“Nothing personal, I’m sure he has his issues, but doesn’t he seem like a guy who can ruin a good chill?"
Shlomo Bass had long ago learned to read voices. His father wasn’t much for warmth or encouragement, but he was always honest. Pinchas Bass would often make phone calls on speaker, and he liked to point out the phony cheeriness of customer service professionals with their, “Hi, this is Jennifer, how can I help you today?” Pinchas Bass would shake his head and tell his young son that such fake politeness was destructive and the reason you couldn’t trust other people.
He would wave the colorful flyer that came from the dentist that said, “Mr. PINCHAS BASS, we miss seeing you at Better Bite.”
“Do you think they miss me? Or is it my credit card?” Pinchas would hold the flyer like it was a rotten fruit before gingerly dropping it into the garbage.
In Israel, he liked to point out, the receptionists didn’t bother with pleasant greetings — but they cared about you like family.
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