Words To Yelp At: A Review

As soon as I read the words I felt the flush of heat, and I knew it had colored more than my cheeks. I knew my entire face had gone red. I was embarrassed. I was angry.

I don’t remember the circumstances surrounding the encounter between me and the customer who decided to air her dissatisfaction with it by personally attacking me on Yelp.

The truth is: I have been condescending. And I’m very aware that I can possess, at times, a tone that isn’t always the most cheerful. I own that. But I’ve also been the most helpful man in the room, the man who goes out of his way to get the customer what he wants, the man who has ‘em laughing as they walk out the door.

I’m human. I make mistakes. I have bad days. Don’t we all? But to attack someone, citing his birth defect, in the first line of a Yelp review is nothing short of vicious…and a little Trumpian.

For the record, I don’t hate myself, and I’m not miserable.

Customer service is not the easiest of industries from which to earn a living. People can be difficult. I know. I have been one of those people. Regardless of what transpired between this customer and me, I don’t believe such a nasty personal attack was necessary.

But we live in the social media age of the Trump era. We hold in our hands access to a plethora of apps from which we can post a smear about someone we don’t like on whatever platform we choose. (I myself am guilty of harsh criticism on Twitter toward political views I oppose and toward anti-LGBTQ statements.) We can post a picture of a person who pissed us off and caption it in any degrading way we like. My favorite of the social media mores is the absurd behavior of videoing a fight, an attack, an accident, yet refusing to help the person in need because for some reason the footage is more important than the human being.

I sat quietly at work for most of the day after reading my first known Yelp review. Contemplating. Stewing. This customer did not so much critique my bad customer service as point out my crossed-eye, question my gender, and note my nail polish. She viciously attacked my personal attributes and choice of expression. Was she trying to belittle me or shame me?

The more I contemplated the more I wanted take it all off...right then: the eyeshadow, the mascara, the nail polish. I wanted it gone. I wanted to not be seen. I wanted to hide in the corner. That would be the easy way. That would be me succumbing to safer more comfort-filled tropes. But then I said: No! She doesn’t get to have that much power over me. Her comments were nasty, negative, and hateful. But what can I learn from this? How am I going to react? I am strong and courageous and her opinion of what she saw when she looked at me doesn’t matter. Our transaction may not have gone the way either one of us would’ve liked, and I can learn from that. But she has to look at herself in the mirror every day and know that she lashes out with hate.

Also for the record, I regret that my interaction with this customer was unpleasant enough to make her lash out at me. Clearly I affected her day. Maybe she felt better after posting the review. Who can know? I don’t think we often stop to realize how one human interaction can affect another. An interaction I had had prior to the one I had with her could have soured me for the next few hours...or the rest of the day. And in turn, the interactions she had post me could have impacted those experiences.

Actions may speak louder than words, but words have the power to leave a lasting sting. We should choose them wisely. Of course, we would have to care about their power and their lingering effects, and many of us just...don’t. 

thoughts on Call Me By Your Name

SPOILER ALERT

“Elio, Elio, Elio…"

Sexual attraction: it can make your heart pound with excitement; it can fuck you up with cold-sweat agitation; and when you’ve got it really bad, it can do both to you at the same time. Sometimes the response from the one desire is as clear as the waters seen in the Northern Italy locales used in the film Call Me By Your Name. Other times it’s as murky as the mighty Mississippi right here in America.

I’ve seen CMBYN twice, yet I still can’t pinpoint the moment Elio fell for Oliver. Was it at first sight, at first hello, while Oliver slept off his jet lag? Was it at breakfast the next morning when Oliver fumbled the cracking of the egg shell for his soft-boiled egg? Beyond that minor question though, I struggle to remember the kind of passion--and the abandon--to which Elio and Oliver finally succumb. 

I delighted in watching the stolen glances, the brooding, Elio’s misery at wondering where Oliver was, what he was doing, who he was doing. I delighted because I recognized myself. I’ve done all of that before. I’ve waited around just for a glimpse. I’ve felt the electricity of the random brush of fingertips on naked skin by the only person I wished would touch me. God when was the last time I allowed myself to be touched like that? My delighting turned to heartache as I reflected on my current state of affairs: it’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to be that vulnerable, that naked, with another person that even the muscle memory is hard to recall.

I’ve always been attracted to, and turned on by, men. Women don’t get my sexual blood flowing in the right direction. So, watching Oliver, whom I believe skewed more straight on the sexuality spectrum, fall for Elio, whom I believe skewed more gay, was a joyous experience for me…and a heartbreaking one. I believe Elio and Oliver fell in love with each other over the course of their six weeks together. I believe that those two men fell for each other as people regardless of gender. 

I’m not sure Oliver would ever have acted upon his same-sex attraction. Maybe in the back room of some seedy 1980s bar. But what part would fear have played in that moment? I believe he had more freedom from judgment being so far removed from the prying eyes of his family and the strictures of a close-minded America (especially in 1983). He was able to experience whatever he wanted in life while he was in Italy. I believe Elio, armed with the fearlessness of youth, was dauntless in his obsession for what he wanted…Oliver.

To be able to allow oneself to enjoy a person--embrace the attraction--regardless of that person’s gender requires a personal freedom the likes of which I cannot readily identify. I’m not wired to fall in love with the person regardless of gender or sexual identity. And even if it’s simply that Elio and Oliver were bisexual, I am, again, not wired that way.

I remember my first major crush. I was smitten with him for the entire summer in which we worked together. I feel like it was crush at first sight. He was nice to me. Always friendly. He had big green eyes and a beautiful smile. I liked both. His glasses didn’t really make him geeky or nerdy. They were just there. He was so handsome. I think I found him sexy but I struggle to define what sexy meant to me back then. My heart would flutter if he was in the dining hall when I arrived, or if he randomly stood next to me for dancer warm up. I had it bad but he wasn’t into me. 

My feelings didn’t go away just because he didn’t return them. I watched as he dated one boy then another that summer. I wondered what was wrong with me? Why wasn’t I good enough, handsome enough, funny enough, sexy enough? The same old pitfalls for anyone, but especially for a gay one-year old who was still a virgin. I was a mess.

A miraculous thing happened at the end of that summer: he turned his attention toward me. I didn’t feel like sloppy seconds (or thirds in this case). I was happy…over the moon happy. Seven days and two sexual experiences. It was bliss. At least that’s how time now paints the picture in my memory.

When the summer ended we parted ways. I was devastated. Completely wrecked. There are two people who were with me during that summer who were also with me immediately after. They can attest to the moping, the long distance phone bills, the inability to hear their advice and move on. I was convinced that he would come around and join me in figuring out how we could make us work.

I was a fool.

I don’t regret what happened between us. I think ultimately it was an amazing experience for me. But I felt Elio’s heartbreak when Oliver left him on the platform at the train station. I felt it to the point that my own aching wound, healed by time and distance, began to throb. I can still see his car drive away. I can feel that heavy sadness. 

Elio and Oliver gave in to the desire they felt for one another knowing there was an expiration date. Was it truly “better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all?” Maybe…for their fleeting moment. And maybe so for mine too. 

I saw him, my first major crush, nearly 20 years later. Still handsome. His eyes still large and green. His smile the one I remembered. His face had lost its youth but not in a bad way. I was embarrassed to stand in front of him. I felt all he could see was the boy who had obsessed over him those many years ago. And I felt like that boy who had obsessed. Ours was not exactly an Elio and Oliver love story. I doubt if he looked upon our summer as days wasted, or regretted it like Elio and Oliver regretted the wasted days of their summer together.

Upon reflection, I realize that as my summer drew to an end it was probably that looming expiration date that allowed me our moment at all.

“Oliver, Oliver, Oliver…”