Oh Dave! Now

Dollar Rental Car needs to change its name, to something like Dollars Unlimited. Eric and I just got back from a jam-packed visit with family and friends, and we had rented a car to get around Minneapolis, Minnesota and for a side trip to Madison, Wisconsin. When Eric made the car reservation, the quoted price on Travelocity for a week’s rental was $168.72. The online receipt says “We’re sorry, but the price breakdown is not available at this time. Your total price is guaranteed.”  Further down under “Instructions and Policies” it mentions that there may be charges for optional services and fees. That’s an understatement. Our final cost for the car rental was $335.75, a difference of $167.03, almost exactly double our “guaranteed price.” The breakdown for a really crappy Kia Optima is absurd though typical:

Weekly rental                                               109.31
GPS (part of original quote)                          59.95
Add’l Driver (we requested) ($9.99/day)      59.94
Frequent Flyer Surcharge—we weren’t
    getting credit for any miles ($1.50/day)      8.00
Customer Facility Charge—making us
    pay for the facility at which our car is
    not taking up space while we’re
    renting it? ($3.25/day)                               19.50
Energy Recovery Fee ($0.45/day)                   2.70
APCONRECFEE (??) (10%)                        23.99
State Tax (7.275%)                                        20.62
Vehicle License Fee—can we at least
    get a personalized plate at this
    price? (5%)                                                 14.17
Rental Tax (6.20%)                                        17.57

The young pretty customer service representative was personable and chatty as she processed our rental, hiding the fact that she was the instrument of fiscal deception. At the head of a long line, we quickly signed off on the agreement and collected our car, not looking at the charges until we were in the garage.

We travel enough to expect to pay extras—such as $23 to check one bag on Delta—but when hidden charges double the quoted price, it is difficult to budget. This is a situation where “too much information” is not only acceptable but preferred. My brother, who travels more frequently, said our total was typical for a week’s rental. Nonetheless, this standard practice of drawing in customers with an attractive bargain or base price, and then once they’re in the door, slapping on new charges is a little white lie that makes me see red.  If we had complained, they might have given us a break even though they were probably covered by the fine print.

The sticker shock got me thinking about secrets both business and personal. In personal relations, however, you can’t demand to speak to a manager if you’re not satisfied with an interaction or suspect someone isn’t being completely upfront. Out of respect for their privacy, we don’t usually confront someone if we think they’re lying about alleged drug use, cosmetic surgery, or sudden weight loss. Conversely, if someone puts all their personal cards on the table, you can just deal with it, support them, say “TMI”, or leave the room.

Throughout our recent trip Eric and I were guests, welcomed into other people’s homes and lives, and I was aware that the border between what’s public or private information was constantly shifting. The Facebook controversy over privacy settings was fresh in my mind so I was noticing offline when people were guarding their privacy or respecting mine. I define “private” as that which we choose not to reveal, that which remains unspoken but isn’t completely hidden from view. Eric and I are fairly private people—my Facebook settings are conservative, more so than a lot of my friends.

I want to demonstrate how I experienced this issue in real situations on our vacation without blowing the cover of our hosts. Perhaps the safest approach is to give them the same level of privacy that they maintain in their lives. I consider myself sensitive to being able to accurately witness and interpret the subtext in Shakespeare and personal relations. Sometimes it could be my imagination. But then, as we drove along two-lane county highways in Wisconsin through green rolling hills and farmland, I was reminded of my training. On family road trips I entertained myself with what I call the “drive-by invasion of privacy” game. On long stretches of unfamiliar roads and passing through small towns, I would peer out the window and focus on spotting secret activities. In rural areas I tried to spot animals that were lurking in the trees and bushes. In inhabited areas, I liked to catch people in yards and gas stations in the act of arguing, kissing, falling off their bike, or, like the animals, lurking in the trees and bushes. I’d shout out to my fellow passengers what I had seen but usually it was too late for them to see it for themselves.

When I’m visiting with family and friends in their homes, I don’t deliberately play this game of seeing past the surface and extracting the underlying, private details. In fact, we tried to be good guests and discreetly keep private things private, whether it’s our stuff or our hosts’. Adhering to these “privacy settings,” I give a selective shout-out of what I saw.

The Good Guest

In Minneapolis, we stayed with my older brother and his wife who had recently become empty nesters. (I used to stay at my dad’s house, but the Minneapolis leg of our trip was primarily to attend the 2^nd annual family golf tournament and barbeque in memory of my dad, an avid golfer who passed away two years ago.) The guest room at my brother’s house was well-appointed, and we had our own bathroom.  Because of this I spread my toiletries across the counter, even my…Rogaine. Cat’s out of the bag now…my older brother is the only male in my family with a full head of hair, an unspoken point of sibling rivalry. I didn’t want him to know of my efforts to grow more hair because I’ll never grow enough to top him. But it wasn’t likely he’d be using our bathroom so I didn’t keep the Rogaine hidden—when I do, I sometimes forget to use it.

Of our bathrooms at home, only one has a fan, but in newer homes like my brother’s, every bathroom has a fan. White noise gets on my nerves so I use bathroom fans sparingly, but when our hosts were home, I always turned the fan on to mask any disturbing noises I might make. Eric and I both worried if the walls were thick enough—if we turn on the bathroom fan or flush the toilet in the middle of the night, will it disturb our hosts? Eric’s snoring kept me awake—I wondered if they could hear it across the hall through two sets of closed doors? I was too tired in the mornings to ask my brother.

Near the end of the trip, it unexpectedly came to light over pizza that my brother won’t be an empty nester for very long. It’s an unfortunate turn of events for several reasons which are none of your or my business so I’ll keep the details private. Though our hosts were embarrassed that their private business was exposed, I was flattered that they trusted us enough to discuss the issues with us. I felt like a part of their nuclear family for a few moments instead of the far-flung extended family member I am.

Silenced by a Glass Too Full

My younger brother has been going through a lot this past year and has admirably weathered it. He stopped drinking, changed his diet, committed to an exercise regime, and lost over 40 pounds. He’s become a poster boy for good health at his job. I’m jealous of his glass-half-full attitude, an attitude I’ve attempted to emulate but I keep getting wet when the glass spills. Over the phone he’s been very open and positive about his impending divorce and preparations to sell their house. We were sad to hear about the divorce as we’ve enjoyed many visits and outings with him and my sister-in-law over the 16 years of their marriage as well as watching their kids grow up. Eric and I had planned to have lunch with him, his young adult son and daughter, and my older sister at Three Squares restaurant, a local spot whose name reminded me of an inmate’s rationalization of jail as free room-and-board, i.e., “three squares and a cot.”

We drove over to my brother’s to hang out for awhile before lunch. I looked forward to having private time to offer him support and counsel. As we approached the house, we were surprised, pleasantly, to see him in the living room window holding his smiling nine-month-old granddaughter, whom we had yet to meet.  She is really cute with a great personality. Instead of simply hanging out, we sat on the living room floor and played with the infant who was taking her first steps—she gleefully stumbled over to Eric’s hands but avoided me, perhaps because of my beard. It turned out that my brother’s soon-to-be-ex-wife had the day off too, and she and her 21-year-old daughter from her first marriage were sorting through boxes of children’s books, apparently in preparation to sell the house. I resisted the urge to inquire, and frankly was hesitant to discuss any of what was going on, afraid I would get too emotional.

At the restaurant we had a very filling meal and a fun visit catching up with my sister and my niece and nephew. To keep his personal and professional lives separate, my nephew has an alter ego called DJ Three a Day and just finished self-producing a slick CD of rhythm tracks. My niece/goddaughter is looking into attending school for fashion design in a West Coast city very near Eric and me but we didn’t talk about that at lunch—or during the short trip—and I can’t talk about it here either. There is much to coordinate in private first. Besides, talking about it too much might jinx it.

After lunch, Eric, my brother and I went to the Dollar Store to get prizes for the family golf tournament. We split up to scour the merchandise—at one point I heard a loud fart in the next aisle and called out to my brother, “I heard that.” He came around the end and replied with a grin, “You weren’t supposed to—I thought if I snuck off I could relieve some of the pressure from lunch.” In brotherly confidence, I admitted I had done the same once I had the aisle to myself. We finished our shopping, and unlike our rental car, the items really were a dollar each and a few were perfect, golf-related prizes.

Letting a lot, but not all, hang out

On Friday night, we were invited to celebrate our friend T’s 51^st birthday in downtown St. Paul. Even though the celebration was in mostly public places, there was a lot of openness about personal issues. T wasn’t being coy about his age since a few weeks earlier he had learned that he had gone into remission after several months of chemotherapy. T and his male partner W had gathered eight of their friends for happy hour at a gay bar, dinner at a restaurant next door, and home-made cupcakes at a nearby condo. It was a joyous, in-the-moment celebration.

We were a half hour late due to rush hour traffic so the rest of our party had a head start on drinks. Their friends, strangers to us except for one, welcomed us warmly into the celebration. T and W made a point of moving down to our end of the table so they could visit with us, the out-of-towners. They talked some about the challenges and emotions they had gone through, but with an “it’s-behind-us-now” candor and relief. Then W casually pointed out the sexual orientation of their eight friends: there were two straight single women, a straight couple, a single straight man, a single gay man, and a gay couple. Counting T and J and Eric and me, there were 7 gays, 5 straights. From our end of the table, the straight man in the couple looked like he could be gay; he had such a cute, boyish face. As the night progressed and I saw him stand (6’6” maybe?) and walk and interact, he was more obviously straight.

T showed us a photo on his phone from another party when one of the women had flashed her cleavage. That prompted her to do a live re-enactment in mock sensuality. After dinner, another of T’s friends, who reminded me of the blonde comedian, Amy Poehler, from Saturday Night Live, was having us over for the cupcakes at her condo a few blocks away. Throughout the night, “cupcakes” became the cue for all of the women in our group to press up and show their cleavage—and what lovely cleavage it was. Late in the evening, dollars bills came out and found their way into the cleavage, particularly when “Cocoa” arrived at the condo. “Cocoa,” a term of endearment but not her real name, was a full-figured, demure black woman who went around the room and greeted each guest with a warm hug and a friendly kiss on the lips. What could I do but enjoy it?

Before all that, we had dinner next door to the bar at Sawatdee, a Thai restaurant that had prepared a long table for us. “Amy” was a marketing consultant for malls, etc. and apparently knew the restaurant’s owner, a gay Asian man, perhaps as a client. They treated us like royalty, plying T with several complimentary birthday drinks, and encouraging our raucous behavior. “Amy” divvied up the bill per our separate orders and it was the least expensive group dinner I’d ever attended—I wondered if she had gotten a deal from the owner but it wouldn’t have been polite to ask. The meal ended with the entire restaurant staff passing around vodka lemonade shots to our table and singing “Happy Birthday” to T. I’m getting teary remembering it.

At “Amy’s” gorgeous condo we lounged around and ate the most delicious, moist chocolate cupcakes I’ve ever had. After a long day, I was fairly quiet and mostly observed, not making a lot of effort to interact with the others or assert my personality. Eric and I hugged and kissed T and W frequently. We said our farewells to “Amy” and “Cocoa”. I made a point to hug T and W’s friend J, one half of the gay couple, whom I had sat across from at dinner. I thought he had a beautiful, perfect face that was enhanced by his completely bald head. When I hugged him I whispered privately, “I enjoyed looking at you across the table.” He beamed as we separated and I turned away. Eric and I went out the door and left the revelers behind. I figured that I would probably never see J again.

TO BE CONTINUED