Ordinary People

As a pre-emptive misanthrope, I often feel disconnected from the world around me. I generally focus on my differences in comparison to the Average American. The other day, however, I inadvertently played the role of Average American, and from that perspective, saw a thin, slimy veneer of weirdness on the people I encountered. This foray into averageness took place when I ran errands to the bank, post office, and library. I don't know what fairy sprinkled June Cleaver dust on me when I was taking my afternoon nap, but there I was, performing duties as quintessentially American as a hate crime.

I stopped at the post office, feeling somewhat despondent that, in my new role as average American, I could not despairingly revel in my anomie. My despondency was exacerbated by the contents of my parcel, a black leather bustier. This naughty little spark could have made me feel better about my dry and typical duties, but in the end, it only felt like fodder for a Penthouse letter. I finally reached the front of the post office queue, which was very sensibly being serviced by only two employees at the peak of Christmas mailing season. The clerk, a man of about 65 named Marshall, asked me if I wanted to send my package priority mail, but I declined and stated that regular first-class shipment would be fine. He shook his head a little and raised his eyebrows disapprovingly, as though he was implying that the recipient would know that I was cheap. This didn't really bother me, as the recipient, who wanted the black leather bustier, is cheap in her own special way. Marshall's overall countenance convinced me that I shouldn't take his disapprobation personally, as he also seemed a little upset that I did not want to buy stamps, phone cards, or a commemorative Veterans of Foreign Wars special-edition-stamp keychain. Either he was falling short of an upselling quota or he was disappointed that he couldn't get anyone to purchase that something special for the family philatelist.

Package mailed, funds deposited at ATM just in time not to become overdrawn, and library book dropped off several days past due, I began to trudge home in the bluster and snow. At a busy intersection, a professional-looking man of about 50, who was holding a briefcase, exited the bus. We waited for a brief time for the light to change. We had not acknowledged each other, as strangers at crosswalks rarely do. But when the "walk" light started to flash, he looked at me and ordered in a commanding voice, "Okay, honey, let's go." I looked around to see if he had a daughter or some other companion with him who he would refer to in an affectionate diminutive, but I was the only other person there. As he gestured towards the intersection with a jerk of his head, I scurried across to get away from him as fast as I could. He headed into the Eckerd drugstore across the way.

I have been the target of many schizophrenic and otherwise freaky musings, including a speech that began with faux-poetry about raindrop-bearing teeth and ended in a fevered listing of prominent U.S. colleges and universities. When someone says odd things to me, I generally could have expected it in the first place, just because of their appearance, odor, or general vibe. Odd people do not startle me, and I sort of regard them as sociological kin. This incident was unexpected, however, as I am usually not ordered around by well-groomed men at the bus stop. Well, I was once, but that was only because I had worn a misguidedly skimpy outfit to a dance club. The "honey" guy looked like the father of an honor roll student, not someone who makes unexpected commands, and I began to wonder if perhaps pieces of her were contained in that briefcase. I imagined that he planned to stop in the drugstore for chloroform and razor blades and wanted me to come along so he could try them out. I am glad that I thwarted his plans. I am also glad that I occupied the position of Average American for a little while, as my demeanor of normalcy forced the otherwise hidden weirdness of others to stand out in startling relief. It was a good little lesson.

We now return to our scheduled misanthropy.

*special thanks to Patti Ecker for being a source and an object of humor*