I was driving home from work; it was late and the office parking lot was deserted, as was the residential street behind our office building. I was in that end-of-day stupor and as I drove slowly down the street behind the building my mind was pretty much blank.
That’s when I noticed a woman walking down the opposite side of the street towards me, carrying a large black cat. As I drove by, the cat clearly got spooked by my headlights and jumped out of her arms and ran away. Not missing a beat, the woman looked at me, gave me the middle finger and let loose with a series of epithets: “Fuck you, asshole,” she screamed. Since she was not holding a cat she was now free to shoot me two birds. “Goddamn you to hell,” she continued. “Asshole. Fucking goddamn asshole!”
There’s a stop sign at the end of the street where it meets Dixie Highway; there was a lot of traffic that night and I knew it would be a while before I could make my turn, and as I waited the Cat Lady was still screaming at me. I marveled both at how many angry people there are and how free they are to show it. I’m not an angry guy. Testy and exasperated, but not angry. But I am surrounded by people who are chronically angry , generally over really petty issues: like me driving on a city street. Personally, I would never yell at a stranger or blow my horn or even give anyone a dirty look; you never know how it might end these days: there are too many angry, crazy, armed people out there.
As I waited at the stop sign, I suddenly remembered the Potato Lady: I was at Publix picking out baking potatoes, and I wanted a couple of small ones for my sisters. The bin was overfilled and as I was looking, three potatoes fell onto the floor. Without thinking I bent down, picked them up and put them back on the display.
“That’s disgusting,” said the older woman next to me. Uncomprehending I just looked at her.
“Huh?” I said.
“That’s disgusting,” she repeated. “Now someone is going to eat those potatoes after they’ve been on the floor.”
“I’m sure they’ll wash them first,” I said mildly.
“But they were still on the floor. They need to be thrown out,” said Potato Lady.
“Ma’am,” I said politely. “They’re potatoes. They grow in the dirt.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said and made a beeline for the Produce Manager who was also mystified. He let her talk for way longer than I would have. “Ma’am,” he finally said politely. “They’re potatoes. They grow in dirt.”
Traffic on Dixie Highway was not letting up and, still waiting at the stop sign, I thought next of the Angry Manager. Not long ago I was at a trade show in New Orleans and the hotel, a Hilton property, was not horrible but it was not great: The room smelled musty, the sink drained slowly, the AC was noisy and it looked like there was a bloodstain on the carpet. I called the front desk to ask for a room switch and was and was told the hotel was sold out. The front desk clerk essentially said, “Live with it.” So I did.
But then after my stay I got an email from the hotel’s General Manager asking me to rate “his” hotel; I gave it two stars, which I thought was generous, and I explained why. He called me personally about an hour later; he was not pleased.
“What gives you the right to rate my property?” he asked.
“You sent me an email asking me to,” I said.
“My performance review is based on those evaluations,” he said. “Those go to Corporate.” I was silent. “And I won’t be judged by some stranger off the street,” he said.
“Umm — you just were,” I said, unkindly, which really set him off. He was getting progressively angrier and louder so I hung up on him. He called back a second later but I didn’t answer.
Now, as I was finally about to make my turn onto Dixie Highway the Cat Lady was still screaming at me. “Shouldn’t you be looking for your cat?” I said under my breath as I drove away. “She’s much braver than I am,” I thought, thinking that if I was an angry guy how very easy it would be to turn my car around and run her over.
Lucky for her I’m not an angry guy.