I like to think I’m a good person most of the time: polite, well-mannered, pleasant and respectful of others.
But sometimes, I’m just not having it, where I really just don’t care if you think I’m a good person or horrible.
Standing in a torrential downpour that has soaked all the way through my jeans, shoes and socks is one of those times.
“To them I would always be that douchebag in the Renault who cut them off. That horrible driver which ruined their peaceful commute home. The person they’d get home and tell their wife about ‘you won’t believe what happened to me on the way home.’ Despised. Permanently. On the basis of that first impression. That I will never ever ever get a chance to correct.“
— “Roadrage and first impressions,” Zoewiezoe
There is no doubt in my mind that there were people standing in the taxi line outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City who went home or their hotel or wherever and talked about “some a—hole at the back of the line who dove into a cab.”
It was me. I was the a—hole. (Suzi was with me, but I’ll take the rap. It was my doing.)
I would say I’m sorry, but it’s not my fault that taxis kept driving by even as we all stood there getting soaked, and it’s definitely not my fault that after a cab finally pulled over in front of us — a cab that, by the way, I flagged down — no one else moved.
But I’m sure I made a horrible first impression, and not just on the people who yelled at us once they finally realized what was going on. All I can say to them is really … I’m a nice guy, even though I know I’ll never get a chance to prove it.
And, oh yeah, I’d do it again.