What Matters

Two of our three kids and I went to the movies last night. Miss Middle was at a sleepover and my girlfriend was hosting this thing called Bunco, so we needed something to do for a couple of hours while the ladies, well, bunc-ed.

Anyway, we went to see Bedtime Stories with Adam Sandler and that ever handsome Keri Russell. I recommend it. It's not Gran Torino or anything, but it's a good story with some laughs and a few tears, reasons I go to the movies in the first place.

As we exited the theater to walk down the long hall toward the lobby, I noticed a couple in front of us; no, make that I noticed a man in front of us: hair nicely coiffed, long wool carcoat, polished Allen-Edmonds or some such nonsense. He was chatting with the lady who held his hand; she was holding his, not vice-versa - can you see it? I don't know how else to say it, other than the man gave off the air of importance. I immediately hoped some hyper kid would turn around and run into his groin or spill his Icee on his slippers.

As we walked through the lobby toward the front doors to the night air, he and his compadre were still directly in front of us. My youngest daughter was about a step ahead of me, walking and turning back to tell me her favorite parts of the movie. As Mr. Importance walked through the first set of doors, he didn't hold it open for the person behind him, in this case, my six-year old little girl. The Dad radar kicked in and I jumped ahead to catch the heavy glass door. The same thing happened as this man opened the final door. He didn't look back or hold the door open for those behind him.

Now, maybe this guy had just witnessed Defiance and was so engrossed in reflection that he was just, well, engrossed. Or maybe he'd just weathered Benjamin Button and was exhausted to the point of non-awareness of anything around him. And yes, dear reader, I am very aware of my own prejudices in this; namely, it's like a burr under my saddle when folks emit the vibe that they're Jesus H. Christ and their poop doesn't stink like the rest of ours. But to not hold the door open for the person behind you? Especially when the chances are good to great that the person just might be all of six years old and not yet adept at handling heavy glass doors? Heavens to mergatroyd.

The regulars here at The Dirty Shame uphold certain standards, like holding the door open for the person behind you. We even advocate men holding the door open for ladies. We say please and thank you; we also say dammit quite often, but it's never gratuitous. We drive slowly in neighborhoods because they're full of neighbors, whether we know 'em or not. We believe that at the end of the day, all that matters is how you treated folks, especially those smaller and less coiffed than yourself.

About halfway home, my youngest said thanks, Dad, for taking us to the movies. I loved it! And I said you are welcome, my dear.

This is a tough old world, full of heavy glass doors and all. Be sweet to folks.

You know, maybe nobody ever told that guy a bedtime story. That's no excuse, but it might be a reason.