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Jewish World Review Sept. 29, 2006 / Tishrei, 5767 Hurry Up and Read This . . . And stop wasting my time By Gene Weingarten
http://www.JewishWorldReview.com |
I was standing in line at the post office the other day, waiting to get a money order. At the counter, a customer was contesting the price of his postage. A cheerful discussion ensued about the cost of various options for shipping, with much tut-tutting and commiserating about how prices had gone up recently, and wasn't it a shame, and so forth. "WILL YOU STOP THIS INANE CHATTER AND GET ON WITH IT?" I blurted. Oblivious, customer and clerk finally settled on a more cost-effective method of shipping, saving the guy all of 45 cents. Only then did the customer begin to dig into his pockets, as though the thought of actually paying for this service had just occurred to him. Many pockets were involved, as well as many variations of currency, including pennies. "HEY NITWIT!" I yelled. "SOME PEOPLE ARE IN A HURRY." Finally, after the payment was proffered, and elaborately counted and re-counted, the clerk asked the customer, pleasantly, "Will you be needing any stamps today, or any other merchandise?" "GOOD IDEA!" I hollered. "MAYBE YOU CAN STILL SET THE RECORD FOR THE LONGEST COMMERCIAL TRANSACTION IN HUMAN HISTORY. MAYBE THIS CAN SURPASS THE LOUISIANA PURCHASE." As you can probably surmise, because I remain alive, the screaming was all in my head. I do this all the time. My profound impatience about small matters of everyday living is both a curse and an embarrassment. At these times I enter my own personal space, in which I become something that rhymes with "glass bowl." This is my Glass Bowl Mode. Glass Bowl Mode is wordless but, sadly, not entirely interior and private. I roll my eyes. I fidget. I take long, deep, sighs. That is why, when I finally make it to the front of the line and the anxiety ebbs, I am filled with remorse and self-loathing and become overly cordial to the point of obsequiousness. It is hell being me. In restaurants, I am always nice to the wait staff and tip generously. I like to think that is because I am a good guy who understands the thanklessness of the server's job, but I know it is also because I secretly fear the server can hear or sense the abuse roiling in my head. This abuse tends to occur at the end of the meal, if the server fails to deliver the check promptly and is nowhere to be found, sometimes for as long as five entire minutes. "HEY, DWEEBO, YOU GONNA MAKE ME BEG FOR THE PRIVILEGE OF PAYING FOR OVERCOOKED FISH?" (Do I understand that not delivering the check immediately can be a form of graciousness, since the restaurant is obviously not hurrying you out the door? Of course I do. Do I care? No. Glass Bowl Mode refuses to entertain any logic that does not fuel its rage.) I'm not sure why I am like this, since my time is no more valuable than anyone else's — and, truth be told, is often of no value at all. On the day I visited the post office, my next responsibility involved completing a crossword puzzle. Sometimes, I actually do scream aloud, but it is only when I am in my car, with the windows rolled up. Frequently this will occur when I am the third car in a line waiting at a left-turn signal. The light will change to green, but the driver at the light will not move. An interminable second or two will pass. That is not the point at which I scream. That is the point at which I honk my horn. Often when this happens, the driver directly in front of me will angrily throw up his hands, as if to say, "What do you want me to do about it?" To the practicing Glass Bowl, that is the last straw. That is when I scream: "I WANT YOU TO STOP BEING A PASSIVE JACKASS. I WANT YOU TO HONK AT THE GUY IN FRONT OF YOU SO WE CAN BOTH MAKE IT THROUGH THE LIGHT INSTEAD OF ONLY HIM AFTER HE FINALLY WAKES UP A NANOSECOND BEFORE THE LIGHT CHANGES AND BLGDGF SPRTRLFF." That last bit involves strangling on the spit and bile in my mouth. My wife believes this is a sickness, and I have to agree. If there were a cure, I would gladly enter into a 12-step program. Well, five steps. Three. Okay, one. If anyone comes up with a one-step program, sign me up.
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Gene Weingarten writes the Below the Beltway humor column for The Washington Post. To comment, please click here.
© 2006 WPWG |
Arnold Ahlert | |||||||||||
