The Affront

Friday: my brother and I had agreed on a late lunch at the Buckeye in Mill Valley. I arrived ten minutes early, got a nice corner table and ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio, trying my best to drink it slowly so that I wouldn’t end up drunk at five o’clock in the afternoon. He arrived on time from the City and ordered a beer. We were both in fine spirits.

The waitress took our order. He was to have the Petaluma Chicken and I the cheeseburger. We were to open with an appetizer of wings with bleu cheese dressing – always a good move. We began discussing a possible trip to Reno during the week. We then got on the topic of a bachelor party weekend that was going to take me out of town for a couple of days.

“Hey, I’ll watch the cat for you, if you like,” he said, taking a long gulp off his beer.
“Really? That’s so great, because you know how I hate to leave her behind alone.”
“Sure, I’ve got nothing going on that weekend anyway.”
“Man, I really appreciate that. Takes a load of my mind.”

And then the sound came from my left, long and loud, lasting approximately six or seven seconds. I’m not exaggerating.

“Shh.”

I turned and saw the mummified visage of a sixty-something woman, the bane of some man’s existence, no doubt. Our eyes met. I was still not sure.

“You’re very loud,” she informed me.

Now you probably don’t know this, but I find the shush to be the single most insulting utterance in the human language. It is the essence of passive aggressiveness, a tool used by social cowards and neighborhood despots. Ask me nicely; I know I’m a little loud but it’s not intentional. Ask me rudely; call me an asshole. At least I’ll know exactly what you’re thinking and can react in kind. But never, ever shush me in public like some kind of ill behaved child. That is an affront I cannot accept. So I stared at her for seven, perhaps eight seconds, using my most intense Manson lamps to lamely convey my powerful feelings of anger and indignation. She appeared unmoved. I slammed my butter plate down on the table – complete silence descended over the full room.

“I won’t sit here…next to you,” I stammered, dumbstruck. I’ve…I’ve, never been treated so rudely.” I got up and began to walk toward the host stand. A table of older diners stared at me aghast. “Pardon me,” I said to them generally, a little embarrassed.

My brother arrived at the host stand a minute later, beer in hand. I suggested we sit somewhere else in the restaurant.

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” he said, shaking his head gently.
“Why not?”
“Cause when you walked away that lady looked at me and said, ‘He’s very emotional.’ So I said to her, ‘Well, if you ask me lady, you’re kind of a cunt.’”
“You didn’t,” I said, laughing.
“Oh yes I did.”
“Thank you so much. I can always count on you to back me up.” I felt like hugging him.
“It really has nothing to do with backing you up. She got exactly what she deserved.”

The dining room manager came out and wanted to know what had caused the commotion. I tried to explain, forgetting the last part of the story. So, just as he was about to approach the offending woman my bro added, “Oh, and I called her a cunt.”

“You did?” he asked, incredulous.
“Sure did.”
“Oh, not good.”

We volunteered to leave the restaurant but he asked us to wait a moment. He returned quickly and said, “Guys, I got a lot of angry women in that room.” He was very nice so we left without a fuss. I couldn’t have enjoyed a meal there, anyway, not after what had transpired. At least he bought our drinks for us and allowed us to leave with our dignity intact.

Fifteen minutes later we were sitting at our table at Marin Joes. I was sucking down my first of several martinis which would eventually turn into a raging drunk later that night. My brother and I were rehashing events. Neither of us felt we had done anything wrong, but he put it best in words I will never in my life forget.

“You know what? If I could take it all back, I wouldn’t.”

Amen.