Ok. So I think I have a better entry tonight than, ‘Goldfinger friggin owns’. Although they do.
Anyway, I was getting on the city bus, but the entire front half was clogged with standing people. Like a heart problem. A crowd of fatty cholesterol and cancerous cells just standing around even though there are plenty of seats in the back of the artery. Fine. No problem. Who am I, a single simple white-blood cell, to make waves? I’m in no particular hurry with my oxygenous sack. I’m just going downtown and hell, this way I’m closer to the front door when we get there.
Here comes the angioplasty.
So while I am standing there, I may have nudged a lady’s bag that might have nudged her foot. And she is sitting down there in the front handicapable seats because she is like, 70. And I understand that old people have brittle bones and spidery vericose veins that make anything that touches their legs a living hell. So don’t think me insensitive when I tell this story.
But… all of a sudden, she wails at the top of her lungs, “you stepped on me!” And the crowd of immovable cattle stare at me and this little old lady. While I admit that I wasn’t paying attention to where I was standing, I would like to say that I have always been very respectful to my elders. Hell, my mother is an elder. My grandmother. Some of my favorite teachers and relatives and friends’ parents. And I couldn’t have stepped on her anyways, because our pairs of feets were separated by her bag. That’s the only thing I could have stepped on. Because those were the only things there on the floor. That’s what happens when you sit down in a chair.
But I don’t argue. You’re not supposed to backtalk your elders. I mean, she is like, 80. So I apologize even though its not my fault, hoping to at least shut her up.
Oh, no. Now she’s yelling, “You disrespectful young man, kids today with their long hair and their video games and their” whatever I had stopped listening so just imagine any ranting elderly stereotype and put it in here at your leisure.
Then she tells me that I’m disrespectful because I won’t move to the back of the bus. EVEN THOUGH she saw me try just five minutes before. Well, she’s like 90 so I let this go. I calmly explain to her that I can’t physically accomplish this, since there is a wall of people that will not move for me, and I am also not Moses. The wall of people (and I am aware that I have used three different metaphors for them so shut up) doesn’t even take offense to my talking about them like this. They just stare blankly, like walls tend to do. I make gestures and plead with my eyes and also do the throat-clearing thing to get them to move to no avail.
Now, here’s the kicker: she stares up at me, crooks a gnarled finger in my direction and shouts “You, sir, are ignorant!”
If she had called me a retard, I would have been fine with that because I know I am not retarded. I took the tests. If she had called me stupid, I would have been fine with that because I already know I am stupid. I took those tests. But she called me ignorant. They don’t have tests for that. Not internet tests. Not grade school fill in the bubbles tests with number two pencil tests. Not even those accurate tests from first grade where your friend had a hexagonal paper thing and it would fold in and out to tell you who you secretly liked or if you were a doody-head. No, there is no gauge for ignorance. And I figure, this lady is like, 100, so she would know who’s ignorant and who isn’t. She’s been around.
I mean, how do I respond to this? You can’t backtalk your elders. It’s a rule. It’s a commandment, I think. Seven or whatever. So at this point I am thinking that I have to hit her. Part of me doesn’t want to. I think they call that the superego. I clench my fists. I stammer for words. Insults, excuses, anything.
Luckily, the bus driver kicks in and tells the cattle-wall-clog to disperse. I don’t have to hit her. I can sit in the back and enjoy the ride. I don’t care what the crowd thinks. They’re combined brain power could fill a thimble (I don’t know, I just happen to have a thimble on my desk and its the first thing I thought of). I don’t care what the busdriver thinks. He may think he saved a little old lady from a punk kid. So what, he drives in a damn circle all day! Yeah, his job is real hard, only he can do it. And I certainly don’t care what the little old lady thinks. (get your rimshot ready for these)
I mean, she’s four feet tall and three of that is her hump. I’ve seen raisins that looked better than her. And anyway, she won’t remember this in five minutes when I go to get off the bus. Hell, I may step on her on purpose next time.
I guess I am sharing this, not because I want to brag about how I hate old people, because I don’t, but because I want to see if this incident makes me a horrible person. Who thinks God should strike me dead? Who thinks I should have hit her?
Until next time… what’s this address again?
Oh hey. Why is there a thimbel on my desk?