The Laurel and Hardy film “Perfect Day” is a masterclass in irony. In about twenty minutes, it captures the unraveling of a well-intentioned Sunday outing. The boys and their wives are dressed and ready for a relaxing picnic. But the car won’t start. Tempers flare. A next-door neighbor gets into a petty feud with them over a minor inconvenience. And soon, the day spirals into a comic disaster. By the end, the idea of a “perfect day” is in tatters—replaced by sputtering engines, shouted insults, and the defeat of good intentions.
I couldn’t help thinking about this film recently, during a trifecta of mildly annoying but thoroughly ordinary stops around town. I was at the Gardenia Restaurant in Los Gatos, where I was told “Perfect!” by the hostess after merely confirming my reservation. Then it happened again at the Wells Fargo Bank— “Perfect!” said the teller as I handed over my debit card and entered my pin. And again, at Chase, same word, same moment: “Perfect!” after I simply endorsed a check.
Three times, in three different places, I was praised for completing what amounts to unremarkable acts. Nothing about these interactions was perfect. But the word seems to have become a default reaction to any act of basic cooperation. And somewhere around the second or third “Perfect,” I could feel frustration rising—just as Stan Laurel’s did when the car wouldn’t start for the fifth time…