It’s a rhetorical question, but when did people, now living in cocoons, become so nasty? The answer is the beginning of time, but living in the moment, there are several monkeys to get off my back. For example, I was waiting on line at a Bank of America inside ATM the other day in Baltimore’s Lower Charles Village—the building’s up for sale, which means another branch closed and another empty storefront—and an underworked official, in a ridiculously tight suit, tells me, gruffly, “Sir, please stand back and give the lady some privacy!” Incidental, but it stuck in my craw since I was a Pesky Pole homer away from the person navigating, poorly, the machine.
On the same day, at a Safeway two blocks away where only two checkout lanes are ever open, it was as if a blizzard was forecast for the amount of people rightfully grumbling ahead of me. This young guy, bopping away with his earbuds on, had two weeks’ worth of groceries, and as I had six items, what was at one time called “common courtesy” was out the window. Usually, that calls for a “Why don’t you jump ahead, my cart’s so full.” No dice. At least he flashed his iPhone at the hanging-by-a-thread credit card contraption, so once his bounty of organic this and that—along with three bags of Lay’s sour cream chips—was tallied, he danced away out of the store.
“Someone’s cranky,” you might ask, and that’s entirely fair. I’m not in the mood. My blood’s still boiling from a neighborhood dispute that began last Wednesday night and continued for most of Thursday. Just before midnight on Wednesday, I was idly watching an episode of Chicago PD—scoff all you want, say that’s an example of a blustery lowbrow, but I like the show—and the power went out. No flickering lights as a warning, just pitch black. It was “hawk-like” windy outside, and I figured well, that happens, and negotiated my way upstairs—after stepping outside for a goodnight smoke and cursory investigation as I heard BGE trucks making a welcome racket—which is treacherous, since my eyes are lousy, unlike my acute memory (that means you, Buster Brown from 38 years ago at the Waverly farmer’s market, trying to charge me twice for a bag of cookies I bought for a buddy’s toddler). Climbing three sets of stairs can pose problems in normal light, and inevitably I bruised my already-compromised ribs (a spill on the cement two weeks ago) knocking into a railing. Next time, that’s me in the pith helmet, on safari, wandering around the jungleland household.
Anyway, I brushed my teeth in the dark, and then hopped into bed, my wife slumbering unaware of the nuisance she’d wake up to, and our dog Billy Smith, not even six pounds, stirred and growled as if he were a guard pooch. I slept fitfully, in and out of real or imagined thoughts, and at one point I could’ve sworn I saw a light appear, and dozed off thinking all would be resolved when I arose at six.
Not the case! As rotten luck would have it, the rare-for-February mild temperatures took a powder, so the house was cold enough to freeze a makeshift Kool-Aid popsicle. My phone showed six texts from BGE, all useless, as was the call I made to a rep, who simply said, “I have no idea, dear, when an estimate of power restoration will be sent. But thank you for being a valued customer!” I read the Journal and New York Times, finished the last 40 pages of John Boyne’s haunting Water, wondered if those Biden-supporting TikTok freaks make any dough for their shilling, scrolled Twitter briefly (my phone was about dead), walked around the neighborhood to get a bead on this unwelcome situation, and then went to my office since I couldn’t work at home.
My wife called at noon with an update, and here’s where the nastiness goes full-tilt pogo. Or Skeezix, if you prefer. Turned out that a tree from the block behind us fell on the garage of a house a few doors down, disabling the power line, and both parties, despite the fact that 25 houses were affected, refused to get the tree cut down and let the rest of us (and them!), get on with our respective lives. Red lines were drawn, huffing and puffing, until a firecracker of a lady nearby let them both have it.
Permission granted, two trucks worked on the tree, which takes time, and by 7:30 that evening it was still Flashlight City at the Smith household. My wife read, I blabbed with my son in New York (having juiced the phone at the office) and was just about to don my leather jacket on top of my heavy wool cardigan, when the lights went on. It was a Hallelujah Moment for me, even as I understood that the inconvenience and re-bruised ribs was a trifle compared to other parts of the country where tornados, floods and mudslides cause real damage. But I feel like barking, and won’t apologize.
Really. When the fuck did people get so nasty?
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023