R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

Task 13, March 28 to April 4

“There is no respect for others without humility in one’s self” Henri Amiel

I learned a little lesson this week, and I’m not too old nor too proud to admit it. It was a lesson about respect–which, according to Funk and Wagnalls dictionary (F&W is my go-to dictionary because for 30 years, whenever I ask my wife what a word means, i.e. “honey, what is ‘hegemony’?”, she’d say, with mock distain, “look it up in your Funk and Wagnalls”)...and “respect”, in that dictionary, means “have high or special regard for.

Now, there are a LOT of people that I don’t respect. I don’t respect Elon Musk. I don’t respect Bobby Bonds, I don’t respect Tiger Woods (great golfer, poor human); I don’t respect Ellen DeGeneres or Matt Gaetz, and I really don’t respect Will Smith (I’m ok with the Fresh Prince Will Smith, and the Independence Day Will Smith, and I really liked Hitch–a great romantic comedy–but I do not like the real life Will Smith and his convenient marriage that he chooses to defend by slapping (not punching–a weak move) Chris Rock, and mostly for trying to take up hip hop again (at 56) which earned him an internet-breaking mountain of derision).

And now you’re thinking: boy, Jeff is pretty strong with his opinions re: respect; and you would be right, I am strident, or I was…

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A while back a friend asked my wife and I to go out for drinks and appetizers at a lounge/restaurant in a nearby desert city. The place is called Larkspur–you can look it up. It's a fairly casual place, not too expensive and they are known for their “pour” (this is a big deal in the area where we live. A restaurant is popular–or shunned–based on the size of their “pour”, the amount of alcohol poured into a drink…) , and as an extra added attraction the Larkspur offers live music from 6-10pm on Thursday, Friday and Saturdays.

We sat out on their wide veranda, ordered our well-poured drinks and cajun shrimp and calamari appetizers and settled back to watch the band. They were very good–think Fleetwood Mac music that you could dance to–and sure enough before “Go Your Own Way” was four bars in, the dance floor was full.

And what a show! The dance floor was taken over by a sea of boomers dressed to impress and eager to demonstrate their slinky, sexy, albeit dated, dance moves; I was transfixed by their radiant stylings, which–if I squinted–brought me back to Howard’s Bar at Bowling Green State University in the spring of 1974.

After a while I started to sense that there was a social structure in play: the best dancers worked the center of the floor and ignored everyone else; the couples on the outskirts–less gifted on their feet–changed partners frequently and dashed back and forth to the bar; and both of these groups ignored the non-dancers (mostly men) who awkwardly watched the dancing from the bar while downing tumblers of gin and tonics. They were the real show and we sat on the veranda and made fun of them.

That was until I recognized a guy. His name is Tim and it took me a minute to realize that it was him because he’d obviously put a bottle of “Just For Men” to work on his hair and his shirt was as yellow as a banana and his pants looked like they had been poured onto his legs.

What the hell was he doing? Tim wears overalls! Tim cleans his own spark plugs! Tim goes to the bars that sanitation workers frequent! Tim doesn’t lean on a bar and wipe perspiration from his forehead with a cocktail napkin and adjust his pants every two minutes and act so…desperate. I have known Tim for years and had great respect for him. Did I mention that he plays slow-pitch softball at 70 years old?

In my head I unchecked the RESPECT box next to Tim’s name.

And I forgot about it. Until the other day, when I ran into Fran, a mutual friend of Tim and myself. I laughingly retold my Larkspur story to Fran, and I was delighted to abase Tim and his clothes and his sweaty desperation.

Fran listened, then said this: “Tim has had it rough. His mom passed–dementia–and he was laid off–but what really worked him over was that he couldn’t find work. He finally got a job as a Target greeter, but he slipped and fell in his shower at home…he (Tim) told me once that he regrets that he never married because…

And so on. And so on. Tim had it tough. Real tough. And I thought, “well, how was I supposed to know that?”

I couldn’t have known, but that’s beside the point. I hadn’t TRIED to find out, or even extended a simple benefit of the doubt; I didn’t want to, but I HAD to admit that I rushed to judgement, and if I didn’t admit it to myself, then I can’t respect myself, which is a hard pill to swallow.

So I am going to reach out to Tim, and maybe I’ll go back to the Larkspur with him and stand by the bar and drink gin and tonics.

I even have a yellow shirt somewhere.

TASK:

Who do you disrespect? And should you reevaluate?