At five-thirty on a Friday our tram
stopped, and one man deemed this an excuse to abandon civility. Tram officers
told us the tram would trundle on unburdened, while we were to board the tram
behind. I assume all those disembarking were irritated; some gave their
irritation words, irritation at this three minute delay. Mere grumbles, of
course, as harmless as scratching an insect bite.
One man (whom we shall call Dick) would not
restrict himself to scoffs. Under the near thirty-degrees sun, he made his
petty pain known. Speaking on behalf of all us passengers, all us ‘good
people’, he shrieked at a tram officer. Hunched over the officer, Dick demanded
explanation as to why, oh, why he must switch trams. The officer stated he’d no
power over the tram lines, and should call the service’s phone number. Ah, but
this was insufficient for Dick. How thankful heroes are never dissuaded by
common sense and common decency. He jabbed the officer’s shoulder insignia.
‘Authorised Officer,’ Dick spat. ‘Authorised Officer. I’ve tried your
phoneline. No one answers. You are
here, and you are a representative!’
One wonders why Dick assumed, proper
channels being futile, an improper channel would be more effective. His is the
logic of the child sociopath: the world has wronged him, and as the world
refuses to respond to his cries, he revenges upon small animals. This
explanation, however, assumes he possesses an atom of decency, that he honestly
intended some result from his hostility. Unless Dick expected the officer to
report this to HQ, report Dick’s unforgivable inconvenience, he meant his
squeals purely as catharsis. Oh, but that most uncivilised catharsis, that
catharsis which needs draw another’s blood.
As I would never be as unfair to Dick as he
was to the officer, I shall walk a while in his sweaty shoes. I shall hypothesise
what might cause such barbarity:
Had he a place to be that day? Sparing the
delay was no more than three minutes (had he a place to be, he was cutting it
fine to imprudent degrees), this was not the principle of his argument. His
argument centred on ‘inconvenience,’ his inconvenience and that of these ‘good
passengers’ he so kindly spoke for. His argument holds, if, like him, we elevate
inconvenience to an infringement of our inalienable rights.
Oh, but he talked of his tax dollars,
didn’t he? Why, oh, why are his tax dollars wasted on such a slipshod system? Beware
a man who speaks of his tax dollars as though they grant him sum and survey of
the nation’s soil. We should all appreciate a more efficient infrastructure. All
humanity strives to minimise displeasure, be that displeasure as grand as
hunger or as petty as tardiness. To lower displeasure, sometimes a lesser displeasure
must occur. The invention of the car made redundant the coach drivers. ‘Lesser
displeasure’ is the operative term; the good of one’s ends must exceed the bad
of one’s means. Yelling at an officer, one unable to tighten the tramlines, cannot
improve the world. In fact, in the calculus of pleasure and displeasure, by
pointlessly harassing an officer, one makes the world worse.
I do not argue against blowing off steam,
which I am sure Dick achieved. I do not argue against grumbling, groaning, or
even open surliness. Surely Dick had just left work, after a day which
alternated between sodding rain and searing heat. He had perhaps not eaten
since lunch, and are we not all irritable after such asceticism. Some pained
expression is justified, like swearing after one stubs their toe. A first-world
problem is still a problem, and moaning is a unique pleasure.
On one high-twenties day, I waited an hour
for a bus. As three promised buses failed to appear, the crowd beside me grew.
Twenty-strong we waited. The bus arrived, though overburdened with passengers
from previous stops. All we were irritated, all we were tired, all we wished
that after such a wait we all should have a seat to ourselves – but did any of
us complain? No, we trudged on board, grumbling, for grumbling harms no one. I
am sure it would have been more cathartic to yell at the driver, to aim our
irritation at a face – a fact Dick understood. Alas, none of us were Dicks, who
believe our own piece of mind more worth preserving than another’s.
What makes scolding a public transport
worker so damnable is you will not be the first. Someone else that day, so full
of entitlement and ingratitude, has also spat in that worker’s face. While a
single prick hurts little, few wish to be pin cushions.
One can easily imagine Dick in his daily
life; he very much fits a type. I assume Dick, at home, moans about the
ingratitude and entitlement of the younger generation. I assume Dick, to his friends,
rails against ‘PC goose-steppers’ and their oversensitivity. I assume Dick,
every morning, scoffs through the Herald,
incensed at the modern world’s moral decay. I assume all of us who are not like
this man have suffered such a man, so bloated is his personality.
I assume all of us have come dangerously
close to being Dick, if only for moments. When our petty grievances pile to so
high a height, it seems all the world conspires against us. It does not matter
who or what we revenge against, for is not the whole world guilty? I, myself,
in the presence of Dick, almost became Dick, almost laughed in his face, screamed
in his ear, and cursed him with all the world’s diseases. I would like to say I
restrained myself, that I did not stoop to his level. But there is a world of
difference between berating an innocent and berating a prick. My chin could hit
the ground and still stay above his level. I only avoided becoming Dick because
of my congenital spinelessness. I can no more yell at a tram officer than I
could pick a fight with this emblem of middle-class entitlement.
To those who are not blessed with my
cowardice, or not guarded from abrasiveness by decency, I write this essay. In Dick
I have found the embodiment of a secular sin the Prig: one who cares much about
standards, but not in such a way as applies to themself.
So, readers, I hope, when some petty peril
grips us, we remember Dick. Remember Dick stomping aboard the tram, still
steaming at a three-minute delay. Remember Dick slouching in his seat before returning
to his vital business of playing backgammon on his phone. Although Dick is too
past saving, addicted as he is to licking his scratches, we may all consider him,
and have our consciences retreat. In Dick priggishness is painted in such sour
colours that upon remembering him, none will emulate him.
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