Anger Management 101
I was invited to Jim’s post-birthday celeb last Saturday. Handicapped that I was at that time — gout — my friend/neighbor Marilyn was giving me a lift. Taking the subway would have been a better option because parking is a problem where Birthday Boy lives. No big deal for The Good Samaritan that was Marilyn — the phrase” your welfare is my concern” highlighted on her sweet face. I skipped the fine lines that read, “I am not up to playing the role of alalay — personal assistant/caregiver, not today!”
“Hayun!” (Over there!), I exclaimed excitedly, pointing to a free spot I’d spotted when we reached our destination. Could not be any luckier – just a few steps away from the house where the birthday boy has his apartment. She only needed to pull her SUV into that tight space between two parked cars, slowly and cautiously, on the side of that one-way street, and she would be ok, I assured her. And someone to guide her to make it happen; that someone happened to be me.
I stepped out of the car and had barely stood up when the driver of a small vehicle trailing us started blowing his horn long and hard, yelling he could not wait a hundred years for us to park. Trottel, I mumbled in German. You just got here this very moment, and you’re telling me you waited too long already, hello!
The driver hastily opened the window and yelled incoherent words as I approached his car. I was startled by what I saw and gasped! A Klaus Kinski Doppelgaenger on an awful day – a grumpy, wrinkled, older man with mean bloodshot eyes, crooked, swollen lips (not to be confused with pouty), thinning white hair, unkempt! Seated beside him was probably his wife — a frail-looking woman, presumably his age, also white-haired.
“Was it necessary to blow your horn that hard?” I asked in a rehearsed, calm voice, but inside me was an angry dog straining from his leash to lunge toward another dog or a stranger. I was ready for what might come next, but I wished I had my walking stick with me. Nosferatu uttered a litany of inaudible words. I showed him the dirty finger. He bolted out of his car, and, for a split second, I thought he would hit me. He halted himself abruptly before he could come too close to me.
“What did you show me?” he demanded, his teeth clenched, crooked lips quivering in rage.
“The dirty finger because you were rude! Why can’t you wait?” He didn’t say a word. He just stood there frozen, breathing heavily, his jaw chattering. Then he slowly backed up to his car, started the engine, gave me one last dagger look, and sped away. His wife glanced at me as if she wanted to apologize for her husband’s bad behavior. Maybe she thought I was Kim Jong-un with one eyebrow raised so high it could touch the stars.
This ugly encounter with this toxic Austrian spoiled my mood to party. I was angry, and that anger lingered through dinner; I hardly touched my food. Then it jolted me to realize that my anger – nay, hatred – was no longer focused on Nosferatu but all the Austrians in general. They’re all the same towards Tschusch(en) and Ausländer — German for foreigners, often used as slurs for Slavs or non-Germans. Tschusshen is a derogatory term for Slavs or people of other ethnic origins — interchangeable, in my opinion, with Auslaender. For a brief moment of rage, I forgot about the many kind-hearted Austrians I know — my friends who have been nice to me all these years, those who consider me family and accepted me for what I am — warts and all.
I shivered in shame, realizing I had let my anger distort my view of the Austrians I cherished, and was dismayed by my own reaction.
In my rage, I grabbed the knife and mockingly stabbed the spit-roasted lamb, turning anger into humor.
That night I slept soundly—no bad dreams. Go get yourself a roasted “sacrificial” lamb next time you get murderously angry.