Adrift in the Sea of Manatees
I have tried my best over the years to refute the notion that America, under siege by laugh-track television humor and a jock mentality, is dumbing down. I argued the point once with a friend, who became so upset with my defense of what he called the Manatee Generation that he never spoke to me again. He considered the manatee the stupidest creature alive.
Recently, due to a series of circumstances, I have begun to rethink my position on the intellectual level of at least those who work at serving the public in one capacity or another. For instance, store clerks.
It began one recent evening when I stopped by a Wal-Mart to purchase some hose washers. Now, a hose washer is not an esoteric component of an orbiting satellite or the element of a microchip necessary to activate the world’s fastest computer. But when I asked the youngish man in the garden department of the store if he had any, he said, puzzled, “What’s that?”
For a moment, I thought it was my lack of articulation that had confused him. I have a tendency to mumble. Perhaps he thought I’d asked for a rose masher or a stove slasher and didn’t know what they were. Good enough. So very clearly and slowly I repeated, “Do-you-have-any-hose-washers?”
“I don’t know what that is,” he said.
“A washer. You don’t know what a washer is?” He shook his head. “It’s a little round thing you put in a hose to keep it from leaking.”
After I’d said that, it occurred to me that, given his limitations, he might not know what a hose was or what leaking meant. Wal-Mart is not famous for the existence of double PhDs among its sales personnel, but one would hope that they are at least capable of learning the basics of the departments they occupy. I left without washers, hoping that the clerk, remembering our encounter, would be sufficiently equipped to say we don’t have none the next time someone asks.
Then there’s Gelson’s. This is not a place where you run in for a six-pack of Bud. One purchases fine wines here and piquant cheeses and fruit that glows with an inner radiance. Clerks at Gelson’s will gladly carry customers in their arms to products they cannot locate
I was wandering up and down their aisles one day on a journey from my wife’s kitchen, looking for the canned white asparagus she had asked me to purchase. A clerk saw my aimless meandering and rushed over to help, combining the caring attitudes of a Boy Scout and a paramedic.
“You sure can,” I said gratefully, when he asked if he could assist me. “I’m looking for canned asparagus.”
He said, “For whaaat?”
“Asparagus,” I said, fearing once more that he hadn’t heard or understood me. I mean, this was Gelson’s, not Wal-Mart. I’m sure the clerks here are required to possess some knowledge of the store’s goods. Perhaps they are even tested before being employed: 1. What’s an apple? 2. Name two kinds of mushrooms. 3. Describe a rutabaga. 4. What’s semi-arched, yellow and a staple food for monkeys? 5. Point out a kohlrabi.
When it became clear that he had no idea what asparagus was, I attempted to describe it. After a lifetime of writing, I am accustomed to using words to depict otherwise unidentifiable objects. But attempting to convey the look of an asparagus spear isn’t easy. I was in the midst of it when he suddenly asked, “Is it a vegetable?”
“Yes! Yes it is!”
“A canned vegetable?”
I felt as though we were playing 20 questions.
“God bless you, boy, yes!”
He took me to the canned vegetables and together we found not only the asparagus, but the white asparagus my wife had ordered. I sensed in him the kind of deep satisfaction a rock climber might feel having scaled El Capitan. I thanked him profusely, knowing deep in my heart that he would never forget what asparagus was.
In a final incident during the same week, a man at a stand in a farmers market selling Greek food didn’t know what dolmas were, despite the fact that they are as popular as hot dogs throughout the Hellenistic world, and probably have been for the last 3,000 years. One might even assume that Plato and Aristophanes dined on dolmas. Euripides too, and Euclid.
I began to wonder as I left the food stand if the language were shifting beneath my feet. Words and phrases appear and disappear with the speed of a blink. Perhaps they aren’t even called hose washers anymore. Asparagus may also be known by a more colorful term. Dolmas could have been replaced on the Greek peninsula with Big Macs.
I suppose those who are altering the language look upon those of us hung up on idioms of the past as truly un-hip. But I’m learning. I’ve just figured out where one’s “booty” is located, I’m working on “blogger,” and the minute I finish this piece, I’m looking up “mojo,” and even hope to have some before the day ends.
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Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. Contact him at al.martinez@latimes.com.
