That was the complaint leveled against me.
And it wasn’t true.
To a point.
I was taking him as seriously as one could a gentleman with too much cologne, perfectly arched eyebrows, top level machine tan, with an ironed and starched wife beater covering his decades in the making torso.
Although I wasn’t overtly making light of him I was just not buying into the gravity of his perceived situation. What, to him, was of the utmost importance was, in the reality of the world at large, not.
This is the type of guy who would get pissed off because a red light made him stop. He came in gripping about a problem. With an entirely other business not connected to my industry in any possible manner. And that too was nothing more than his ballooned sense of inalienable rights.
The problem in dealing with someone like him is, sooner or later, the posturing will begin in earnest. In the beginning it may be that I’m not giving him the gravitas he feels is his due. But that quickly devolves into my questioning of his masculinity.
“What?” He sputters. “What’s this?” He stammers. “What’s this thing?” At this moment my only fear is that he’ll continue to add one word until he formulates a complete sentence.
“Sir, I’m doing my best to help you.”
“Are you being a wise guy? Do you know me? What? Don’t you think I’m a tough guy?”
“I assure you, the tender or toughness of you is none of my concern.”
“Oh, so you are being a wise guy! You’re not taking me seriously here. I’m a fucking tough guy, you know that?”
I’m fucking done! All I’m trying to do is complete a transaction. He gives me money, I give him stuff. Fucking simple! But he wants to turn it into some simplistic stand-off long enough for him to have to reapply hair gel.
I just don’t have time for that.
“No, I can see that you’re tough. Hell, I’m sure even your balls are tough. As a matter of fact, I’m sure your balls could slap the shit out of some guys ass.”