Complaining

I was standing in the lobby of the Performing Arts Center. I’d been assigned to a volunteer post for exactly one hour. On the surface it seemed like a simple job. All I had to do was say two words. I could say them simultaneously or separately at my discretion, and a big smile would be a nice touch, but not required. If I wanted to hold the door open for the incoming patrons, the organizers thought I was a superstar. I simply had to repeat the same two words over and over: Hello. Welcome. That’s it. I tried to vary the tone and pitch a bit to make it more interesting, but there really wasn’t much material to work with.

At the end of the hour, I’d stop smiling, stop talking, collect my free ticket and go watch the show.


So it came as a bit of a surprise when people began to ask questions. Questions like “Where is the restroom?” and “Where can I buy a ticket?” I wasn't trained for these difficult problems. I wasn't trained at all. I was a volunteer. Hello. Welcome. That’s all I’ve got.

But I tried hard to be helpful, directing the questioners to more knowledgeable volunteers and staff. And for the most part it worked out fine, all of us generally in a happy mood, since the entire audience had obtained heavily discounted tickets at this opening night performance. In a few short moments we would all enjoy a visit from Peter Pan and a flight to Neverland. What’s not to like?

Apparently even in the presence of fairy dust and happy thoughts, things can get ugly. A woman yelled at me because I didn’t know the answer to her question. Here we were, standing in this beautiful facility, with a majestic curving staircase, plush crimson carpeting, and a crystal chandelier casting gentle light in the summer dusk, and this woman yelled at me. In her opinion, I wasn’t a helpful volunteer; I was a useless person who had no business being here.

I studied her face carefully, trying to detect some justification for her unreasonable wrath or, alternatively, some reason to feel sorry for her. I found none. In fact, with her long stringy gray hair, and a protruding, knobby chin that sprouted two or three spiky hairs in need of tweezing, all wrapped up in a dark robe-like linen jacket, she reminded me of an off-duty Wicked Witch of the West. Maybe she’d been expecting to see the Wizard of Oz.

It got me to thinking about how often we complain. We complain about big things, little things, silly things, and sometimes things we won’t even remember an hour from now, let alone at the end of a lifetime. How often do we complain even though we are so overwhelming fortunate? How often had I done the same thing?

After settling the cranky woman with a capable staff member, I went back to my post, resolving to leave her unkind words behind. Hello. Welcome. Smile.

After all, it was such a lovely night, what did I have to complain about?