Large Fierce Mammal

INTRODUCTION

“Cracks in the Foundation” refers to the rickety parts of the societal fabric that have been under scrutiny by the ongoing investigative efforts of the LFM Home Office Of Pestilential and Legal Affairs (HOOPLA). What you will read today is the introductory backgrounder for a short series dealing with the value of human time and effort as it is seen in action rather than words, and that is in turn a subset of a larger study of cracks as we have observed them widen to the point where most can no longer be plugged even by something as magnificently huge as the ass of the elephant in the room.

Before we begin, I will put before you, Goode Reader, the following three axioms that I will posit as True:

1. In the course of a long life, the Wise Man will be prepared to abandon his luggage several times.
2. In pursuit of happiness, do not offer disrespect to anyone who will be cutting your hair or handling your food.
3. If your customers don’t complain about your prices now and then, you aren’t charging enough.

TODAY’S BROADCAST

Through most parts of my upbringing that occurred when I was old enough to understand what was going on, my Father ran Whynacht’s Radio & Television Service out of his home based workshop on Cumberland Street in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. As I’ve previously mentioned, he was a technician possessed of skills beyond compare, but soon found himself adrift in those matters of business generally described as “management”.

There are three essentials to the doing of business then and now, whether by employer or employee, proprietor or cog in the machine, in which my Father was above reproach — proficiency in his field to the highest standards of professionalism, uncompromising tenacity, and an unyielding work ethic. But there was another that had grown along with the business until it came to stand in opposition to his overt success and the widespread respect offered even by his competitors — respect and recognition weren’t enough; he wanted to be liked, and in this lay the seeds of an existential crisis.

To understand the gravity of that last point requires an explanation of how things worked back in a time when electronics were designed to be fixed when they broke rather than sent to the landfill and replaced every 18 to 24 months. Back in the last century, before the internet and streaming entertainment on demand, people listened to the radio in their car or while puttering in the workshop, and watched TV at home. The failure of either to function — but most particularly the TV if “the Missus” followed “the stories”, there were pre-school aged children to entertain in the morning with Romper Room, Mr. Dressup, Chez Helen, and The Friendly Giant while household cleaning and baking needed to be done with minimal interruptions, or “the Mister” was at risk of missing the playoffs — was a five alarm household emergency justifying a dip into the deepest pits of self-serving subterfuge. In other words, they wanted the repair of their television treated with the same sense of priority they felt it deserved, at the same time expressing shocked disdain when the same priority was expected when the bill was proferred.

Empathy, like pure oxygen, is toxic when taken to uncontrolled excess, and my Father had it in spades. He would pick up a television from the customer’s house, bring it back to his shop, diagnose and repair it using parts drawn either from stock on hand or obtained from suppliers in Halifax (60 miles away), ordered by long distance telephone call and picked up in person, and deliver it, usually in the evening when it was most convenient to the customer. My Father never left the scene without first setting up the equipment and tuning it to perfection, and only then did he present his bill. Far too often this was to the lady of the house, in the presence of the family’s eager urchins, but not her husband who was “at sea” or otherwise engaged supporting the family so he would certainly settle the bill as soon as he returned … soon. Another empty handed return and another parental argument over past due bills with our family’s name on them.

My Father saw setting firm terms of payment and enforcing them as somehow an admission of poverty rather than what it was — setting a value for your service and expecting accounts to be settled promptly for the same reason anyone else would be gainfully employed; to avoid poverty. By the time all this came to a head, I was in High School and my Mother had enjoyed a monumental lack of success both in convincing him of this, and in taking on the collection role herself. It is, I think, an indication of just how horrendous things had become that I was granted the post of family collector, which all came about because of a suggestion I offered one evening while making myself a cup of coffee as the same argument raged beside me in the kitchen flopping flaccidly in quest of a different outcome.

“Why not just take away their chance to stiff you?”

They stared at me as though I had just materialized in a cloud of pixie dust and unicorn farts with lobsters for hair.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” said my Mother.

“Maybe nobody here does,” I said, sipping my coffee, “But if it were me, they wouldn’t get their TV back until they coughed up the money.”

“How are we supposed to do that?” asked my Mother, my silent Father looking like he was ready to throw up.

I explained, and in so doing, offered to try. Hearing my idea changed my Father’s complexion that, while still unsettled, was slightly less green.

So the next time my Father had a TV ready for delivery it was me who made the call. Everybody knew me both because I had been intermittently accompanying him on house calls from early childhood, and as my physical stature grew, I was a part of any call requiring help with the heavy lifting. That conversation and those that came after it went like this, using fictional names to protect the guilty:

“Hello Mrs. Smith? This is Randy Whynacht, Lawrence Whynacht’s son, calling about your TV.”

“Oh my dear, yes! How are you? Your Father always speaks so highly of you and what a good student you are! What about my TV, is it fixed? There weren’t any serious problems I hope.”

“No, your TV is fixed and we can drop it off this evening right after supper if that works for you.”

“Oh, that would be marvelous! Yes, after supper will be wonderful.”

“Great, now I have the bill here and the total will be X dollars and x-ty two cents. I know most people like to pay in cash so I’m telling you that now so if you’re going to need change we can come equipped to make it for you.”

For some Mrs. Smiths, this was no matter and prompt payment was assured. For others, the message had been delivered loud and clear, and while her tone of voice changed, she seemed to mistake me for my Father.

“Oh my dear, I had no idea you would want to be paid so fast! My husband won’t be home from sea for another two weeks and he will certainly pay you then.”

“Well, that’s fine Mrs. Smith. We’ll keep your TV here safe and sound for up to 30 days. When your husband is home just call us again and we’ll bring it by when money isn’t an issue!”

Sometimes that news dropped on someone who was actually going to have to wait for payday and so were legitimately caught short in the face of this new COD (Cunt On Da-phone) reality.

For still others it stimulated a sudden remembrance of a clutch of cash on hand that was being kept for some other noble purpose but that she supposed she would have to delve into since we, “expected to be paid right away.”

And there were a very few who, after exhausting all the “oh dears” and “oh mys” went straight to, “Can I speak with your Father?”, and for those I had formulated a special treatment:

“Oh, I’m sorry but he’s busy repairing a TV for another customer. He’s always busy, I’m sure you understand. He does this for a living, after all!”

COD, don’t you know.

This approach was very effective, but not bulletproof in the face of those voicing acquiescence on the phone with every intention of pulling a fast one after seeing their TV safely ensconced upon its living room perch. Not so fast my darlin’! For you I’m your CAD (Cunt At Da-door)!

We pull into the driveway. My Father feigns unstrapping the TV in the back of the station wagon (nobody had vans back then) while I go to the door, bill book in hand.

Knock, knock, and Mrs. Smith comes to the door, smiling sweetly through the window as she opens it.

“Hello hello! My you are getting tall!”

“Yes I am ma’am, it’s good of you to notice.”

I bring the bill book up between us causing her eyes to drop with an accompanying change of expression.

“Now while my Father unties your TV we can deal with the bill which as I said on the phone is …”

Most often this resulted in a stern countenance on the face of a person doling out the cash as though held at gunpoint, and notwithstanding demeanour, crossing my palm with silver would bring about the desired happy ending. For those few who met the bill with any late breaking delaying excuse at all there was:

“OK, I understand. Just call us when you have the money and we’ll bring your TV back then. Meanwhile, here is your bill so you won’t forget the amount.”

I always tore the bill out of the book in a series of clearly audible short jerks, so as not to tear it don’t you know.

I will say that unlike the ones on the phone who suddenly remembered they had cash on hand after all, once it got to the door there was too much face to lose, so every one of those turnarounds went back to the shop, usually to be returned the next day accompanied by the same CAD.

THAT’S ALL FOR TODAY

Thank you for remaining awake to this point, Good Reader, and I look forward to seeing you next time.