I'm Gonna Call You Out



dailypostal.com
I'm with you, Mama,
give'em hell.



I'm gonna call you out.

Yeah, you.

shutterstock.com

You, there. Sitting in the lobby chair. Wearing the Brooks Bros. suit and the shiny black shoes. Yes, you there, with the briefcase sitting on the floor.



photosa.ru
Yeah, the lobby
wasn't that big.



Oh, and your three companions, as well.  They aren't as nicely dressed as you, perhaps, but so what. I'm still gonna call them out, too.



This lobby isn't so big that you could have possibly missed me.  One asthmatic inhale would have given you a clue what shampoo I used that morning, and whether or not I was wearing perfume.  Yes, the lobby is that small.

Perhaps "lobby" isn't even the correct word. Let's try entry, which is nicely decorated with two overstuffed chairs and a table with a nice lamp sitting on it.  You and another man sat in those chairs while my son, wearing an eye patch and limping along with a cane, stood in the warmth of the entry, which measures perhaps 8 feet x 8 feet at most, while I loaded our car.

We've been at the hotel for a long time, guys. Yes, all four of you, sitting and standing there, putting on that "I don't see you" face.

For us to go home after a long week of medical treatments is a really nice thing.  It looks as though you travel guys, so maybe you know how it feels.

But here's the thing.



alohajoemagazine.com
Now, add a wheelchair
to this and you'll
get the idea.



My son, usually the best helper a person could ever ask, can't do a whole lot right now, physically. So that leaves me to literally bear the burden of loading and unloading the car.  Burdened down with a child-sized wheelchair which is laden with several bags, a very large duffel bag and a child's messenger bag containing every school book for every subject, and wearing the requisite winter gear for a 16-degree Fahrenheit day and then attempting to negotiate this 8x8 foot space and get out the door (which does not conveniently open with one of those handicapped "press here" buttons - they don't exist at this hotel) is somewhat of  a struggle.

It has not yet ceased to amaze me, gentlemen, and I use the term loosely, how you could possibly have missed me as I told my son (wearing the eye patch, and profoundly limping, with his cane) to not worry about getting the (heavy) door for me.

How could you possibly, in good conscience, have just sat there and not even pretended to see that perhaps, just perhaps, with the smallest bit of effort on your part, you could have OPENED THE FREAKING DOOR FOR ME????

But alas, no. It wasn't meant to be.  As my son politely said, "I can get that for you, mom," and I responded, "It's ok, honey," because I know he's not very steady on his feet, and he responded, "Ok, I'll just (seeing the chairs were taken) wait here for you," not one of you four men made a move to say, "Can  get that for you?"


edgesanfrancisco.com
You give'em hell, too,
mama!



You sat there like useless lumps of flesh, cologned and combed, neatly pressed like paper dolls, as if the mere thought of helping someone by holding a door would displace a hair on your well-combed heads. 

Instead, it was as if all of you were making a very studious effort to make sure you didn't meet my eyes. "If I make eye contact, I'll have to get off my dead ass and be useful," you thought. As if the mere absence of eye contact made me invisible to you.

So, once again, I reversed the child-sized wheelchair in order to get it over the hump of the door sill, stuck out my heinie to butt open the door - carefully navigating so as not to comically wedge myself in it due to the oversize duffle bag slung across my back - and proceeded to the exterior door, which. . .
was very kindly opened by a well-dressed woman, ready for the business day, smiling and waiting patiently for me to exit with my load of bags.  SHE held the door for me, while waiting to enter with a baggage cart laden with HER bags and parcels.

And I would bet she had no help either from the seated Cro-Magnons sitting in the entryway of the hotel.

I've quizzed people, informally, if this phenomena of mannerlessness is generational or cultural.  Two of the men in the lobby looked European-American -- fair-skinned and rather generic in terms of any obviously identifying ethnic characteristics.  The other two men were dark-complected and looked like they were from India, though they may have been Americans, as far as I knew.  I'd encountered them before, and was fairly certain they wouldn't make a move toward the door since they hadn't for the entire week leading up to this particular day (even though I had my hands full with child, wheelchair, tote bags for various appointments, etc).

• Am I not pretty enough to have a door held open for me?




the-american01.xanga.com
Ass-kicking woman


• Am I too red-necked, ass-kicking, American Woman (stay away from meee eeee) that men are intimidated and won't offer to hold a door open?




boysinthepink.blogspot.com
O let me serve you
Lord and Master


• Am I considered inferior, and therefore it shall always be my lot in life to be burdened like an ass (not to mention burdened by assholes who have no manners) and consider myself fortunate to even pass within the same vicinity of my superiors?
• Am I not old nor gray enough to have a door held open?

The men in the hotel lobby were not much younger than I - and I know my parents did their best to instill some manners in me.  Most of their teachings have stuck, I'd have to say, though manners really seem to be just extending common courtesies to other people whether or not you know them.




toonzone.com
I'ma gonna call you
out, beeitch!

There is a limit to my good manners, though, I'll give you advance warning.  Because after 28 days of hotel living with my child, I can tell you that there have only been two occasions when someone held the door for me.  One was a female employee who came from behind the desk to hold the exterior door (and that door is not easily visible from the front desk) and another was a male employee who held the door of the laundry facility for my son and me.
Well, men, I've reached my limit.  And the next time I'm shambling through a hotel lobby laden with bags and wheelchairs and a child with obvious physical limits and the rest of you sit there like the flies on shit that you are, I'm gonna call you out.

And I'll do it, too.