An Brief Instance of Raw Anger

I yelled at a civil servant yesterday because he couldn't find ketchup to put on his hotdog. I told him that no red-blooded Chicagoan would ever dare slap a naked hotdog with ketchup and leave it there in the bun to die. These are the words that came out of my mouth and at the time, they seemed absolutely justified.
I'm not so mad anymore and frankly, I wish I could get that 90 seconds of my life back.

* * * * *

I suppose it all started with a cutsie couple sharing a set of iPod earbuds waiting on the train. Back when I was a wee lad, the most annoying thing couples did was sink a hand into each other's rear pants pocket. I hope no one reading this ever did that. I hated watching couples walk down my high school hallway cupping each other's bottoms on their way to Chem. Lab.

That's gross like backwash.

I still find that behavior nauseating, but I also see it less than I once did. What seems to have taken its place is sharing the earbuds from an iPod, in tandem Mmmmbop-ing together in public . This way, if you're dating, your mate can listen to what My Chemical Romance's drummer and bassist are doing while you check up on what the guitarist and vocals are up to.

Then later, like right before "Grey's Anatomy" starts, the two of you can like, totally compare notes on what your half of the song sounded like.

Christ. Why even bother hanging out?

Believe me when I say, I'd rather be single than listen to crappy music in mono.

I'm beginning to think that there are no females younger than 40 who like Bruce Springsteen. After simmering from my encounter with the iPod couple, I got into a conversation with a girl in one of my news media classes about Bruce and she didn't particularly care for him, citing only his video for "Dancing In the Dark" in her annoyance.
"All he does is yowl and dance like a white guy."

After pulling the pen out of my classmate's forehead, begging her not to press charges, I felt compelled to point out that Springsteen was a white guy and judging him based on this fact made about as much sense as taking Flavor-Flav to task for using slang in his lyrics.

I briefly dated a girl once who thought "Born To Run" was "Born To Be Wild". I don't mean she thought Steppenwolf was Bruce Springsteen, I mean she literally thought they were the same damn song.

I wasn't happy when she and I broke up, but in hindsight, I'm fairly certain that comment had a lot to do with our eventual demise.

My roommate Armin hailed from New Jersey which is to Springsteen what Mecca was to Allah and he outright despises Springsteen. And I know Armin is technically a guy, but anyone from Jersey who likes Bon Jovi more than Bruce might as well consider himself a woman.

So okay, girls don't like Bruce. Looks like I'm gonna have a bargaining chip when my wife starts asking to raise our kids whatever religion she wants to raise them.

"You want little Adam to be raised Wiccan? Okay, but I get to sing all of "The River" to him each night before bed. Deal?
Deal." *

And I'm calmer now than I was yesterday, but yesterday I tussled with my classmate and it ruffled my feathers. Before I could properly calm down, I had to go see my adviser to register for next semester's classes. Turns out, one of my required classes is only offered on Wednesday night, which is when 'Lost' is on. And if you've been paying attention, you know how much 'Lost' means to me each week.

I punctured my advisor's forehead with the same pen I pulled out of my classmate earlier. Apologizing profusely, I asked that my adviser just keep the pen so I would not hurt anyone else with it.

I was excused from my advisor's office and was so fearful of spying another "iPod couple" that I parked myself on the
5th floor cafeteria instead of going straight home.

Food will comfort me.

A walleyed gent from the janitorial division of Roosevelt University (Roo-U) walked in with a $10 bill.

The change machine in the cafeteria was broken causing Mr. Walleye to curse under his breath. Holding the bill in his hand, Mr. Walleye turns to the center of the cafeteria and loudly says, "anybody got change for a ten?"

There was no answer.

There was no answer mainly because I was the only other person in the cafeteria and I was so dumbfounded that I forgot to say something.

I wondered whether or not the affliction of having "googly-eyes" rendered him blind and unaware that there was only one other person he could be talking to without talking to himself. I feared that he was completely out of touch with reality and wondered if he saw many other people sitting in the cafeteria besides myself. Then I began wondering what filtration process Roo-U uses when hiring their custodial staff.

"Uh... I don't have change. Sorry."

Mr. Walleye turned to look at me ( Perhaps. It was hard to tell on account of his traveling eyeballs) as if he was unaware that I was in the room. I can't be sure, but I very well may have spooked him by speaking.

"Aw man. I can't believe this thing [the change machine] don't work. That's the story of my life, I tell you."

Mr. Walleye left without saying anything more, but returned a minute later with a handful of singles. Where did he get them so quickly, I wondered.

Standing at the rotating vending machine (the kind with sandwiches and apples, not Snickers and Cheetos), he began humming loudly. He wasn't a very skilled hummer (hummist?) and so I couldn't tell if it was Buddy Guy's "Born Under A Bad Sign" or Melissa Etheridge's "Come To My Window".

He rotated through the vending machine and hummed for what seemed like a week finally choosing F3: the hotdog.

If you've been paying attention since the beginning, you already knew he was gonna pick a hotdog. And if you already knew that, you also know what comes next, don't you?

Mr. Walleye reaches into the machine, yanks out a microwavable dog and actually "whoo-hoos" his accomplishment.
I wonder if this guy "woo-hooed" for my benefit, or if he "woo-hooed" because a "woo-hoo" was in his heart at that moment?

I think the "woo-hoo" was in his heart. I certainly hope it was.

But Mr. Walleye's happiness flitted away quickly as he began - dog in hand - opening the multitude of drawers affixed to a wall of the cafeteria.

"What? Oh, I don't believe this. You can't be serious. You. Cannot. Be. Serious."

I didn't really want to turn around. I couldn't imagine what he was looking for, but I was pretty certain I would be of no service to him.

"This can't be happening. This just can't be happening."

I pictured him turning into a werewolf.

He seemed appropriately frustrated but reasonably calm about the entire transformation. I wondered if the whole "werewolf" thing was why his eyes were googly.

"No ketchup! How can they give me a hotdog with no ketchup. That just ain't right."

And even up until this point, I was willing to ignore the crazy old janitor, despite my disappointment at living another day without witnessing a werewolf transformation. But then Mr. Walleye said something that my already angered mood would not allow me to ignore:

"You can't have a hotdog with no ketchup. This is Chicago, you know?"

If I were a cartoon, steam would have bolted from my ears.

And so the iPod coupling and a semester of TIVO'd episodes of 'Lost' and bloody pens and humming google-eyed janitors crescendoed into a blaze of beratement aimed at a man I don't know.

I turned my head enough to see the custodian and said, "If you're from Chicago, you'd put peppers and mustard and relish and onions and stuff on it. You'd have a pickle on the side and tomatoes. Ketchup is just about the only thing someone from Chicago wouldn't put on a hotdog. And what do you expect from a college cafeteria?"

I was on a roll now, so I continued.

"Why would there be leftover ketchup here? And if you found it, would you really want to use it?"

Mr. Walleye looked at me confused, a reaction I can't say I hold against him. He closed the empty drawer he was peering into in hopes of finding a spare ketchup packet and said, "Aw man, you don't know anything. Ketchup goes on everything. You just don't know."

And you know what? Mr. Walleye was right on. I don't know anything.

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* I know, I know. You're taking issue with my kid being called "Little Adam". But fear not, if he is born bigger than me, I promise I won't call him that.