A man butts ahead of me in line at the LCBO (the liquor store, to my non-Canadian friends). Well, he doesn’t exactly butt, he is a little more subtle than that. He first pretends to be looking for a particular half-Mickey that they sell at the front counter. He then leaves the line and disappears for a few moments, only to return and repeat the same butting-like procedure as before. However, this time he stays in line ahead of me and begins fishing for his wallet. I see that he has a bottle in his hand and the Your-Getting-Screwed centre of my brain – the same centre that goes off when one of my friends takes more than his share of pizza – starts going off. My heart rate gains speed, my gut gets that sinking feeling, and the line-transgressor appears to notice.
“Sorry dude,” he says, “I was already in line with her.” He points at the girl in front of us in line.
“Isn’t that right?” He asks her, smiling.
She smiles back. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says.
They exchange a few more pleasantries, which I don’t hear because my head is a raging sea of indignation. Part of me wants to make a scene, something cool, collected but ultimately violent; something that Stephan Segal would do. But to my horror I discover a part of me – a rather large part – wants very much to believe this guy, who is now bantering with the cashier.
I can already hear your thoughts. Some of you, like my wife, are thinking “why are you making such a big deal about this?” While others are thinking, “Dude, I would have already burned down the guy’s house by now.” Which leaves me somewhere in between, in a place reserved for those who often find their indignation bridled by anxiety. I can’t help but think this is the realm of the beta male.
Funny thing is, I never thought myself as one. I’ve had my fair share of fights and confrontations. To be honest, I never thought myself as an alpha male either, because there has been many a-times in playgrounds and cafeterias and street corners where I’ve skulked away with my tale between my legs.
I’ve always considered myself someone who just does his own thing. I’ve never needed to defer to the rooster with the biggest frock and I’ve never needed a bunch of little buddies to faun over me either.
Lone wolf? Yeah, right.
Perhaps lone husky, or one of those mid-sized dogs with the red bandanna named ‘Bandit.’
But never, never in my life, would I think of myself as an anxious little Chihuahua standing in line at an LCBO.
By this time, the girl is paying for her six-pack. He is still talking to her, and I lean forward and say “well played” as if I’m giving him my blessing on his trespass; as if to say: I know you did it, but I’m going to let it go. He responds in kind by saying that he’s going to have the girl pay for his small bottle of liquor.
In the end they pay for their own liquor and leave separately. I want to shrug off the whole incident as just one of those things that one can’t make a scene over.
However, the thought lingers for the rest of the night. Lisa tells me to stop obsessing, but nevertheless, I think of recent times on the subway where my foot has been stepped on, and I think of a friend of mine who enjoys staring down other men (including police) from his car while idling at traffic lights.
Have I been listening to too much Ron Sexsmith? Have I been reading when I should have been out driving six-inch nails into two-by-fours with a framing hammer, just for the sake of it? Have I misplaced that mannish (and often childish) willingness to disturb the peace, to risk injury, for a perceived transgression?
We are told that we live in a civilized world, where we have institutions to mete out justice and provide security. But we are also told that civilization is always one generation deep. If civilization collapses I can help but worry whether I would be an Eloi, or an Eloi-eating Morlock? The fact that I know the difference between the two possibly demonstrates that I am spending a little two much time reading and not enough time outside knocking holes in things.
Eeshh. I think I either need to quit obsessing, or join a local militia.
mostly living today means ignoring courtesy which at one forgotten time meant the difference in gentlemans behavour and the unwashed. remember you can go to the zoo, just don’t get in the cages.
Rocco, I would classify you as an Omega Wolf. Not out of disdain, but simply an observation of your nature.
Dear Anon,
Errr….Keeping in mind that in posting this article, I’m inviting such remarks, I would really like to know how being called an Omega Wolf – the lowest Wolf on the rung – is not disdainful?
Disdainful? No. Omegas are not necessarily the lowest on the rung – they are often the Lone Wolves. They are Omegas when in the pack because they are not that interested in staying in one place, if it restricts their freedom.
I’ll give this a try. I think I said, sometimes these moron’s are best left to their own undoing at the hands of themselves. Usually at the hand of another moron looking to lock horns with.
In these situations I often think WWDD – What Would Dad Do? Okay, he would have kicked the guy’s ass which would have offered some satisfaction in dealing with these bullies and jerks. However, do I want to be around the type of guy who would start an altercation over such a minor incident? No. And I imagine that most people in your life wouldn’t either. Just a thought …