I'm not a fan of confrontation. I try to avoid it at all costs. In doing so, I go through life trying desperately not to ruffle anyone's feathers. The last thing I want to be is an inconvenience. I just want to get through the day without causing anyone to have problems. I don't care if people like me or not, but I don't want people to hate me. I don't want people to think of me as an asshole. So far, I think I have been pretty successful in this. I think I'm amicable, friendly, easy to get along with, albeit a little shy and timid. To date, I really only have a handful of mortal enemies, and I'm engaged to be married, so there are people in this world who can stomach me. But I live my life by a simple credo: be good to people and people will be good to you. So each morning I wake up and repeat my mantra: don't be an asshole today. This has served me well over the years to avoid turning into an arrogant, self-loathing dipshit that likes to harass other people and ruin their day. But every once in awhile, when the moon turns blue and icicles form along the cavernous ceilings of hell, I do in fact act like an asshole. This very morning is a perfect example, but in order to tell the whole story, I need to go back a few months. For all my literary prowess and seduction of words, I lack a lot of basic social and counting skills, which makes me a prime candidate for doing menial and odd manual labor-type jobs. So I got a D in 10th grade Geometry, so what! I still know how to shovel dirt and push a broom, provided it's not one of them fancy brooms. Anyway, a few months ago, one of the jobs I was put in charge of was scrubbing out a large defunct fountain structure that was being closed down for the winter months. So I climbed in the fountain with a hose and a squeegee and proceeded to clean. The job was pretty simple, boring, but simple. Well, imagine my surprise when I came across a handful of coins near a drain in the fountain! It was just a few pennies, a nickle and a dime here and there. I picked the grimy coins up and put them in my pocket. Satisfied with my treasure I continued scrubbing out the fountain. But the more I cleaned, the more coins I found! There were a lot of pennies, but I was finding more dimes and even some quarters. The more I cleaned the more change I found. At the end of the day the fountain was pristine, and I was covered in sludge, but my pockets bulged with all the money that I had been rewarded with for my endeavor. Now, I was not oblivious to the fact that these coins, for all intents and purposes, were people's wishes. It's the only reason people throw coins into fountains. So I realized that I was actually stuffing my pockets with people's wishes, they're hopes and dreams manifested in these small bits of currency. I knew that these coins were not meant for me, but as payment to whatever entity had the power to answer a stranger's prayer. But what was I supposed to do? If I left them in the fountain my boss would have yelled at me for not taking them out. So I took them, smuggling them away from work in a dirty plastic cup. When I got home I poured my findings into a large and ornate green canister that once held a bottle of Glenfiddich scotch whisky. And there they stayed. The coins, though many, were very dirty. All the time spent in the water had given them all a thick coat of algae and filth. I did a little bit of half-assed research on how to clean coins, what chemicals to buy, and so on. But eventually, I just resigned myself to having a can full of shitty coins perched on my desk. Until today. You see, the place that I work at has a pop machine filled with a variety of delicious sodas. Unfortunately, I never have any cash on me, and any time I wanted to quench my thirst on a Dr. Pepper or a Mountain Dew, I was reduced to groveling to my co-workers asking for some spare change to buy a pop. They always obliged, but I felt like an asshole just having to ask. So this morning I actually took some initiative. I told myself, "Eric, you're going to be working outside all day, you're going to get thirsty, you know you are going to want a pop. You should take your own money." I searched my apartment high and low for some loose change, but alas there was none. The only coins I had in my possession were those sickly chuncks of metal within the Glenfiddich can. "Hmmm..." I pondered. "They look like shit, but Coinstar might take them." So I left early for work today so I could swing by the grocery store and test their Coinstar machine. It was early, so the store was pretty much dead, but a few employees busied themselves on preparing for the day, and helping a couple early birds getting groceries. I cradled my canister of misfit coins under my arms and approached the Coinstar machine, glowing with an immaculate green body. Very slowly I began to pour my coins into the tray. Their crusty forms clanged against the metal, knocking dust and dirt off them. Little by little I lifted the tray to guide the coins into the slot. They began to fall through, and a wave of relief hit me as I heard the Coinstar's internal machinations rumble to life. The small screen in front of me began to count the coins I was shuffling in, expertly adding the values up and dividing the coins into categories with the flawless efficiency of a computer. "It's working," I thought happily. I confidently began to pour the coins into the machine at a faster pace, and assisting them into the slot with a free hand. My glee was cut short, however, when the machine emitted a single sharp beep and then stopped it's inner workings. I looked up at the screen. A bright yellow flag was splashed across the monitor with the words: We're Sorry! Coinstar can no longer complete this transaction! Please contact a manager for assistance! Panic began to grow in my stomach, inflating like some horrible balloon. "Shitshitshitshitshitshit," was all I could think. My canister was nearly empty, and faced with the thought of having to tell a manager that I broke the machine, I contemplated just walking out of the store. But I was turned off by the idea of leaving money in the machine, money I was owed. After some hesitation I decided to get an employee to help me. I went to the customer service counter, which was closed, but saw a short, forty-something woman wearing some very trendy glasses punching some keys on a register. "Um, miss," I began. "I'm having an issue with the Coinstar. It stopped counting my change." I was so nervous, a whole mess of arrow's could fit in my voice's quiver. "OK. Let's see what we can do," she said with a helpful smile. I followed her back to the machine and she took a look at the screen. After studying the message she took out a set of keys and opened up the Coinstar. She removed a tray, and flushed some coins out. "Were they all this dirty?" she asked, handing me back the coins. "Uh, yeah. They were pretty bad." She proceeded to brush the components with her fingers, trying anything to get the machine to start back up, but to no avail. So she began to press her fingers to the screen and after following a short series of instructions she came to a section on the monitor that asked her for a password, which she didn't know. As she continued to mess with the screen I could feel the panic balloon swelling. My nerves were only exacerbated when I saw a short blond-haired girl approaching with a plastic bag filled with scintillating coins. Plus, I wasn't sure of the time-I might be late for work. The woman continued to manipulate the screen of the Coinstar, but all paths led her to the password screen, a seemingly insurmountable obstacle for her. Added to this debacle was the girl, who was now standing directly behind me and watching the woman fumble with the machine's controls. Cognizant of the girl's impatience (she was letting out several annoyed, cunty sighs), I thought that maybe I could play the victim here too. Maybe I could make it seem like the damn machine broke while I was innocently depositing my freshly minted change. I turned slightly and met the girl's eyes. I rolled my eyes and smirked, an expression that said, "This machine is a retard and this bitch is worse." The girl nodded politely. "If you're gonna put coins in the machine don't have them be dirty," the woman suddenly said as she closed up the machine. So my cover was blown, I was found out. I was embarrassed that the woman accused me in front of the other girl, and the woman's tone left something to be desired. Besides, I didn't have them be dirty. The things were dirty when I found them. It's not like I demanded complete ruin of them before cashing them in. Of course, all I could muster was a pathetic, "Yeah." The woman turned from the machine. "I'll get your money from the register." As I followed her back to the customer service counter, the blond girl asked, "So is the machine fixed?" She asked with this real whiny, cunty voice, too. "No," the woman said, turning to address the girl. Then she pointed at me with her technologically inept and password devoid finger, "He put a bunch of dirty coins in the machine, so now the machine is broke and I don't know how to fix it. So now I have to pay him out of my register, because of his dirty coins." Now, what she said was perfectly true, but did she really need to throw me under the bus like that? Yes, I fucked up the machine, I accept that, but did she have to make me look like an asshole in front of a complete stranger? Now, this girl with her bag of change will know me only as the dickbag that clogged the machine and interrupted her day. When she tells her friends this story later I will be referred to as "the loser with the dirty money" or "the homeless man who couldn't figure out the Coinstar." Why couldn't the woman just have said, "No, the machine is not fixed just yet." I'm guessing somebody really did a number on this woman's psyche at some point in her life. To be able to treat me like she did she must have been molested as a child or raped in college. And even if she wasn't, I really hope she was. Anyway, after the woman fingered me as the perp, the girl got this real stupid look on her face and then mumbled something under her breath. I didn't hear what she said, but it was probably racist. So the woman got back behind the counter and opened her register to count out the money that I had successfully deposited into the machine before it broke. She counted out the bills and the change, while the girl stood behind me, drilling holes in my head with her eyes. When my transaction was complete the woman handed me my money and said, "Have a nice day," but she said it in a real cunty way that suggested she actually didn't want me to have a nice day. As I left the store I heard the girl say-with a voice that sounded like razors in a blender-"I don't care if the machine is broke, someone is cashing in these quarters." I didn't look back, I didn't say anything. I kept my head down and walked out of the store clutching a much lighter Glenfiddich can and $2.72 richer. But, I did feel bad. I felt bad for messing up the machine. I felt bad for making the customer service lady have to stop what she was doing and help my idiot self. I felt bad for the blond girl who just wanted to cash in some quarters. This morning I became once again the thing I hate the most: an inconvenience. I put a bunch of shitty coins into a Coinstar machine and broke it, and that was a dick move. Kinda like when I was a sophomore in college. One day I was in a study lounge in my dorm. It was a small, two-window room, that could only fit five tables, and those were pressed close together. I liked it because it was always quiet, and sometimes I could be in there for hours without a single person coming in to join me. I started to think of this particular lounge as mine. One day I was alone in the lounge, hunched over a book I was reading. I was all alone and completely engrossed in my work. Suddenly, I heard the door knob turn. The noise startled me, and I looked up. The knob turned again, but the door didn't move. On the third try the door moved, but only a little. I thought maybe someone was trying to finish a phone conversation before walking into the study lounge. The heavy wooden door had a window, but I couldn't see anyone. I had seen a couple little kids bouncing through the halls, so I thought maybe a little kid was just hanging on the door. Then the door opened in a sudden burst, and I saw where the struggle lay. A young Asian girl was sitting in a wheelchair, balancing a mountain of books on her lap, and trying very hard to keep them from falling while also trying to push the door open. So the door flew open, and I met the girl's eyes, just as she made a quick grab to steady a slipping book, and then the door swung back in a loud CLANG as it collided with her wheelchair. The girl backed up a bit and allowed the door to shut completely. I felt my heartbeat begin to quicken and clear domes of sweat formed on my brow. "Helpherhelpherhelpherhelpher," I thought. The door opened again, and while it was in motion, the girl pushed her wheelchair over the threshold, only to be met all to soon by the heavy, heavy door. It banged against the wheelchair again, pushing her back. "You need some help?" I asked dryly. Of course she needed help you asshole! How many times do you have to idly watch a handicapped person fail before you offer some assistance?! Why did you even ask? A normal human being would have just stood up and opened the door for the girl. She would have said, "Thanks," and you would have said, "You're welcome." End of fucking story. But not me. I asked this person who was having trouble through no fault of her own if she needed help, even though it was obvious she did. "No. I got it," the girl replied. Well, this offended me. You're clearly getting punished by that door, and I offered to open it for you, and you said no. Now it's your fault. I was gracious enough to ask, and you shot me down in cold blood. You got it? You got it? You are sorely mistaken there, dear. Because there are two people in this study lounge, and only one of us can effectively open that fucking door. But oh well. You want to make an ass outta yourself, go right ahead. You're probably one of those self-righteous, holier-than-thou people who get pissed when you call them handicapped. "I'm handicapable," you would probably say. Fuck you! I don't need this shit! I just came down here to read! I didn't know I was going to wind up in a goddam morality play! The next time that door pushes your ass out to the hallway I'm locking the motherfucker! I smiled and went back to my book. And the girl persisted. But try as she might, she could not get through the door, because it wasn't just the weight of the door keeping her out. She had all those books resting precariously on top of one another, she had a wheelchair that seemed like its natural instincts were to go in reverse, and she had to look at this stupid asshole reading his book and trying to ignore her as she battled to get into the study lounge. I sat there, unable to read, unable to concentrate. Every time I heard the door close against her wheelchair I cringed. "Helpherhelpherhelpherhelpher!!!" But I was paralyzed. I just sat, hunched over, thinking that if I stayed still long enough I could just blend into the environment like a chameleon, a shitty, shitty chameleon. I am not exaggerating that it was going on close to three minutes, and this poor girl had made zero progress. And I wasn't even close to just getting up to help when I heard another girl's voice say, "Here, let me get that for you." Another girl appeared. She pushed open the door and stepped into the lounge. She didn't even look at me. She probably would have thrown up if we made eye contact. But she held open that door like a true master, and allowed the girl in the wheelchair to finally pass through into the lounge. "Thank you," the Asian girl said with a smile. "Yep. No problem." And with that the good Samaritan was gone. And when she told that story to her friends later I was known as "this fat fuck that just sat there" or "a jerkoff who just ignored the girl." I wanted to run after the helper. I want to catch up to her and say, "I offered her help! I asked if she needed help, but she said no! Don't you see?! By sitting there and doing nothing I was doing what the girl wanted me to do! I'm not an asshole!" But I just there, staring into my pages, and awkwardly listing to the girl in the wheelchair maneuver into a table and unload her books. I should have just got up and helped her through the door. That would have been the right thing to do. The obvious thing. The normal thing. But I didn't. I didn't help a girl in a wheelchair through a door, and that was a dick move. It was worse when I was younger. I would have to qualms about calling a kid a name, tattle-telling, throwing shit (not literally feces, more like rocks and sticks) at people and cars. One time in kindergarten I poured my chocolate milk on a picture my friend drew because the other kids were all admiring it a bit too much. So yes, I admit, I have been prone to dickish behavior sometimes. But those times are few and far between. And I try to counter the bad stuff with doing good. I let my sister borrow my car. I let my brother crash on my couch when he was in between apartments. I'll buy pops for people at work without them even asking for one. So, I am trying to limit my dick moves, but it can be hard...considering most people are assholes.
The Moore You Know: The other day I told a buddy of mine who is kinda a cheapskate that he was acting 'niggardly' and I was taken aback at how offended he was. "Dude," he said, "that is so racist!" After a bit of confusion, I told him that the word 'niggardly' basically means to be frugal with money. "You still shouldn't say it," he replied. "It sounds like a slur." Yes. It does sound like a slur, a little. But it's not. It's a legitamate word with a definition that has nothing to do with a particular race. But now I can't say it because it sounds like a racial slur. That's bullshit. If I want to buy a top-notch cleaning product I can't buy Spic and Span because it sounds like a racial slur? If I find a particular weakness in something I can't say "chink in the armor" because it sounds like a slur? And if someone is bothering me I can't tell him to "go fly a kike" because it sounds too much like a slur? Gimme a break! You want me to be that politcally correct?! Niggard please.
© Eric Moore - 2011
