Independently Speaking By Brent Olson

Friction.

There is so much of it around me, and I’m trying to do what I can to reduce it, for the benefit of me and the universe.

For instance, the other day in a restaurant the young man waiting on me had a very low voice, one that blended seamlessly with the sound of the kitchen fans. When I didn’t understand what he was saying the second time, I said, “I’m sorry, but I have a little bit of a hearing problem. Can you speak up?”

He said, “My mom is deaf, too,” and then he spoke in a clear and distinct voice.

Now, my hearing is fine, or as fine as any 71-year-old who’s spent his life around loud machinery. There are a half dozen things I could have said to the young man, ranging from what I did say, to trying to profoundly humiliate him, to me being carried off in handcuffs screaming, “All I wanted was a piece of chicken with a side of ranch!”

What I said didn’t cost me anything, made him feel a tiny bit better about helping out a geezer, AND got me my piece of chicken.

Another example? At this point in my life if a young woman smiles at me it feels like a gift, like a whiff of apple blossoms when walking down a forest path. Doesn’t matter whether she’s copying my insurance information at the doctor or telling me what my root beer is going to cost at a gas station. If it feels appropriate, I’ll say, “You have a lovely smile,” and then quickly add, “You look like one of my granddaughters.”

Why do I do that? Because while I’m old enough that I’m no longer seen as dangerous, I still have the capacity to be considered creepy. Sometimes men follow, “You have a lovely smile,” with things like, “In ten years I’ll be dating you.” That’s outright creepy, which is a path I don’t want to go down, ever. But, the finest compliment I can give is, “…you look like one of my granddaughters.” Once in a while there’s a fleeting look in response that lets me know they know what a compliment that is, they know how grandfathers feel about their granddaughters.

I even extend my friction reduction to telemarketers. When someone calls on our landline it is so very seldom anyone I want to talk to, but I answer the phone. After they give me their name and launch into their spiel, I say, “Well, Bob, I never do stuff like this on the phone. But you have a good day.” And then I hang up.

Again, it doesn’t cost me anything, and if some scammer in a far away part of the world is on the other end of the line, no harm, no foul. And if the person calling me is working their third job trying to get through college, at least I haven’t made them hate their life more.

There’s so much friction around us. It’s death for machinery, leading to bad bearings and blown gaskets. It’s not good for society, either. I’m not just talking about good manners or common courtesy, although we certainly could have a conversation about those two underused skills. I just think that in most conversations there’s a way to frame your words to turn down the temperature just a bit. I’m writing this in the corner of a car dealership waiting room where I’ve been sitting for hours. My wife got a different car, and shortly after we drove it home, a warning light started to flash. It was a two-hour drive to take it to be looked at, a four-hour wait for the diagnosis, and then a two-hour drive home. The diagnosis was that they didn’t have the part needed to fix the problem. I had to go back a week later, losing another entire day. I looked at the service manager when she told me this news, took a deep breath and then said, “I think one of the biggest problems in the universe is that you so seldom get to yell at the person who deserves it. It’s not your fault the part isn’t here, but you’re the one standing in front of me.” She agreed, the dealership gave me a coupon for a free car wash, and I headed home. 

It’s a basic rule of the universe that you can’t get rid of all friction, but I’m going to keep trying to reduce it.

Copyright 2026 Brent Olson