Thursday, May 27, 2004
Nice Guy Finished, at Last
I have decided that I am perhaps too polite. No, not in the sense of sending lovely embossed thank-you cards to people who sell me stereo equipment or expertly wielding multiple salad forks; when it comes to that stuff, Miss Manners can quite frankly bite me. My excessive politeness is purely conversational, whether I’m struggling to let a telemarketer down gently in his 4 AM attempt to get me to order Seventeen magazine or apologizing to the woman who just rammed me with her umbrella in the train as though I have committed some crime simply by having weight and taking up space. Sure, I’m a master of passive aggression – I don’t think anyone can cram as many layers of icy disapproval into a simple “fine” – but there’s not nearly enough senseless lashing out in my life. Somebody needs to put that nose-picking Subway sandwich artist in her place, right?
Perhaps the finest example of my rudeness deficit is my relationship with Frank, Your Friendly Neighborhood Panhandler. Frank specializes in taking over cumbersome household tasks that you’ve already almost completed and demanding cash. If you’re nine-tenths of the way done clearing the snow off your car or moving a couch, Frank will be right there to pantomime some form of assistance without asking if you need it and bill you five dollars. Of course, most people just tell Frank to fuck off. Me, I made him a sandwich. Now I’m filed in Frank’s Rolodex under “Easy Target,” and he has redoubled his efforts. He once spent an entire day staked out in front of my building, causing me to craftily disguise myself Jacko-style by putting on sunglasses and a hat before sneaking out the back door, only to be spotted in my car as I returned and chased, Terminator-style, for several blocks. Trust me, Frank may not be workative, but lord is he fast.
All of which is just to say that there are times when it does not pay to be nice. I’m fairly sure I’m not going to get in touch with my inner rageaholic overnight, but if I were you I’d think twice before you cut in line ahead of me at Taco Bell.
I have decided that I am perhaps too polite. No, not in the sense of sending lovely embossed thank-you cards to people who sell me stereo equipment or expertly wielding multiple salad forks; when it comes to that stuff, Miss Manners can quite frankly bite me. My excessive politeness is purely conversational, whether I’m struggling to let a telemarketer down gently in his 4 AM attempt to get me to order Seventeen magazine or apologizing to the woman who just rammed me with her umbrella in the train as though I have committed some crime simply by having weight and taking up space. Sure, I’m a master of passive aggression – I don’t think anyone can cram as many layers of icy disapproval into a simple “fine” – but there’s not nearly enough senseless lashing out in my life. Somebody needs to put that nose-picking Subway sandwich artist in her place, right?
Perhaps the finest example of my rudeness deficit is my relationship with Frank, Your Friendly Neighborhood Panhandler. Frank specializes in taking over cumbersome household tasks that you’ve already almost completed and demanding cash. If you’re nine-tenths of the way done clearing the snow off your car or moving a couch, Frank will be right there to pantomime some form of assistance without asking if you need it and bill you five dollars. Of course, most people just tell Frank to fuck off. Me, I made him a sandwich. Now I’m filed in Frank’s Rolodex under “Easy Target,” and he has redoubled his efforts. He once spent an entire day staked out in front of my building, causing me to craftily disguise myself Jacko-style by putting on sunglasses and a hat before sneaking out the back door, only to be spotted in my car as I returned and chased, Terminator-style, for several blocks. Trust me, Frank may not be workative, but lord is he fast.
All of which is just to say that there are times when it does not pay to be nice. I’m fairly sure I’m not going to get in touch with my inner rageaholic overnight, but if I were you I’d think twice before you cut in line ahead of me at Taco Bell.
