At an Einstein Brothers bagel joint on Wisconsin Avenue, in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. – “I just need a medium soda,” blurted the frat boy jock type who had just butted in front of me in line.
The figure some twenty-something to maybe thirty-something years of age, draped in a white polo shirt (popped collar, natch), cargo shorts and standing in flip-flops continued his loud cell phone conversation without missing a beat. One didn’t want to take in the obnoxious aura straight-on, so at this point I could only estimate things from the nature of his skin, the tone of this voice, etc.
His initial utterance, which jolted me from the daze I had been set in due to the slow progress of the line in the bagel shop on the busy holiday morning, was to the cashier — not to me. He didn’t bother to acknowledge me or the other people he had jumped in line.
The cashier was not unaware of the transgression, giving him the evil eye, but not protesting it. Like I, she seemed too tired to bother. For her it wasn’t like the net number of customers waiting in line would change if she picked this fight. For me–well, he was bigger than I was and obviously needed his jolt of sugar water badly. I had pity for the poor soul.
The cashier dutifully plopped down a medium size cup.
To this Frat Boy put his urgent call (something gossipy and political, concerning the aftermath of a party from the night before) on hold to reply, “But I need something larger than that.”
He had been oblivious to the array of three sizes of cups stacked in front of him, providing cues as to what he might end up with if he said “medium.”
My belated turn finally came and as I left the registers to fill my cup with coffee and I ran into Frat Boy again. He was pacing, turning feverishly, talking as loud as ever into his cell phone, and having a hard time coordinating the position of his now Large cup with the soft drink dispenser.
In one of his manic twists, I got a dead-on look at him: his polo shirt had The Greal Seal of the U.S. Government on the left breast, and embroidered around the logo were the words “AMERICAN EMBASSY — ISLAMABAD.”
This was our new diplomatic class, perhaps one the Ivy League patriots inspired to serve in the wake of 9/11?
Of course I don’t know the provenance of this shirt. Maybe Frat Boy earned it from being posted there, maybe it was from his daddy or an uncle or another relative. In that case, I’m glad our diplomats have instilled good manners in their now fully grown progeny. The next generation of the imperial class seem well-suited to bear the burdens due them, given this fine example.
Someone needs to manage the keggers in Kinshasa.