The Complaint of Complaints About Government Of Course
THE COMPLAINT OF COMPLAINTS
Filed January 19, 2012
by David Arthur Walters
Miami Beach
“Please don’t mention my name or anything that identifies me, like the business I’m in,” said the man who complained about the conduct of a city employee for my series on South Beach public affairs.
“I will keep your identity confidential,” I promised, “but I would rather put a picture of you beside his picture at the top of the article.”
“No!” He was terrified. “No, don’t do that!”
“Forgive me. I was kidding. I will keep you confidential. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Your complaint is only one of many complaints I shall include in my series, and a small one at that. I don’t believe anyone with the city would bother you anyway.”
“You don’t know them!”
“Well, then, tell me about them.”
“Wait until you get a ticket on your car or business. You’ll see what I mean.”
“I don’t have a car or business. Did that happen to you?”
He pursed his lips, grimaced angrily, saying nothing.
“You know, many people have told me they are afraid of retaliation, but I have never found an instance of that happening,” I said.
I then remembered a private party who said a department head had threatened to deprive him of a valuable benefit if he talked to me about his department, a threat which I thought might be a felony, and a city worker did lean his head out of the window of his truck the other day and yell “bitch” at me, but that was nothing given the number of people bitching about government.
“Who would want to report it?” my informant asked. “Wait until you get your apartment trashed for complaining about trash, and then talk to me about it! If it is reported, they will deny it, and find another way to get at you again.”
“I really have trouble believing that city workers would want to do anything at all against you for complaining about bad service. This city is not run by Tamerlane.”
“Tamer what?”
“Tamerlane. If residents complained about how he ran Samarkand, he had them beheaded, and the same went for tenants of his shopping center, and he advertised his cities with mounds of human heads. Only the wise men of a small tribe were allowed to criticize him, so it is said he loved the truth. But the most that would happen here, in your case, if they did know you, is the worker would be talked to, and he would make an excuse or lie about it. It’s just another customer complaint, and they must get hundreds of them.”
“Customer, you say? Are you crazy? There is no competition left in that business.
I’m telling you, be careful with these people. You don’t know them. I’ve been doing business here for twenty-eight years. They are the worst. Everybody knows that. They do what they want. Nobody manages them the way they should be managed, and the managers are in on it.”
“What are they in on? I want to know about that.”
“Never mind. I’ve seen your stories. You had better look out, because one day someone will come up to you like this,” he said, putting a finger in my side, “pull the trigger, and walk away.”
That reminded me of the fool on the bus who loudly bragged that he was wanted by the South Beach police because he knew that a drug dealer who ratted on corrupt cops to internal affairs had been assassinated on the beach by cops who planted a water gun on him. People watch too many movies, I thought, and noticed there were fewer drug dealers on the beach lately.
“Activists around here complain all the time about public employees and officials, and nothing has happened to them. With all due respect, I think you are mistaken. Unless people speak up and complain about misconduct, there will be no improvements. He who ignores evil is good for nothing. You know, civilization is the product of complaints.”
“They are the f—king mafia! That’s my complaint, but don’t you mention my name!”
Filed January 19, 2012
by David Arthur Walters
Miami Beach
“Please don’t mention my name or anything that identifies me, like the business I’m in,” said the man who complained about the conduct of a city employee for my series on South Beach public affairs.
“I will keep your identity confidential,” I promised, “but I would rather put a picture of you beside his picture at the top of the article.”
“No!” He was terrified. “No, don’t do that!”
“Forgive me. I was kidding. I will keep you confidential. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Your complaint is only one of many complaints I shall include in my series, and a small one at that. I don’t believe anyone with the city would bother you anyway.”
“You don’t know them!”
“Well, then, tell me about them.”
“Wait until you get a ticket on your car or business. You’ll see what I mean.”
“I don’t have a car or business. Did that happen to you?”
He pursed his lips, grimaced angrily, saying nothing.
“You know, many people have told me they are afraid of retaliation, but I have never found an instance of that happening,” I said.
I then remembered a private party who said a department head had threatened to deprive him of a valuable benefit if he talked to me about his department, a threat which I thought might be a felony, and a city worker did lean his head out of the window of his truck the other day and yell “bitch” at me, but that was nothing given the number of people bitching about government.
“Who would want to report it?” my informant asked. “Wait until you get your apartment trashed for complaining about trash, and then talk to me about it! If it is reported, they will deny it, and find another way to get at you again.”
“I really have trouble believing that city workers would want to do anything at all against you for complaining about bad service. This city is not run by Tamerlane.”
“Tamer what?”
“Tamerlane. If residents complained about how he ran Samarkand, he had them beheaded, and the same went for tenants of his shopping center, and he advertised his cities with mounds of human heads. Only the wise men of a small tribe were allowed to criticize him, so it is said he loved the truth. But the most that would happen here, in your case, if they did know you, is the worker would be talked to, and he would make an excuse or lie about it. It’s just another customer complaint, and they must get hundreds of them.”
“Customer, you say? Are you crazy? There is no competition left in that business.
I’m telling you, be careful with these people. You don’t know them. I’ve been doing business here for twenty-eight years. They are the worst. Everybody knows that. They do what they want. Nobody manages them the way they should be managed, and the managers are in on it.”
“What are they in on? I want to know about that.”
“Never mind. I’ve seen your stories. You had better look out, because one day someone will come up to you like this,” he said, putting a finger in my side, “pull the trigger, and walk away.”
That reminded me of the fool on the bus who loudly bragged that he was wanted by the South Beach police because he knew that a drug dealer who ratted on corrupt cops to internal affairs had been assassinated on the beach by cops who planted a water gun on him. People watch too many movies, I thought, and noticed there were fewer drug dealers on the beach lately.
“Activists around here complain all the time about public employees and officials, and nothing has happened to them. With all due respect, I think you are mistaken. Unless people speak up and complain about misconduct, there will be no improvements. He who ignores evil is good for nothing. You know, civilization is the product of complaints.”
“They are the f—king mafia! That’s my complaint, but don’t you mention my name!”
# #
posted by David Arthur Walters | 9:41 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home