To the manner born

To the manner born
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published Saturday September 28, 2013

At my neighbourhood cafe, social order is upheld by the good breeding of its customers. Crass, rude, ignorant oafs are not tolerated here. Customers know to walk outside to answer their mobiles. The discourteous cop withering stares for jumping the coffee queue. We’re the bad manners police: we catch and kill our own.

Last Thursday morning, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked my friendly barista: “Where’s the baby?”

He was puzzled too. A newborn’s cry, high-pitched and grating, filled the cafe. It had the familiar staccato rhythm of all distressed babies: that frenzied pattern of hoarse barks that pains a mother’s ears and lodges in her gut. We both began scanning the tables. I couldn’t see any baby capsules tucked beside chair legs. No anxious mums were tending prams on the footpath. That newborn wailing drowned out the cafe music and stopped conversation. “Where’s it coming from?” called a middle-aged woman sitting by the wall.

“Is it coming from the kitchen?” offered two young girls in the corner. The barista left his burbling machine to check. I wandered back to my table with my tea, still casting about for the howler. The only customers who didn’t seem perturbed were a grandma and grandpa, trying to keep a toddler entertained with a biscuit and their mobile phone.

The waitress was the first to zero in on the distress cry. It was coming from the grandma’s phone: she was playing the toddler a video – presumably of the newest baby in the family.

“Excuse me” the waitress said, “but your phone is disturbing our customers. Would you mind turning it down?”

“Oh for goodness sake!” said the grandma, immediately taking offence. “It’s not loud. Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Well, it’s louder than our music and it’s upsetting our customers” the waitress replied. Could you please turn it down.”

The grandma grunted towards her husband, then scooped up her belongings. She grabbed the toddler by the hand, scraped a chair out of the way and barged out the door.

We all exchanged quizzical looks and tut-tutted over the drama. The grandma with the loud phone had been disciplined for the common good. Cafe society resumed with a round table discussion on civil niceties.  

Sometimes, even small discourtesies are infuriating. I shake my head in disbelief when drivers refuse to let me merge. I glower at people who sidle into the middle of my line at the checkout. And I’m always appalled at the rudeness of customers who expect to be served first, having arrived last. When   confronted by the arrogant or self-righteous rule-breaker, I feel compelled to mete out some small measure of punishment: a dirty look, a cutting remark. But I rarely give in to the impulse to mouth off: for some reason I don’t feel old enough.  

On a rare outing to the cinema last week, I sat behind a nerdy bloke who gave me (and everyone within a three row radius) a running commentary on the merits and lineage of Apple computers. It was a pointless exercise given we were watching the biopic about Steve Jobs. For several minutes, we listened to the boorish prattle from computer nerd, Row G, until a businessman sitting next to me clenched his teeth and delivered a loud: “Shhh!”  

Being an obnoxious kind of nerd, Row G loudmouth continued his critique until a gravelly voice from somewhere behind me exploded: “Quiet! Or I’ll have you thrown out!”  

A sea of heads swivelled on rubbernecks and several of us clapped our appreciation. One man had enforced cinema’s first commandment: Do not speak above a whisper. (Better still, do not speak.) The nerd, Row G, fell silent. Social order had been restored. 

I was a public nuisance once. Aged 21, I would drive my flatmate from Scarborough to the city, where we both worked. Running late as always, we’d hit Powis street and groan. In the right hand lane, waiting to turn onto the freeway were cars queued 100m back from the on-ramp. So I would hoon up the inside lane to the front of the queue. There, I’d stop dead, and snap on my indicator. At the slightest gap, I’d nudge my way into the turn lane and in front of whichever poor sod had been inching patiently forwards. Whooping with delight, I’d theatrically wave my thanks in my rear view mirror and speed onto the freeway. Usually, the driver behind would throw up his hands in contempt.  I would feel a moment’s guilt and then a rush of adrenalin for pulling off yet another peak hour coup.

This became a daily infraction – my girlfriend would cover her face with her hands and cringe: “I can’t look! Tell me when it’s over!” Even now I’m amazed at my rudeness. (Back then, I called it ingenuity).

As a reformed rule-breaker who’s now a stickler for manners, I’m ready to atone for my driving sins. So next time I cut you off on the freeway, I won’t be the slightest bit offended when you overtake me and shout through your window: “Moron! Are you blind?!”

Minus glasses, I am blind, but I guess that’s not what you’re driving at.