Sleek Arrogance

I met a curious man a few weeks ago.

We were both in the same queue towards the mall teller,

to pay our bills. He was approximately between late 20s and early30s, friendly-looking and of noticeably polished demeanor.

He smiled at me first as I got in line after him at the end. Then, to my surprise, he offered me his spot. “It’s okay,” I said, smiling back. It felt awkward to me, as we were just four or five persons away from the first one in the line, and for sure I didn’t look like I was in so much hurry.

Many times before, I had queued at the same service counter and no one ever showed me the same generosity. At times I would be the one to do the kind act, especially if it was an older person that stood behind me in the line. I felt awkward, quite certain that I didn’t have the bearing of someone at an age that deserved special consideration.

“Please,” he said in a hushed voice, gesturing to the spot between him and the woman ahead. And then he smiled bigger and looked me straight in the eye, which I took to mean he would be slighted if I refused. So I decided to take his offer.

I thought the guy was probably just trying to be nice. But I still felt somewhat uncomfortable. I really didn’t feel like I deserved the favor or that it was necessary in the first place.

“Electricity and water,” I raised to him the bills in my hand. “Yours?” I tried to start a conversation as a way of reciprocating his goodwill.

“Cable TV subscription,” he said, slightly shrugging his shoulders.

I tried to be funny, “I don’t have cable TV… just TV.” My joke didn’t get a reaction. Maybe he didn’t get it.

“They should have more tellers,” he murmured after a short lull. He added that waiting in line pissed him off. “Lousy service!” his voice grew harder in clear annoyance, but still hushed.

Now I was getting really uncomfortable… and kind of puzzled. Why then did he offer his spot to me? I began trying to figure it out.

Then he volunteered his backstory. It was always the house-help that would go to pay their bills. But the “dumb girl” went home to the province to attend her hometown fiesta. “You know these people,” he said with an indignant face, “they think the fiesta celebration would not happen without them.”

His story amused me a bit. And he told more. If only he could afford to miss an important NBA game on TV, he wouldn’t have gone out of his way to pay the cable TV bill himself. “These idiots in the cable TV company,” he shook his head, “just a day late in paying and they cut you off!”

Notwithstanding the irritation in his language, the guy was consistently soft spoken. And his English sounded nice, totally complementing his neat and sleek appearance. My curiosity whetted, I asked where he lived. He mentioned a posh residential subdivision. No wonder!

But my good impression of the guy was soon smothered. As I offered him back the spot he earlier waived for me, which he firmly resisted, he moved closer and whispered, “I can’t stand the smell of that woman.”

It was the woman ahead of me. She looked rather ordinary, almost to a fault, without a hint of vanity or particular effort at grooming. But she was okay – in my standards, at least – and didn’t smell of anything repulsive, like the guy had indicated.

Obviously, she did not live in the same posh village as the complaining guy. She probably was not there to pay her cable TV bill. Perhaps she was an ambulant sidewalk vendor who had to tuck away her wares for a quick few minutes to pay her electricity bill, making sure that there would still be light at home when she returned in the evening.

The woman didn’t have time to share her backstory. Maybe her time was so precious and her mind so filled with real concerns – she was not interested in talking to strangers. Also, she didn’t seem to me like she cared about an NBA game on TV.

Instead, she appeared like she had ‘real’ business in life to do. And I thought she was lucky not to understand a word in English, otherwise the guy’s mean words would have had the power to hurt her feelings. In silence, I was becoming more interested to know her story.

As she was done at the teller, the woman turned to the two of us remaining in line. She smiled, without a sign of grudge whatsoever, and gestured that it was our turn. I stepped forward without looking back at the guy behind me. He was not important anymore – or never had been.