Currently Idle

Quien es el muy macho?

July 22, 2006 on 2:05 pm | In Whatever | by Mr. Fidget | 2 Comments

I had an experience yesterday that left me simultaneously a bit shaken, a bit regretful, a bit proud, and a bit confused. I’m not one overly concerned with being real tough, or macho, or the alpha male, or the big dog, or any other description or cliché for the biggest dick in the room. I’m just fairly comfortable with who I am on the manliness scale.

So comfortable, perhaps, that until I just wrote that, I’m not sure I realized that there was a manliness scale. I would imagine such a scale might have, say, Richard Simmons at one end and, oh, who, John Wayne at the other end? I don’t like that. I don’t know Richard Simmons, and I shan’t sit here and assail his masculinity; and I didn’t know John Wayne, but the little that I do know, he was neither my type of guy nor any icon of definition of masculinity. So I neither worry about being a man—or “the man”—or what or who else may be so, either.

I was running a little late to work yesterday. Once every ten weeks our supervisor asks us to be the first guy in the office, at 9 AM. It’s a testament to the blessed nature of my job that getting my ass to the office by 9 AM still unerringly causes me to run late. It is also hopefully a testament to the seriousness with which I take the luxury of rolling in whenever I want the other nine weeks that I motor when it’s my week in the barrel.

So I was on a straightaway piece of road and I got stuck behind a septic tank truck. I had a dashed yellow line, and though the septic truck was moving okay, not overly slow, I had to get a little gas—just a few gallons to get me to work, not even planning to waste the time to fill up—so I swang around the septic tank truck, as there was no oncoming traffic, and passed him in the left lane and then swang back in front of him.

Before I even got back in our lane he blew his horn at me, and I was struck by how some people get so offended when you pass them. I had caused him no danger nor cut him off, but hey, some people are just grumpy assholes. I kept a good eye on my rearview to make sure that he wasn’t the type of guy that wanted to escalate things and start riding my bumper, and I enjoyed an interview with Sebastian Junger on the radio.

I pulled into the gas station about five minutes later, thinking that the septic tank trucker had not made a turn I had made, and began to get my gas. In a moment that can only be described as suddenly, a man was stalking across the gas station lot, from where he had parked his septic tank truck, and he was staring hard at me.

“You know, you drive like an asshole!” he shouted.

He continued walking towards the convenience store of the gas station and I stared hard at him.

“You should know from assholes, motherfucker. I’m not taking driving advice from a guy who drives a shit truck,” I yelled back at him. That stopped him and he cut and turned towards me.

I stopped pumping my gas and stepped towards the front of my car, at which point he saw what I knew he would see: I was wearing heavy work pants, a t-shirt, hiking boots, and my t-shirt was untucked but for the right hand side, which was tucked between the butt of my handgun and my body, lest it dig into my side all day. This half-t-shirt tuck allows the gun to ride clearly visible, along with the shiny gold badge on my waist.

His eyes caught the gun and the badge and he slowed down. I put my hand on my gun and unsnapped the holster and looked at him expectantly.

“You want some of this, you little bitch? You wanna get down with me, motherfucker?” I asked him.

He sneered at me and cursed me out again.

“Fuck you, just cause you’re a cop, think you can drive like an asshole.”

“Turn around and go inside, little man. Go inside the store, you little shit truck driver,” I instructed him.

“Fuck you,” he said again and turned and went into the convenience store.

I continued to gas my vehicle, collected my receipt for the office accounts envelope, and returned to my Sebastian Junger interview.

* * * * *

Okay, I’m sorry. Part of that story isn’t true. I didn’t curse back at the man, and I didn’t repeatedly call him a shit truck driver. The story was true up to this part:

“You know, you drive like an asshole!” he shouted.

He continued walking towards the convenience store of the gas station and I stared hard at him.

Now, this is the truth: I continued staring at him as he walked to the store and he kept staring back at me, and when he got to a certain distance and angle, he saw the gun and badge on my waist, which were indeed exposed well before I got out of the car, because the gun really does dig into my side without a t-shirt buffer.

“You a cop?” he yelled.

I just continued staring at him, giving what I now think was a barely perceptible nod.

“You a cop?” he yelled again. I still didn’t answer, just stared back at him. “Well good, cause I’m gonna get your license plates and make some calls!” With that he went into the convenience store.

Now, I was running late, and I only needed ten bucks worth of gas, but now I couldn’t leave without a full tank. I didn’t want to encourage further conflict with this guy, but nor could I be sure in my self that I wasn’t leaving with only a few gallons just for expediency; I might worry to myself that I was leaving to avoid the angry driver, and I would not allow myself to to do that.

I filled up the tank and saw him pointing me out to the owner of the convenience store. He walked out as I was finishing with the gas and he yelled at me again.

“You from New Amsterdam? You from New Amsterdam?” he yelled, which is the local state police barracks, for whom I do not work. I think I smiled, though I might have had a blank look, and gave again what I self-perceive as a nearly imperceptible movement, this time a head shake “no.”

I got in my ride and pulled away. I slowed as I passed the side of his truck and rolled down my window, thinking I might say something rude, but I didn’t. I drove off to work, second guessing myself.

* * * * *

As I drove to work, I meditated on what it means to be a man, to be tough, to be strong, to fight back, to stand up, to yell “go fuck yourself, motherfucker!” back at someone.

I wondered if I had handled it incorrectly. Most of my colleagues would have engaged him, and without resorting to finger-fucking their guns for emphasis as I did in my fictionalized version. Most guys I know—correct that, most guys I work with—would have gotten right back in this guy’s face, armed or unarmed. That doesn’t make it right, but my daily culture would have certainly understood a “fuck you” back.

I thought of an older agent I used to work with, one of the more belligerent guys, a man brazenly willing to tell anyone to fuck off at any time, without regard for rank, supervision, or anything at all. He had a gas station incident a few years ago where a young punk yelled at him and they squared off face to face, until the young guy actually tapped him under the chin and went back to his vehicle.

This older agent told the story with great pride at his exhibition of an extraordinary amount of restraint, as he called the state police barracks and had a trooper come over and arrest the kid, who had an outstanding warrant. He told the story in our bullpen and emphasized for us younger guys the lessons learned—you gotta keep your cool. He could have punched the shit out of the kid, and possibly been in the right—the kid touched him first—but he didn’t. He said, you young guys, remember, stuff like this is gonna happen. Keep your cool.

I like to think that’s what I did. I also respected my badge. Not that anyone would know or see, but I wear my badge with pride that I don’t want to denigrate by getting into a shouting or shoving match with some angry asshole at a gas station.

And if I hadn’t been armed, or on duty, or in a work car? I would have handled it the same way. I’m clearly not engaging some raging asshole under most any circumstances, least of all without a gun. And I carry my sidearm off-duty somewhere between never and never-ever.

My wife says I handled it the right way. But there’s a dirty little secret: I was little afraid, the guy scared me a little, and perhaps I didn’t refuse to engage him out of any exalted sensibility of self-control, respect for my job, or healthy self-confidence in my masculinity. I think I was a little afraid, and perhaps, less afraid, I would have yelled back at him. But I chose not to, and I don’t know if I’m mature or a coward.