You can't spell America without "me" and "I"

(Part 1 of a series)

I watched with apprehensive eyes as a rather large black woman entered a cafe with a boisterous scowl on her face, a look that told me she thought the world owed her whatever she wanted. A shabby black dress with a rather hideous floral pattern - reds and greens and yellows blinking with her movement like a disfunctional stoplight - hung on her like curtains blocking out the sunlight in a room. I sat at a table stuffed into a corner, sipping my large coffee from a paper cup, when I could do nothing but put down the book I had been reading to watch what would transpire.

As she clumped in and the distance between her and the counter was reduced to nothing, the cafe's manager braced himself for the harsh winds of her words. "Give me one of them frappuccino things," she snapped. The weary manager, whose face told me he had suffered through several like her over the course of the day, twisted his brow into a frown that anyone not totally self-absorbed could read and said, "This isn't Starbucks. We have an iced cappuccino if you would like."

The woman rolled her eyes so hard her whole head moved with them. She coughed out a disgusted sigh and then said, "Give me that, then." As she waited for her drink, hands on hips, mouth puckered like she had eaten a lemon, she pretended her legs would break from standing so long, and well, with her weight, they just might have. One of the employees began her drink while she was still in the process of paying, but I guess she thought the cafe was like a 7-11 where you stuck a cup under a machine and a "cappuccino" would come out like water, because when the drink was handed to her, politely I might add, she said, "Bout time. Where's the straw?" "They're over on that table," the manager replied. "I have to get it myself?" she said, the comical element in her fading into one of repulsion. The molasses in her legs carried her to the table, where she reached around a guy pouring milk into his coffee before making her way to the door, pushing a woman out of the way to get there.

Sadly, our days are polluted with these types more often than not, their appalling behavior more suited for demons and dictators than civilized society. Rude - that's what they used to call it, but now you have people who can't even understand the simple reasons why it's wrong to talk on a cell phone in a restaurant, let alone the implausible notion that they should be considerate of others, but there they sit, chatting about some inane, trivial topic, oblivious to the shared planet around them. Do unto others, right?

To be continued...