contagious rage

At my (former) favorite, Ankara Cafe, where the proprietor sweated and swatted customers like he was the Soup Nazi: “You know, I aim to please you, but we are so backed up, and you said low fat, and I assumed you meant vanilla, because everyone knows low fat means vanilla” — to the woman who impatiently ordered two low fat choclate reeses frozen yogurts, and then asked for her money back when she realized they were made with vanilla yogurt instead of chocolate.
On a semi-crowded bus: “You fucking bitch, you want to punch me?!?” — one woman to another, who had jostled her out of the way to get onto a bus for which we all had waited in the hot sun.
On the same bus, a man got on whom I recognized from work. He’s blind; I don’t know him, but without any basis, I’ve made up a story to myself that his disability is more than compensated by some other talent: impeccable hearing, perhaps, making him essential to production and nonetheless a valued and adored member of our office. From my vantage point, standing towards the rear, I glared at the other passengers, who did not give up one seat for him. “He’s clearly impaired,” I thought, “and none of you assholes will get up for him.” I wished I knew him, that he knew the sound of my voice, that I could greet him and shame one of my fellow passengers into giving his or her seat up for this noble man.

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