Two weeks before Christmas in 2019 there was a blackout across 3 cities in my area. All told, the blackout lasted for only about 6 hours, and it was kind of nice to pull out the flashlights and candles. At some point in this, I even decided I would go to the gas station, which are powered by generators during power outages, and buy myself some water. When I got to the gas station, I learned that I was not the only one who knew they were open because the place was packed. The way that the cashier’s station is set up is like a horseshoe with four stations around the bend. However, of the four only one of them was open.
The kid at the front of the line was having some kind of issue and I could see that he knew that he was holding everyone else up. I was the fourth person in line and the person in front of me was a large angry looking black man. I didn’t know if he was genuinely angry, or if that is just how he looks all the time, often referred to in the name-calling industry as RBF or Resting Bitchy Face. Either way, he did not look like someone who wanted to talk to anyone.
Well, little did any of us know. but there were actually like 6 other employees in the building and after about 3 minutes one of them came and open another register kitty corner to the one whose line I was in. I, being the fourth person in line, waited to see if anyone ahead of me would change lines. The second person in line left for the new register and I again waited to see if the man in front of me would go. After about 30 seconds I figured that he was content to be where he was, and that meant that I was free to move to the new register without hurting any feelings. However, as I walked around the half circle, another register, the one that was directly behind the one I was previously waiting in, opened as well. Since I happened to be right there when she opened it, I figured I would just claim my spot. After all, it seemed like it would be pretty strange to go wait in a line while this one was completely open, so I put my stuff on the counter.
Once my transaction was completed, I realized that the water that I bought was actually damaged. So, I told the cashier that I was going to go trade it. To which she replied “We normally just sell damaged drinks because it doesn’t affect the taste” I found myself thinking how do you know that it doesn’t affect the taste? Do you try them? Also, I think I am more concerned about things getting into my water than I am about the taste. Don’t they say that botulism has no taste?
As this was going on, I heard the man in the line next to me, the first one to open up, say “sorry, do you want to come over here?” I looked up and to my surprise I saw that the kid who was having troubles was still up at the register and still having problems. Behind him, the black man shook his head in an angry and upset way at the man in the line next to me.
I went to trade out my drink and as I passed the man I said “Hey, I’m sorry that you got kind of skipped in line there” knowing, as I said this, that there was very little I could have done about the way the chips fell. I couldn’t force him to move lines, fix the kid at the front’s issues or make the cashiers help him first. I could have offered that he take the spot in the line that opened right in front of me, but I think that would have been far more awkward than kind. All I could really do, is what I did.
He snapped his eyes at me and glared angrily before saying
“Obviously you aren’t that sorry.”
I said, “Well, I feel b…”
He cut me off “No, you obviously aren’t that sorry!”
I looked at him confused about his use and emphasis of the word ‘that’ and said “You could have gotten in that line; it wasn’t a big deal to me. I was fine…”
“No!” He snapped, again cutting me off. “If you really were that sorry, you wouldn’t have cut in line.”
“Cut in line?” I said confused. Remembering that the line did not exist before I walked into it.
“Yes! Right in front of me!” He said like some unspoken law of gas station lines had be completely violated.
He started toward the door as he said “I don’t even know why you apologized; you clearly weren’t even that sorry.”
Confused by this bizarre situation I said “Look, I do feel bad, but your right, I am not ‘THAT‘ sorry.” making air quotes over the word ‘that’ as I said it.
“I didn’t know that my level of sorry was being measured in this apology… I put it at about a 4! A 1 after this bizarre tantrum of yours.”
“Whatever, Man!” he spat and he stormed out.
I really try to mean the things that I say, and really only apologize when I feel bad about something, my fault or not. Before this day I didn’t know that I needed to have a specific amount of sorry to apologize about something. But I think after this incident, I will give it a number.
I will say: “Your cousin died? I am sorry, like a 4!”
“No, I liked your cousin… A 7! I am sorry a 7.”
If you like stories with strange interactions with strangers, check this one out: Kill them with kindness.
As Random As Random Gets 