The Dickhead

So, I was sitting in the waiting room of my allergist's office, and this dickhead looks at me and goes, "I like your mustache, man."

The dickhead had a mop of wild, dark curls and couldn't have been more than a junior in high school.

I stared at him with a look that I hoped would turn him into a pillar of salt, or at least a stick of margarine.

To fill the awkward silence he added, "It's cool."

I continued staring at him until he gave up whatever it was he was trying to accomplish with me and walked to the opposite end of the waiting room and sat down next to some taught woman who, I presume, was his mom. I resumed pretending to watch "Bee Movie" which was playing at impossible decibels on the 40-inch, wall-mounted flat-screen in front of me.

(I still, at 29, go to my pediatric allergist's office, but some of you already know that.)

As "Bee Movie" played, the teen proceeded to make comments about the film in an extremely loud manner, since I was the only other person in the waiting room other than his mom, I can only assume, for my "benefit," usually to the effect of, "WHAT EXACTLY IS THE POINT OF THIS MOVIE?" "YEAH, LIKE WE'RE SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE THAT BEES HAVE THAT KIND OF ADVANCED TECHNOLOGY?" and "WHY WAS THIS MOVIE MADE?"

While I admired his intellectual curiousity, I was bothered by his running rhetorical commentary. I'm curious, too. I could very well have asked, loudly, "WHY WERE YOU BORN?" (and, since his mummy was there, I might have actually gotten an answer, too) but I didn't. Because I have dignity, restraint, and a modicum of motherfucking class.

This dickhead reminded me of what I was like in high school-- acerbic, brash, accustomed to sharing my point of view with people who most likely didn't give a shit (uh-oh, is that what I'm doing right now?) and I shuddered at the similarities that existed between him and the high school version of me.

The only thing that made high school me different from this dickhead were his boldness in approaching someone in a public place to make a comment about their facial hair and his propensity to speak very loudly in a public place.

I didn't, and don't, speak loudly pretty much anywhere, and I have never and would never approach a random person and make a flip comment to them about any aspect of their appearance for fear that they would produce a Glock and promptly shoot me in the face.

I was, however, in high school, pretty fucking annoying. The adjectives "sarcastic," "disingenuous," "sophomoric," "scatalogical," "apathetic," and "unattractive" could all be easily applied to a photograph of me, circa 1997. I didn't have a lot of pleasant things to say, and I kept most of those myself. A bit of it managed to slip out in my senior year yearbook quote. Quoting comedian George Gobel, I wrote:

"Did you ever get the feeling that the world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes? That's kind of how I feel about high school."

For most of my life up to that point, and unfortunately beyond, I have vacillated about my self-opinion, and my thoughts on the matter have spanned the extremes, ranging from an intense, burning self-loathing to feeling that I was the only person my age with a brain at all-- that I was somehow special, and this quote selection is a good example of both sentiments. A high school student in 1998 knowing who George Gobel was: definitely unique. A high school student in any era feeling out-of-place: definitely not.

As I sat in the doctor's office waiting room, no doubt Swine Flu seeping through my trousers and up my ass, I stared at this curly-haired dickhead and wondered if he knew who George Gobel was, and if he ever felt like he was the ill-matched Florsheims to the universe's immaculate tux. Then I realized that I didn't care.

I wanted to say, "It's for a play" in reference to my mustache after he'd made the comment about it, but I didn't because I realized that he didn't care. I wouldn't have benefited in any way from explaining the facial hair's origins or purpose-- like having a gay mustache is made somehow less gay by the knowledge that it is being grown for a Gilbert & Sullivan operetta. I also wanted to say, "Go fuck yourself, you smarmy, smug shitsack," but I don't think his mother or the receptionist would have appreciated such language in front of an animated black and yellow Jerry Seinfeld with wings.

Ironically, I didn't have a negative reaction when my nurse called me in and made a comment about my mustache, nor did I have fleeting, vulgar thoughts when my allergist walked through the door and did a comic double-take upon seeing me. I did tell him it was for a play, and then I tried to sell him tickets. He politely declined.

"My wife, frankly, enjoys the theatre more than I do."

I wanted to tell him that I didn't enjoy "Bee Movie" or the kid in the waiting room either, but that I obediently sat through both, but I didn't. I did perk up when he asked me a funny question while he was examining my ears.

"Do people make comments?" he asked, I guess meaning people other than him.

"Yes," I said, "in fact, some schmuck kid just did in the waiting room."