My internet was out this morning, so I trekked to the Square, to Diesel, to do a bit of writing.

I like Diesel OK. It’s right across from the Starbucks, so I guess it should be a battle-line’s-are-drawn sort of thing, but I think there’s more overlap than some would like to think, as for the clientele.  I actually like that gas hearth across the street, and I think the Starbucks has a nice ambiance in the evening, particularly.  Diesel gets a little too rowdy for my taste.

Nothing exceptional to say about Diesel this morning, except that while I was there I saw an incredibly irritating personage I just had to tell you all about.

I was trying to get to the half-and-half and this moon-faced bekhakied little yuppie with a thing for bright orange was sort of quietly, passively obstructing me.  He was a little fellow, like I said, but with about as big and puffy and loud-ass a coat as a person could possibly have. It was actually buzzing very loudly at a very high frequency (I am a low-grade synesthete, so these things register with me).  It was giving me a headache just being in the same coffee shop with it.

So he's standing there blocking the half-n-half, right?  Now, I am the type of person who uses expressions like "excuse me," and uses them liberally.  I'm not shy about it.  If I am on the T and need to get off, I say "excuse me, excuse me, excuse me."  If I am at Au Bon Pain and don't know if someone is in line or just contemplating the pastries, I say, "excuse me."  But I have found that "excuse me" is not so very common here.

For example, a lot of people don't seem to say "excuse me" when shoving their way through the crush on the T.  As for Au Bon Pain, if you're not sure if someone's in line or not, they're obviously not, right?  The line forms back there, fuckwit. If you're blocking someone's path to the creamer at the coffee shop, a dirty look will do, I guess.

Where I am from, and many other places besides, I have found such words and expressions as "please" and "thank you" (no, not "fuck you," "thank you"—they're close, but not the same), along with "excuse me," and "pardon," function almost like "open sesame" and "abracadabra."  That's why we always used to call them "magic words." 

You want someone to move?  Say "excuse me," and, like magic, they'll make way!  It's NUTS!  And it's like that everywhere, all around the world, with some minor variations.  Except in Boston, apparently. If anyone knows what the magic word is in these parts, I'm all ears!

"Excuse me" gets you nowhere here.  

And this guy was in the way in a weird way, too.  Like he had that kind of energy—and the traffic cop florescent orange puffy coat just added to it. It said, I am a pylon! I am a safety vest!  I am a warning sign! Look at me!  Heed me! I am absolutely sure he's in people’s way all the time.
 
So my "excuse me" had no noticeable effect on him.  And he was not occupied with the creamer, either.  He had his back to it.  He was simply obstructing it, waiting for his coffee order.  "Excuse me," I said, in a non-hostile tone.  Nada.

I have to admit I was not paying attention when he ordered, so it's possible he was deaf, mute, or both.  He may not have spoken English, but he didn't look particularly like he didn't, and I deal with people who don't all day.  Even if you just got off the boat, you know what "excuse me" means.  

At any rate, he was there alone, and spoke to no one, so I still don't know what the deal was. 

So, like I was saying, I said "excuse me," and not in a shitty, entitled way. And got nothing.  No "open sesame."  I should know by now that Boston and its environs are immune to "magic words."  They don't work here. Someone must have slain Pollyanna The Polite Dragon, breaking the spell, and freeing the people from the tyranny of politeness forever! Yay!

I got my half-and-half by reaching around Orange awkwardly, and sat back down.  Orange fussed and fidgeted and made a great many fussy little trips to the counter and back to his seat, bumping into me and squeezing between chairs and tables, mutely.  And finally, after a good deal of commotion, he settled in where I could have a good look at him.

He took off his big florescent orange puffy coat and draped it over the back of his chair.  He was wearing a Barney-the-Dinosaur purple sweater under it. Which I found just deeply, deeply troubling. But the true freakishness of this individual became undeniable when he sat down and set his florescent orange man-purse on the table.  Then I saw that he was wearing a matching florescent orange oxford under the Barney-purple sweater.

Isn't this guy a sign of the Apocalypse?

I can see, like, blue being your color. I’m an autumn, myself, and I like earth tones. I try to diversify the palette, you know. I don’t want people to be like, he’s REALLY into brown, or whatever.  People start to wonder about you if all your clothes are all the same color.

I'll admit there have been times in my life when I woke up to find that every shirt I owned was, say, burgundy. You take it to group, work on it, and move on, though.

It’s obviously unhealthy to have such a strong attachment to one color, but when that color is so unrelenting, so aggressive, so shrillingly, screamingly, look-at-me ORANGE, you have to wonder about the personality sporting it.

It is impossible to know which came first, of course, the penchant for wearing florescent orange, or the orangeness of this gentleman’s aura—is he conscious of his orangeness—an orangeness that transcends the color orange?—or is he a sort of slave to it, thinking it is only a color, when in fact it is an outshining of essence?