. I’m not dissing this guy. I’m actually sympathetic. I know he feels bad about going around like a kid in a college dorm. I am not saying it’s a contest, like Us: “Looking Good Guys” vs. Them: “Sloppy Joes.” I believe that the guy who’s trying to explain how carelessly he’s dressed is not stupid or lazy; he’s rather a victim of a nationwide, or maybe worldwide, psycho-pandemic. Let’s call it the 21st Century Blues.
Rodney Dangerfield said it: “I don’t get no respect.” Today he might add, “…and I don’t give it neither.” From bad grammar, (“Like, me and her did this or that,”) to misspelling, illegible handwriting, nasty, vulgar reviews, wearing baseball caps in restaurants, the disappearance of cooperation and compromise in government, using obscenities, even in book titles. Just “not giving a f%*k.” Maybe they think it’s modern. It’s not. Bad manners is timeless. I have a right to be comfortable! I have a right to say, “Me and him are leaving.” Who cares about spelling? My political stand is right, and that’s that! This president, or governor, or whatever is an %^$*&^! The problem is that it’s become acceptable. Normal. I’m pretty sure that in their heyday no one ever entered Langrock dressed like an out-of-work gym teacher.
Perhaps I should tell this guy, “You look like nothing matters to you.” Perhaps a more confident salesperson would say, “If you’d change your outfit your day will go better.” A clean pair of jeans, a nice shirt, maybe a cashmere sweater, some good-looking shoes. Take a look at yourself looking good. A simple cure for what ails you, emotionally. The future is up to you. It starts right now.
When I ask this guy if he’s given up on looking nice ever again at any time in the future he answers, “I’ll wait until the future gets here.” My response, I know, will sound like a pathetic sales pitch. So I don’t point out that that is not likely to happen, as the future is kind of stubborn, but I smile, hand him his pants, and say, “Have a nice day,” wishing him well for the small space of 24 hours. A bright outlook. Hope. Optimism. Cheerfulness. Keep smiling.