Things bother you more in February than they do the rest of the year, owing to the general bleakness of the month and that fake-romantic day coming up that puts so much pressure on men to buy, buy, buy.
But I am in an OK mood the other morning when I pull up to the convenience store and stride past the obligatory knot of utility-repair guys outside getting their day started with a smoke and a cup of joe.
Inside, I get my own 24-ounce steaming cup of coffee and a big gooey cinnamon bun the size of a satellite dish and head for the cashier.
This is where things begin to go south.
There are four other people in line. Only the line is barely moving.
In an instant, I see the problem. The cashier is talking on his cell phone while he waits on customers.
Look, I am done ranting about people on cell phones and their loud, stupid conversations in public. That war was lost long ago. The forces of good went down in flames, the forces of evil triumphed.
Everyone has a cell phone and everyone yaks away wherever they feel like it, and that's just the way it is.
Even elementary school kids have cell phones, and next it'll be preschoolers and toddlers and after that, babies.
You watch, a baby will celebrate his or her 6-month birthday and the parents will give the baby a cell phone with a two-year contract from Verizon Wireless.
But now you see more and more people who work in convenience stores, gas stations and other places yakking on cells while they wait on customers, meaning we have moved to a whole new level of rudeness and idiocy with these things.
OK, so now I'm in a line of people holding hot coffees and orange juice and doughnuts, and everyone's getting jittery because this mope behind the register is yakking away and taking forever to ring them up.
The guy's touch with each customer is right out of the Why-Is-My-Business-Tanking? handbook, too.
No smiles or eye contact.
No thank you after he takes money and gives change.
Oh, it's a beautiful thing.
It's rudeness elevated to an art form.
The guy is so warm and friendly, I figure it's just a matter of time before he's the next head coach of the New England Patriots.
"Why doesn't he put down the cell?" the woman in front of me whispers.
Who has the answer to that one? We live in a society where no one ever gets tired of talking, where people need to be "connected" at all times or else they'll apparently wither and die. Anyway, as we all stand there staring daggers at this guy, time seems to stand still.
The line moves at a crawl. I feel a dull ache forming directly in the middle of my forehead as I stare at the racks of potato chips and windshield-wiper fluid for something to do.
When I'm close enough to the cash register, I try to listen in on his end of the conversation.
But this guy, he's perfected the art of the murmur. His voice is sneaky-low, too, so you only catch bits and pieces of what he's saying.
"You know what I mean," he says at one point, nodding vigorously.
For some reason, I find myself nodding vigorously, too.
Only I don't know what he means.
I only know I have to get out of here.
Finally after another minute or two of this murmuring hell, I reach the register.
By now my steaming cup of joe has cooled from its pouring temperature of 300 degrees, as required by convenience store regulations everywhere, to a comfortable 240 degrees.
I take a sip, and it sears my tongue.
But it's a good kind of sear, and I feel the urge to say something to Cell Phone Boy, something about rudeness, about customer service, about the need to say thank you to people who spend their hard-earned dough in your store.
But, of course, I say nothing at all.
The war is lost, remember? I look in his eyes and know that if I start jabbering in a caffeine rush about his stupid cell phone, his eyes will glaze over.
Then he'll give me that look that says: Man, what is your problem?
It's not worth it.
Besides, I like the coffee they have there. And the cinnamon buns are out of this world.
kevin.cowherd@baltsun.com
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