We’ve been in Hawaii for like a day when someone starts giving me crap.
Mr. Brooks, his brother and CPOS had arrived a few days before Sarah and I did, and had made the acquaintance of a guy who by Friday apparently hated them. They suspect it was because he had been bragging about how much money he had spent on charity, in one of those “Pay $XX and we’ll put a handprint with your name on our wall!” sort of deals, and in an admitted effort to show him up, Mr. Brooks paid even more to buy the rest of the them.
Whatever. At any rate, our table is enjoying our first weekend in Hawaii when the guy walks by, stops and starts sassing the Brooks brothers: “Oh, God, you again.” Then he turns on me: “Ooh, are you wearing an Abercrombie shirt? That must mean you play sports! That you’re part of a team!” and continues on his merry way.
“That was weird,” we say, and I recall an online profile I saw with the headline: If I wanted to be read, I’d go to a fortune teller. Now I know what that the author felt like. But now that our little Words With Enemies game is over, things should return to normal.
Oh, but we’re not done. I run into him again as I’m coming out of the bathroom and he’s headed in. He sneers and says, “You look like the sort of person who doesn’t wash his hands.”
I have a reputation for equanimity but I am, secretly, a bit of a hothead. I’ve learned to recognize that my first-moment instant fury is rarely appropriate and to quickly temper it with logic, rather than lashing out. This, although it appears to start off as such, is not one of those moments.
“I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced,” I say, offering my hand for a shake. “I’m Sam, and yes, they’re washed.” We shake, and then I follow up: “Here’s the deal. You don’t know me well enough to talk to me like a little [very dirty word that women in particular hate]. If you do it again, I will punch you in the [four-syllable dirty word] face.”
I didn’t have to, luckily. I’ve never been in a fight in my life, and likely would have failed spectacularly in any attempt to throw a punch. But he didn’t know that. If someone has enough fire to say something like that to you, they’re likely willing to follow up word with deed — and in this case, I think I would have been game to at least try, especially knowing that I had backup at my table a few steps away. (And by that I am referring to Sarah, not Mr. Brooks.)
I think we saw him one more night, and he probably was throwing us shade but still kept a respectful distance. Do not mess up my vacation, people.
Up next: The many ways I did NOT sprain my ankle.
|WHAT SAM WORE: 12-29-11|
|The sweater: Cotton V-neck pullover from Gap.|
|The pants: Slim straight jeans from Lucky Brand, Chandler Fashion Center.|
|The shoes: Leather slip-ons by Bacco Bucci, from Last Chance.|