When Crissy and I first came out to NYC together to search for apartments, I was keeping a mental scorecard of the asshole to cool people ratio. I stopped counting after about an hour, because I thought I had a pretty accurate data my hypothesis: people are people. Some are assholes, some are not.
Some people hold doors for you, some do not. Some people take your coffee order with their backs to you, some do not. Some people fart in crowded elevators, some do not.
It doesn’t matter what city you’re in. There are plenty of assholes in Chicago, too. Like the dude at intelligentsia who wouldn’t sell me a double espresso over ice because they’d been “experiencing a lot of latte theft.”
Or the cab driver who wouldn’t drop me off at any other address than the incorrect one I accidentally gave him "because!" he screamed, “you’re trying to rip off me!”
Or the dude who pulled a complete f*ckface U-turn right in front of me with his entire family in the car, almost causing an accident, only to roll down his window and tell me he did it because, in his words, “I thought I’d teach you a lesson.”
Here in New York, I’ve found the asshole ratio to be pretty much the same. I really haven’t had any major incidents yet. I guess I kind of expected every third person to grab a handful of crotch and say, “I got your turkey sandwich…RIGHT HEEEAH!” So far, not the case.
Which, in a way, is a little disappointing. After all, it’s part of the reason I wanted to move here in the first place.
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