MAY 23, 2024 – (Cont.) Menard’s, Lowe’s, and Home Depot have become emporia selling everything a person needs to build a house and fill it wall-to-wall from the basement floor to the attic rafters, with all the props and fittings known to the Great American consumer. And every single item that fills one of these superstores—right down to each of the bolts I bought—is encased in plastic, wrapped in foam, and boxed in cardboard. Moreover, for every item you sent yourself to buy, a thousand more scream for your attention. Many trigger a desire or remind you of a need that wasn’t on your list. In aggregate the vast inventory reflects what dominate the American Dream: stuff and more stuff.
The Dream is yours and mine no matter who is president or which party controls Congress, provided, however, that (a) we have “plastic” with available credit, and (b) we use it. That’s the reality of the American economy.
But transcending politics and economics inside that superstore was the American character manifest in the employees I encountered. They were . . . Pierre, a person of color, manager of the pickup/delivery area, who went the extra mile to arrange for the pick-up of the shower doors I wanted to return; in the plumbing fixtures department, Jon, a tall thin patient aging white guy with a long white beard who cheerfully helped me narrow my choices to viable options and guided me to a $20 savings; Mario, Jon’s co-worker, with a quick smile and ready answer (more about him in a moment); Aisha, a young Somali woman, who ran her station with model efficiency, projecting the indubitable impression that she’ll one day soon be running a whole prosperous enterprise; Tracy, the middle-age white woman with a ready smile, who staffed the customer service counter and fetched a stamped, pre-addressed compliment form when I asked, “To whom can I send compliments about the people who helped me here today?”
And then there was Tom—the piano player who provided live music as customers wandered the aisles.
* * *
. Just two days previously, I’d had a conversation with my sister Jenny about the ultimate challenge faced by American symphony orchestras. “The problem isn’t financial,” I said. “Our society is awash in cash—just look at the popular entertainment industry and college and professional sports. The problem is that the traditional product of symphony orchestras—classical Western music—simply isn’t in sufficient demand to attract the necessary money.”
Jenny and I then discussed the lack of demand and attributed it to the absence of exposure. From the premise that res ipsa loquitur—“the thing speaks for itself”—we concluded (from our own experience of people we know) that with regular encounters with classical music from pre-school onward, as many people would eventually gravitate toward the masterworks of Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven (to mention three among many) as seek out superstars of other genres, from folk to rock to jazz to unadulterated blow-your-ears-off-noise. Examples of every-day encounters: Beethoven while we shop and Mozart while our call is put on hold.
* * *
While I waited for Pierre to enter pick-up information into the computer, what should I hear wafting through the aisles of the “building materials” section to the “pickup/delivery” desk, but the Adagio from Beethoven’s Pathetique! I. Could. Not. Believe. My. Ears.
Five minutes later I found the source of the piano music—and the pianist. By this time he’d moved on to another short piece. I waited for him to finish, then stepped up to express my appreciation for his wonderful contribution to my (positive) consumer experience. I asked about his background and learned he’d retired recently as a middle school math teacher. He loved to play the piano and heard that Menard’s was hiring. “It doesn’t pay much,” he said, “but that doesn’t matter. I needed something to do, and this suits me perfectly.”
“I’m impressed,” I said, “that Menard’s would see the value of hiring you for this purpose. I’ve never encountered this kind of class act inside Home Depot.”
Tom flashed an even bigger grin. “It’s good for business,” he said. “Just the other day a woman with a basket full of stuff told me that she’d come to the store to buy one thing, but after she heard the live piano, she decided to linger and wound up buying a whole lot more.”
* * *
Out in my car I opened the compliment form and saw that it asked for names. Of course it would! I realized that except for Pierre, who’d given me his card, I hadn’t caught the names of the other employees I’d wanted to compliment. Back into the store I went to chase down each person I wanted to compliment. I found everyone except the “tall thin guy with the white beard” in the plumbing fixtures department. I walked back and forth past the ends of the many aisles but saw no sign of him. I ventured into a back supply area and found a guy pushing inventory aboard a large cart. He asked if he could help, and I explained. “Oh, that’s Jon,” the man said, “spelled J-O-N, not J-O-H-N—you wouldn’t want to be giving kudos to the wrong Jo[h]n.”
We laughed together. Before dashing off, however, I asked, “And what’s your name?”
“Mario.”
“Mario,” I said enthusiastically, “Now I’m going to add your name to my list!”
* * *
On my short way home, I thought about my encounters with these people and what I’d gleaned from my exchanges with them. Did it matter to me whether they were Democrat or Republican? I asked myself. No, I answered. What mattered far more was that each was kind and cordial, helpful and conscientious; dedicated to their work and I had to assume, to making the world a better place.
There’s plenty about our country that’s wrong and troubling, I thought, but there’s plenty more that’s good and encouraging. Those Americans I met at Menards—Pierre, Jon, Mario, Aisha, Tracy, and Tom—they’re the America on which I’ll place my bet today, next November, and beyond.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
