By Jim Hagarty
1993
Certain indignities in life can be, more or less, absorbed into the overall ache of living in our modern world. Getting cut off by thoughtless louts in traffic, for example, while not a pleasure, is something most of us find we just have to live with. Paying an ever-increasing tax bill so politicians can feather their nests and those of their pals is also something that, barring an armed uprising, we know we may as well resign ourselves to and move on. Crawling out of bed, on a Saturday morning to stand at the front door listening to a sermon from a grinning total stranger is annoying but, on reflection, a vital aspect of our society where people can trade freely in ideas just as we do in goods and services. (Copies of this speech will be available at the back of the room following the question-and-answer period.)
But we all have our breaking points and I was reminded of mine yesterday while waiting in line for a teller at the bank. I was patiently parked behind three or four people and not in a particularly aggravated frame of mind. In fact, for a mid-week day in the mid-1990s, in mid-life and in mid-federal election campaign, I was relatively calm. But out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly spotted a man who had slipped in and feeling special, hadn’t bothered to go to the back of the line. Like a raindrop hitting hot pavement, my good mood disappeared in a flash and I fixed a steely gaze on this gutsy interloper.
“He’s just confused,” I suggested to myself, “and won’t actually cut in front of me.” But as I made it to the front of the line, he and I were positioned like Ben Johnson and Carl Lewis at the start of a big race and he glanced over at me with a look that said, “Good luck, sucker!”
Finally, came the familiar, “Can I help you?“ from the teller, and the race was on. Unfortunately, I stumbled in the starting gate and this very important man made it to the wicket in front of not only me, but several other people who had been waiting in line behind me and who were also ahead of him.
Not being a medical specialist, I’m not sure how many aortas a person has, but I’m sure I have one fewer today, having blown one out at the sight of this guy who had the nerve of 10 Don Rickles, happily doing his banking while the rest of us stood to the side like runty piglets kicked off the sow by a bigger, more aggressive littermate.
In the few more seconds it took until another teller called for me, I considered grabbing the guy, throwing him in my car, driving him out to Downie Township and administering a lesson or two on proper banking etiquette behind a big, old maple tree. But, the thought vanished as I realized I probably wasn’t up to the challenge now, what with my pumping on one fewer aorta than I had when I walked into the place.
Besides, as a Canadian, it is my lot and my nature to suffer sales taxes, election promises and drips who have all the manners of a young bullmoose in love.
(My apologies to lovesick bullmoose.)
