Sales associates, with sugar added

I’VE noticed a scary explosion of politeness lately, and it has me a little nervous.

I say scary because I am unaccustomed to being met at the door of a business and led to the proper area of a store to find what I need.

In more familiar times, one would walk into, say, a department store unnoticed -- and possibly unwanted -- approach a clerk, now called a sales associate, and find him or her talking on a telephone. It is usually a friend, possibly a lover, they are in conversation with and they turn away slightly to indicate they are too involved to concern themselves with anything as interruptive as a customer.

You wait for a minute or so to ask a question of the person, usually a woman of the age when the glands are most active, and she, finally deciding to acknowledge you, sighs, turns to face you and says, “Yes?” somewhat impatiently while covering the mouthpiece of the phone so as not to disturb her lover.

You ask if her department, which specializes in shoes, has a certain popular brand and she points and says, “If we do, they’re over there” and turns back to her guy on the phone, who is no doubt bald, tattooed and unemployed.

That type of behavior still exists among many of the stores that employ the kinds of people who would rather be surfing, skiing or performing unspeakable acts of sexual virtuosity with close friends instead of waiting on customers. But I have noticed the emergence of, well, a Type B associate lately.

For instance, I was at a Staples the other day to purchase a battery for a cordless telephone, a need that I dreaded filling due to the esoteric nature of the item. I mean, it requires a knowledge, however minimal, of numbers and occasionally unfamiliar words that often cause the old-time kind of clerk to examine it and say, “Huh?” as though you have just handed her a dead lemur.

Instead, glory be, I was actually met at the door by a friendly, intelligent woman who gave me a basket, asked what I was seeking and led me to another woman who examined the battery I had brought in, gave me the correct replacement, lifted me off my feet and carried me to a cash register. Then she kissed me and said I was wonderful.

Well, I made up that last part, but the feeling was there. On the very same day, I had occasion to stop at a nearby Vons, where I was unable to locate something called turmeric, which was on a list my wife had given me. I thought it was an article of apparel, but the S.A. (sales associate) explained that it was a spice and led me to it.

Then I mentioned that I was seeking sourdough bread and she wanted to lead me to that too. I said no, I knew where it was, but she led me there anyhow. I felt like an old lady being forced by a Boy Scout to cross a street she had no desire to cross. I mean, I know what and where bread is, even if I didn’t know turmeric.

At a Ralphs store not too long ago, I asked an employee who was wetting down the lettuce where the asparagus was. He pointed, but when I still couldn’t find it, he said, “That’s because you weren’t paying attention.” Maybe I wasn’t, day-dreaming instead of sharing a burger with Paris Hilton while washing her car, but it was still no reason for him to reply in the manner of a gunnery sergeant with a hangover.

I am known to curse occasionally, sometimes quite loudly, but the language is more often aimed at circumstances than people. In this case, it was a muted, deadly curse not unlike the hiss of an anaconda moments before it grips its prey in a crushing embrace that cracks bones and purifies flesh before eating it. The clerk, color draining from his face, got the message, handed me a bunch of asparagus at arm’s length, apologized and disappeared. But that was yesterday.

On the day that I was treated with a degree of dignity and assistance that even included asking whether I required help carrying the jar of turmeric to my car, I came home shaken by the experience. Everyone was so damned sweet that I felt like I was drowning in maple syrup. Diabetic comas are triggered by such large doses of saccharinity.

Later, I was on the phone to a super-polite tele-associate of the Bank of America who could not fulfill an online request and was so upset by his inability to do so that I felt him on the verge of collapse. With a quiver in his voice, he said I had to appear in person at a nearby branch to do my business because they needed me to give them my Social Security number in person. I said not a chance and hung up, but then I began to worry if I had driven him to suicide or self-mutilation. I think his name was Gary.

Gary, if you’re out there, think of your mom and your little sisters and don’t do anything rash. It’s just that I’m not accustomed to politeness by a tele-banker, and I forgive you your outburst of sweetness. Hang in there, Gary. Times will get worse and you’ll feel better.

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Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He can be reached at al.martinez@latimes.com.