I don’t mean strange in a necessarily bad way, but just a bit odd. It’s the very oddness that gives the place its charm and a mini cult following, but that also translates into awkward exchanges when it comes to pleasantries.
I have no problem being polite and having a chat with my fellow humans, or animals and trees for that matter. My exchange with Moby is always a little strange. At times, I wonder if he is being polite or offering me a backhanded compliment. Other times I think he doesn’t understand my humour, or perhaps it’s my accent that throws him a curve ball.
Today, however, was a classic. I hadn’t been in for months and decided to grab one of my faves… the Fritz. It’s a near-perfect sandwich that always leaves me with a smile on my face and fulfilment in my belly. Upon entering Moby’s, I am greeted by none other than Moby himself. Hair wild and personality at full throttle. We have a bit of the usual small talk exchange, and then I ask for the Fritz. He’s like, “Sure, what’s your name again? For some reason, I keep forgetting.” At this point, I’m thinking, dude, you don’t need to feel bad for not remembering my name. I’m one of hundreds of customers, and I only pop in now and again. I proceed to say, “My name is Dan. You know, similar to one of your sandwiches called the Don. Now it’s easy for you to remember.” (Wink).
Boy oh boy was that a mistake. Somewhere in between all the small talk about the weather and how busy the town has gotten in peak holiday season, my order got lost in translation. A short while later, my name gets called out, and a delightful young lady hands me a Don… not a Fritz. A little confused, I politely state that I ordered a Fritz and not a Don, at which point she checks the order inside. Moby calls me in and says he was sure that I ordered a Don. That’s when I realised that the small talk led to the confusion, and explained that I made a bit of a dad joke about the Don spindling like Dan, and he must have thought I ordered that and not the Fritz.
I compliantly volunteered to have the Don anyway, even though I didn’t technically make the mistake. Moby told me not to worry about it, and his crew promptly made me a Fritz to go. Driving home with my perfect sanga left me feeling a bit weird. I kept second-guessing myself. Wondering if I should have just stuck to my mission and avoided small talk altogether. Maybe then I would have gotten my sandwich and avoided all the awkwardness.
I realised that small talk can often add unnecessary mental clutter that does more harm than good. Instead of getting straight to the point and achieving the goal, it can lead you down the garden path and dish up unintended results. It also got me thinking about how I don’t really like small talk and that it’s perfectly okay to be polite and direct.
The question has sat with me all day. My sandwich is all but vaporised in digestive juices, but the strange taste of the morning’s chit chat is lingering. I still have a weird feeling inside, almost like I don’t want to go back to Moby’s.
Perhaps next time I’ll order online and pick up. Problem solved. But then, where is the human interaction in that?
