Bitch Kitty Racing

I use my glasses any time precision is required, such as high-speed driving and design work, or when I want to fully appreciate any visual image, like at a museum or during a Pixar movie. It was quite the nasty shock to discover that, after fourteen years of faithful service, my glasses had suddenly decided to leave me and go out on walkabout. They didn’t say goodbye at all. They didn’t even leave a note.

My wife, being the amazing and brilliant creature that she is, took care of all the details in finding me an optometrist, setting up the appointment, and handling all the insurance requirements for both the exam and the eyewear. We both have our strengths, but she is simply more capable in areas like these; I am more capable in areas that require imaginative uses of food, girls, and cameras.

After a four-Martini night and a three hour nap this morning (I am almost entirely nocturnal), I popped on down to the old Lenscrafters in Westlake Center, a mall here in the middle of Downtown Seattle. “Excellent,” thought I, “Express service and low prices!”

The nice young man who checked me in t the retail arm of the store was an interesting sort of customer service representative. “Mr. Moroney,” he said snarkily, “Fifteen minutes late.”

At this point in any customer service relationship, I usually just turn around and walk out. If the counter staff is going to inform me that I have a perceived shortcoming, I will simply go to a business which enjoys my eccentricities. It’s the year 2008 and this is America. Consumer choice is king. If my presence somehow offends you, I will go someplace where my presence is welcomed. I do not need your store or your service; you need my business and, more importantly, you need my goodwill. Goodwill ensures that i will come back and that I will tell my friends how wonderful you are. Without my goodwill, I wind up writing about the experience and telling THOUSANDS of people that your counter person is, in fact, an asshole.

Welcome to the Internet Age.

Back to the story: it was very early in my day—too early for me to think, in fact. I politely asked the counter person if I should reschedule; he informed me that would not be necessary. I was seated and filled out the appropriate forms, though I will admit my hackles were raised.

In the examination room, I was horrified at the posters on the walls: horrific images of all sorts of contact-related disorders and deformities. I shook it off and quickly befriended the young man performing the more routine parts of the exam. He seemed a nice sort, though after a few of my questions he admitted his complete ignorance and quickly collected all the brochures in the room to read later. I inspired someone to learn today. Wonderful!

Before I come to the climax of this story and hopefully send Lenscrafters at Westlake into the circle of Hell that embraces bigots, may I say that the optometrist was wonderful, professional, highly informative, and very personable. Everything I would ask for in a health care professional. When she dilated my eyes with stinging drops, she allowed me to explain that I had many older sisters and my flinch reflex was highly ingrained.

The problems began when it came time to pay—the store had lost all the information my wife had given them. I called her and gave the phone to the counter person, though I knew it was like asking the aliens who inspired the Aztecs to explain their methods to a cat. “Good luck with this one,” I said. As expected, the phone was back in my hands a moment later, my wife exasperated with trying to explain the details to someone who wasn’t versed in the details. She gave me the info, I passed it along.

My eyes were very dilated, and I couldn’t properly focus. I informed the nice young man at the counter that I would pick out glasses at a later time.

“That’s a good idea,” he said. “You don’t want to pick out something that looks good and then you get home and it has ‘Gay’ written on the side.”

What?!

I walked out and went to get a coffee. “Have you ever had your eyes dilated?” I asked the counter girl. “It’s like being at a rave—everything’s sparkly and interesting, but I wouldn’t want to live there.”

Twelve seconds later I was back in Lenscrafters, loudly explaining to the young man the problem with his choice of adjective. “You say ‘gay’ like it’s a bad thing,” I said. “You could substitute the word ‘Jewish’ or ‘Black.’ Do you get it?”

Of course not. His look of incomprehension and annoyance shone through his voiced apologies. I walked out in anger.

So let me make this straight for you, young sir: I have spent my entire life in the arts and in restaurants. I spent half my childhood in the Gay community. I live in the “Gay” neighborhood. You use the word “Gay” as a derogatory term; gay is bad, something not liked. You just stepped on half of the people in my life. You displayed a bigoted attitude towards my family. I am going to defend their right to exist. I would also defend your right to exist.

“This is something up with which I will not put.”—Winston Churchill

Epilog

Immediately after this writing, I called Lenscrafters at Westlake and explained the situation to the manager of the store. He extended me every courtesy, explained that the young man would be written up and given additional coaching. He asked if there was anything he could do to welcome me back to the store.

“No,” I said. “I will not be returning.”

I am not satisfied. The attitude displayed by the manager of the store indicates that it’s bad to display bigotry towards the Gay community, but not unacceptable. The fact that any firm would continue to employ someone who PUBLICLY displays that attitude is incomprehensible.

So, dear Lenscrafters, you have seven days to fix this. I would like a public apology to the LGBT community and an explanation of your policy on bigotry. I will publish it here.