By Jim Hagarty
2016
We all carry around an image of ourselves in our heads concerning what kind of person we are. In my case, I generally think of myself as a nice guy and pretty much present myself to the world as that. I have darker thoughts about myself and my failings, but I give myself the benefit of the doubt when I go out in public.
Today, I was standing in line at the vet clinic, waiting to pick up some dog food I had on order. There was a middle-age woman at the counter in front of me, talking to the vet assistant behind it. Talking and talking. She would not quit. It wasn’t as though she was talking about the weather; I think the discussion was 100 per cent pet related. But she just wouldn’t stop. Finally, the woman behind the counter signalled for another woman to come out to the front to help me. By that point, I was getting agitated.
Finally getting served sort of cheered me up and I forgot about the gabby woman who had finally left. Forgot about her till I headed for the door. She was standing on the porch outside the clinic and she said, “Excuse me, could you give me a ride downtown? I missed my bus and I would have to wait 20 minutes for the next one.” Instantly, the thought entered my head that she could walk downtown in 15 minutes, but I reluctantly agreed to her request.
I had a car, so off the bat I was privileged, although we all make our choices. And I was heading downtown so it was not as though I was being asked to go 10 miles out of my way. Still I was aggravated at having to share the small cabin space in my tiny car with a woman I had so recently taken a dislike to.
I huffed and puffed and moved the stuff off the passenger seat so she could sit. If she knew I was upset, she didn’t show it. We talked poodles all the way downtown. My answers were short and unfriendly. Finally, she pointed to a good spot to let her out. I pulled over and she disembarked.
“Thanks,” she said. “No problem,” I replied.
But the mask had slipped a bit.
It does now and then.
I happens to the nicest of us, I guess.
