Recently, I was supposed to meet a guy for lunch at noon. By 12:15, I began to
fret. Did he think we were supposed to get together at 12:30? By 12:40, I figured he’d
gone to a different deli. If only I’d heeded my wife’s counsel and brought along some
reading material, I could have made a decent dent in “War and Peace.”
When I got home, I phoned the guy. He said he’d forgotten. It seems that for
some bizarre reason this fool keeps two appointment books. He’d made a notation in
one, but not the other, and of course the other was the one he’d looked at that morning.
That was bad enough, but what really floored me was his cavalier manner. Where was
the note of hysteria in his voice? Where was the stammering apology? Where, at the
very least, were the lies? It would have killed this yutz to tell me he’d rushed his wife to
the hospital or his dog to the vet because one of them had choked on a chicken bone?!
The plain truth is that people who are late think they’re entitled to be late. And
what exactly is it that makes these folks think they’re so special? Well, they must be,
mustn’t they? After all, people are always waiting for them to show up.
Better late than never? I think not.