Today I fulfilled my civic duty and appeared at the Travis County Courthouse for some down-home jury selection. I was not selected to partake in today's trial, which had to do with traffic. The judge actually apologized for the case not being a zingy capital murder trial. I actually overheard the defendant say to the judge that he didn't want me--ME--to be on the jury due to my admitting that I had been in an accident similar to the one to be discussed, and since there were 20 people for 6 slots, they gave him his way and I was free to go about the rest of my day, feeling good about donating my $6 juror compensation to the charity of my choice.
I walked down to the bus stop in front of the Hideout to catch the numero cinco autobus home, slurping on an iced tea and thinking happy thoughts about how the Hideout was where I met my beloved nearly five years ago and sad thoughts about how the last time 9/11 fell on a Tuesday, it was THAT 9/11 and how I cried in the Pearl St. laundry room after I found out about it. But my private moments were halted when an asshat of monumental proportions spotted a truck fixin' to back out of one of those spots right in front of where I have been improvising for half a decade and decided that northbound Congress Avenue could suck it because he was going to get that spot no matter what.
The asshat in question was a male in his 50s or 60s commandeering a large, gold-accented Cadillac Escalade. He had overshot the optimum place to allow the truck that was backing out enough space to exit so tried to back up. There was a row of about three cars and one of those Dillo trolley vehicles right behind him, and they were not budging, but that did not deter him. Maybe I am the asshole who would have looked in the rearview mirror, ascertained that my needs and wants were not worth inconveniencing three cars and a bus, and forfeited the sweet spot for the sake of allowing fellow drivers to go on their merry way. Although gifted education taught me otherwise, I do occasionally recognize that I am just a little dot in the great big pot and that inconveniencing others and perhaps causing an accident is not worth getting a parking spot. Maybe that's just me, though.
This man in his gold-accented Escalade(1) would not defer to the social contract and good common sense and kept inching his douchemobile back and back until it was practically touching the bumper of the vehicle to its rear. Meanwhile, the guy who just wants to leave is still not being given a wide enough berth to back out properly.
I try to convey to Mr. Selfish that he needs to let it go by casting a disapproving glare at him and shaking my head no. No, man, just let it go! Cars are honking, drivers are getting frustrated, but he persists. The light turns green, then, red, then green again, and he's still blocking an entire lane of traffic as well as the guy who wants to get out in the first place. Had I been in the car trying to leave, I would have pulled back in, gotten out of my car, and walked away until the douchebag got a hint that I would not allow a selfish asshat take that spot if he was going to fuck over an entire lane of traffic just to get it.
Eventually, the cars behind him managed to change lanes and he had enough space to back up and damnit, did he get that spot. I continued to glare at him as he exited his vehicle. He looked at me sheepishly while I gave him the stink eye. It was then that I noticed that he was wearing a custom oxford shirt with his initials embroidered on the pocket. My granddad wore those. They are a clothing item usually reserved for robber barons and other captains of industry, owing to the fact that they go for around $200 a pop. I felt a little sad, but then remembered how it was that grandpa got so rich: fucking people over. This guy was also short and a little on the greezy side.
Oh, grandpa: if your spirit must visit me, could it be in the form of a bird, or the wind, or the unexplained presence of the smell of your cologne? Why does it have to be some a-hole who works my nerves??!?!? Would you have done that?? Send a bird over and tell me no. Please.
And on that note, I go back to worky-work tomorrow.
(1) Having grown up around the rich, specifically the Retarded Rich who think ownership of this type of vehicle impresses others, I was immediately stricken with feelings of hatred for this guy, for no other reason than it appeared that the Fresno Armo community called and was missing one of their douchebags.