2001-01-07 :: 03:16:38

Captain Planet saves Xando from the likes of me

Soundtrack: The Interpreters, Back in the U.S.S.A.

[ New format for album titles: italics. ]

Mike and I are officially two for two in the weird experiences at Xando category. I, as I always do, had taken a paper towel to open the bathroom door and absentmindedly let it fall to the floor when I exited, as I (and most neurotically clean people) often do. I will admit here and now that it isn't the nicest habit, making the workers pick up the junk on the floor.¹ I tip well, so that balances out the karma scales, I figure. Well, I'm standing at the free postcard booth picking a few out and this fucking thirtysomething comes out from the men's room door right behind me and slams down the offending crumpled towel on the payphone next to me, triumphantly beaming, and with his paper gavel now descended he announces, "You left this on the floor."² He's so proud of himself, it's sad, but I don't see this, I am immediately infuriated with his patronizing me. My second father, younger, balder, Waspier, he has come to unnecessarily wipe my social ass, thanks so very much.

I say, "Okay." I say it in that sarcastic, fuck off tone of voice that you perfect in your teenage years. It's not a very good comeback.

"Yeah," he says to me, very forcefully, his eyes emphasizing that his justice has been meted out, how dare I do such a horrible thing.³ How dare I.

The discharge is now rocketing out in full force from my adrenal medulla; my hands are shaking as I select the final postcards. It is a rare thing for me to feel such shockingly total anger, I want to smack him, grab him by the lapels, remove his eyes, put his head under the milk steamer. To make him understand that I am a good kid, a law abiding citizen -- a good person. I am someone he has no right to judge like that. How dare he, I am thinking. He has returned to the standing area where some more of his fellow single, aging men are putting their coats on, telling them of his great, world-bettering act. What fantastic stones he's got, they're threatening to fall out of his pants, they're so heavy.

Frustrated, I take the towel off the phone -- I'm not going to leave it there -- and throw it out, all the while fantasizing about dusting his face with it as I walk by.⁴ Instead, I quickly conjure up a brief little one-liner to toss his way as I cross his path back to my table. All I can think of is emphasizing the stupidity of his would-be paternal instincts.

He is looking at me, his lips turned up in self-satisfaction, a locker-room bully who has yet to evolve. The adrenaline is making me shake more, it's mixing with the caffeine in my bloodstream and swishing up to my brain, making my nervous system fire at full throttle. He is waiting for my approach. Doesn't anybody see this man standing in the middle of the floor, this carbuncle begging to be lanced? This man who has to right my minute wrong with such drama and smugness, who must ask for full-fat foam on his skim soy no-whip latte, is anybody noticing what a fucker he is?

Of course not. Everyone, they're too busy being dressed in black and sipping mixed coffee drinks.

I begin walking and he's staring me down, a cowboy of the wild eastern seaboard, a pasty Captain Planet. I approach and fire my mediocre sarcasm missile: "Thanks, Dad." He says something but I can't make it out, maybe he couldn't make me out, maybe I fired too early. So as I pass, in my exasperation, I clap him on the back twice,⁵ as if my hand will somehow transmit into his self-concept the portrait of an asshole I've mentally painted. As if.

When I return to the table I am furious, and I'm furious that I am furious. It's so atypical for me to be this angry, but he's stirred my pot for some reason. It's not as if this guy is in a service position, waiting tables here, someone who has a vested interest in the trash situation at this particular Xando, or at any eating establishment. This guy, he's a factory-ready slice of the middle-management pie, far away from any part of this equation. As I recount the story to Mike, incredulous, I realize how silly it sounds. A paper towel, and I'm shaking. The cocktail recipe consists of him surprising me from behind, his arrogant tone and the content of what he said,⁶ the fact that he was probably ready to personally deliver the towel to my table, the fact that he knows nothing about me, that he's just assigning me to some ridiculous "ungrateful youth" demographic,⁷ and my frustration with this bothering me so much to begin with -- all of this is swirling around and around. If it was a drink on the menu here, it would have a cute name like The Poisonous Spiral.⁸ People would feel hip ordering it.

As he and his posse come to exit, he leads the way. He is Wyatt Earp, and the law has been protected, don't you forget it. We stare at each other as he passes by, my inaction feeling like a failure, and then he's gone. As his friends pass through, I say to Mike, "That was him." Mike humors me. It's not his fight.

We talk about whatever we were talking about before, and I eat my carrot cake with my disposable fork, and then a few minutes later, I realize I am still incredibly irked. There had to be about a thousand better comebacks I could have blinded him with as I passed by besides "Thanks, Dad," or I could have made up for that with a smart one fired off just as he left, disemboweling him upon exit. I could have neutralized him with a Patriot missile just as he was coming to the door, embarrassing him in front of the beautiful hostess, and then Mike and I would laugh, maybe eat some Mentos, the hostess winking approval at our crazy kid antics. But he walked out unscathed, cocksure, and I was still wasting energy and time on him, trying to shoot the scene again so that I end up the one with my arms raised, resigning myself to recapturing my pride by casting the lost moments in words.

---

¹���Though, in my defense, the trashcan was overflowing at this point, and I wasn't going to push it down.

²���It could have just been "You left this," or an emphatic "You forgot this," but whatever it was, the message was the same.

³���As before, I am equally unsure of just what he said, but I doubt the content exceeding that of what I quoted. It was more of the how he said this second remark, so clearly proud of his non-accomplishment, that got to me.

⁴���It's at this point that I notice he has pressed the trash in, covering his trenchcoat in the microbes I've been fantasizing about rubbing all over him, but somehow this beautiful irony doesn't strike me until later.

⁵���An arguably moronic thing to do, as I wouldn't have been surprised to find out that he was ready to make a citizen's arrest, or to press assault charges. Because someone has got to learn me my lesson!

⁶���However muddled it was in my memory.

⁷���And, of course, the bothersome fact that I am assigning him to the "judgemental self-righteous prick" category in return. (I self-righteously console myself with the fact that I have more damning evidence.)

⁸���You could add ice cream to it and have a Poisonous Spiral Screamer.