Temper, Temper

Hi.

My name is RobRoy McCandless, and I have a temper.

I’m proud to say that it’s been . . . ummm, let’s see . . . thirty-six hours since I last had an extreme outburst of anger, and that was totally and completely justified because the guy was trying to ram me in his mini-van filled with old people.

Seriously.

But this morning, I am proud to say, that although the opportunity presented itself, I remained calm, cool and collected under extreme pressure.

“You don’t need to go touching people!”

I looked up from my book, and over at Kathy, who is part of my train family. The lady behind us had just yelled. I generally attempt to reject my more base instincts to rubberneck, but the lady (and I use the term very, very loosely) behind us had not only raised her voice, she was yelling, loudly and with a full furor or righteous vigor.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to let you know . . .”

“Well, you don’t need to go touching people!”

"I'm really sorry . . ."

"I don't give a good goddamn what you are or aren't, you shouldn't be touching my personal person or anyone else with your grubby, insensitive . . ."

It went on like this for some time.

The woman would not be placated, not by admissions of guilt, fervent and heart-felt apologies, or mustard gas.

What?

It’s for medicinal purposes.

My morning commute reading had been interrupted, and clearly this tirade wasn’t going to end any time soon. Since it seemed like so much fun, I decided to join in. Perhaps this is some new game the peasant people play on the train? I was willing to join in the fun and festivities.

“Ma’am,” I said, and should have regretted it when she turned her fiery fury upon me, “maybe you should calm down.”

No, really, that’s what I said. That was all I said. Her response evoked some impressive and colorful uses of language. A couple of the truck drivers in the car blushed. Flames erupted from her eyes and singed the seat covers.

I smiled.

“Ma’am, you really need to sit down. If you still have a problem, we can call the conductor and he can help you out, but please, you should sit down.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“No one, but you should sit down.”

“That’s right! YOU ARE NO ONE! DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN WHEN SOMEONE PUTS THEIR HANDS ON ME!”

“And she apologized for it, so please, you should sit down.”

“WHO MADE YOU HER ATTORNEY?”

Again, I smiled, and this time, interestingly enough, I could see her doubt the position of righteous indignation.

“Please, ma’am, it's time to sit down.”

It was then that a SWAT team broke through one of the windows, piled on top of the woman and wrested control of the bomb from her.

Well, that’s what would have happened if we’d been in L.A.

But this was the Orange County line, and we just don’t do things like that.

Instead, as something of a letdown, the woman just fumed, sat down, and muttered under her breath for the remainder of the ride.

I didn’t stand up, I didn’t get angry, and I didn’t lose my temper.

Perhaps I’m growing?