THE PLUMBER who comes to your home to repair that leaky faucet and introduces himself as Mike, whereupon you tell him, “Hey, my name is Mike too!” He smiles and acts as though it’s an interesting coincidence. But you know what? He really doesn’t give a $#!*.
THE BRITISH BANK OFFICER who helps you change your CD term and is very friendly and somewhat chatty, so you ask her what part of England she’s from. “London,” she says, so you tell her you once lived in London, on St. John’s Wood Road, to be exact. “Really?” she responds, like she’s amused. Well, hate to tell you but, she really doesn’t give a $#!*.
THE JOCK ON THE SCHOOLYARD BASKETBALL COURT wearing a St. John’s sweatshirt, who, though he’s middle-aged, still plays well enough to have once possibly been on the team (though perhaps a bench-warmer). You tell him that you also went to St. John’s. “Oh yeah?” he responds. “Great.” Sorry to criticize one of your fellow alumni, but face it, he really doesn’t give a $#!*.
THE YOUNG WOMAN IN THE SEAT NEXT TO YOU ON THE PLANE who’s reading The Catcher in the Rye, and you can’t help but tell her that it’s one of your favorite books (like that’s so unusual) and that you’ve read it several times (also hardly unusual). She smiles and says, “Me too,” leading you to think that you and she share some sort of literary bond. Don’t want to burst your bubble but the truth is, she really doesn’t give a $#!*.
THE GUY IN THE LIQUOR STORE who you notice is buying one of your favorite Italian Montepulcianos. You tell him how much you love that wine and how someone once turned you on to it in that very store. He nods, smiles, and feigns interest, but…that’s right, he really doesn’t give a $#!*.
THE WAITER who takes your order for Chicken Kiev and you then relate a story about the first time you ate the dish and how you cut into it and splashed all the oily stuffing onto your tie. He acts as though he’s greatly amused but, sorry to say, as amusing as that story is to you, he really doesn’t give a $#!*.
THE SERVICE ADVISOR who asks for your mileage when you bring your car in for its annual maintenance, and you, after practically boasting about how low the mileage is for a car that age, go on to tell him how you make it a point to take extra good care of the automobile. He wants the mileage, period. The rest? You guessed it, he really doesn’t give a $#!*.
THE INTERNIST YOU’RE SEEING FOR THE FIRST TIME who you try to impress by telling him that you were pre-med but couldn’t afford to go to medical school after your father passed away prematurely. “Hmmm,” he murmurs, nodding and trying to appear impressed. Don’t kid yourself, he may be interested in your health, but as far as your background goes, he really doesn’t give a $#!*.
THE GOLF INSTRUCTOR who starts the lesson by asking you to hit some seven-irons, and you mishit the first two, loft the third and fourth only about two feet high, and finally get the fifth one up in the air but it only flies about seventy-five yards. You tell him you don’t understand what’s wrong today, you usually hit the seven-iron about a hundred-and-twenty-five yards. He nods politely, as though he understands, but you can tell…he really doesn’t give a $#!*.
AND THEN THERE’S THAT OLD FRIEND who you haven’t seen in years that you run into on the street, who asks you how you’re doing, and clueless you spend time telling that old friend really how you’re doing. C’mon, by now you should know – everybody knows – that old friend (now probably former friend) really, unequivocally, actually doesn’t give two$#!*s.