He's an attorney. I know he is an attorney. He has lived in the building for almost 3 years. I have never spoken with him; so, I have never had occasion to ask him his occupation. And he may not be a practicing attorney, but he has a law degree.
How do I know? I know the type. I have been around the block a few times. I sit outside at the coffee shop, sometimes working, sometimes talking to people in the neighborhood, sometimes simply watching. I am familiar with the type.
Really. How do I know? Because he is what people popularly call an asshole. I have seen him talking to others. I said hello to him a number of times early in our non-relationship. I held the elevator for him several times early in our non-relationship. But the melody of his voice has yet to grace my ears. No "hello," no "thank you," no "go fuck yourself."
In his version of reality, I am most assuredly inconsequential and may not exist. In my version of reality, he is an attorney because in my version of reality, decent people who aren't assholes, who aren't attorneys, say "hello" or "thank you" or the perfectly acceptable "go fuck yourself."
I finally decided today, when I got on the elevator after him with bags from the West Side Market in my hands, and after he had pushed the 7 button, when I asked him to hit my floor button, please, after he didn't offer to do so before I asked politely, and after he didn't push my floor button and ignored me.
There can be no other reasonable explanation. He's an attorney.Posted by Bill at July 21, 2010 10:42 AM