There’s a certain unspoken contract when you’re a regular at a hangout. You show up. You’re polite, and you tip well. You don’t ask for favors but it’s nice when someone goes out of their way for you because you are a regular. You don’t make anyone’s job harder than it needs to be. You sit quietly with your coffee, maybe a notebook and a phone, maybe just your thoughts. You blend into the background like a piece of furniture that happens to order refills.
Which is why it always catches me off guard when a server wanders over and treats me like the human version of Google, Shazam, Spotify Premium, and a universal remote rolled into one. “Who is this?” “What song is this?” “Can you Shazam it?”
Let’s pause right there.
First of all, I’m sitting here quietly having a coffee. I’m not DJ’ing. I’m not curating the playlist and I didn’t ask for a pop quiz. I’m not leaning back in my chair nodding along like some kind of resident music expert. I’m just sitting here with my thoughts and jotting down a few things.
Second, it’s not even busy. Which means you absolutely have time to do what you’re asking me to do. You have a phone. You have Shazam. In fact, I’m confident your phone can handle identifying a three-minute song playing through ceiling speakers.
Third – and this is where expectations really need to be managed – I don’t know who 90 percent of the artists are who made it big in the last 25 years. I missed the boat. It sailed without me. Yes, I have heard of Taylor Swift, Bruno Mars, and Jelly Roll, but I’ve never listened to a full song by any of them. Somewhere between the late ’90s and the streaming era, popular music became a parallel universe I visit accidentally while waiting for a refill. If the song came out after flip phones died, there’s a strong chance I’ve never heard of the artist, and an even stronger chance I don’t care enough to find out.
So when you ask, “Who is this?” and I shrug, that’s not me being mysterious. That’s me being honest. Then there’s the follow-up request. “Can you skip the ads?” No, I cannot.
For one thing, skipping ads is literally part of the job description. That’s like asking a customer to run food or bus a table because the place is busy. Also, I’m not paying attention. I’ve tuned the music out entirely. It exists as ambient noise: like clinking mugs or the espresso machine hissing in the background.
And even if I were paying attention, I have no idea how your setup works. There are four remotes sitting there. Four.
Each one looks like it controls either the TV, the sound system, the satellite feed, or possibly a time machine. I don’t know which is which. I don’t know which one skips ads, which one changes inputs, or which one accidentally shuts everything off and requires a manager override. Yet somehow, I’m expected to know.
This is where the universal remote conversation needs to happen. Preferably before involving me. Because once you ask me to fix the music, identify the song, skip the ads, and troubleshoot the electronics, we’ve crossed a line. I’ve gone from “regular customer” to “unpaid consultant.” And I did not bring my consulting rates with me today and you probably couldn’t afford them anyway.
There’s also something subtly exhausting about being asked questions you didn’t volunteer to answer. It breaks the bubble. The whole point of sitting alone in a familiar place is the invisibility. The comfort of not being “on.” When you ask me to Shazam something, I’m suddenly responsible for your curiosity, your boredom, and your lack of initiative. And I don’t want that responsibility. I just want my coffee.
So here’s a gentle, unspoken rule suggestion: if you’re working, and you’re curious about the music, use the tools already in your pocket. If there are ads, skip them yourself. If the remotes are confusing, that’s a system problem, not a customer problem.
And if you see a regular sitting quietly, staring into space, maybe let them stay in their zone until they need a refill. They didn’t come in to be tech support. They came in to disappear for a while.
johnberkovich.com 