"Hey You Fucking Asshole, Help Me Move This Sofa."
Stephen Lentz is staunch Bush supporter who lives in my general neighborhood, and by neighborhood i mean "somewhere in University City." He's a tradesman, some sort of plumber or electrician, and his van is covered with bumper stickers: "Bush-Cheney 04", "No New Taxes!", France Sucks". And while I normally refuse to associate with republicans, outside of politics, Steve's not a bad guy. You can talk with him about home repairs, he's active in the community, he likes music.
But a few months ago, Steve and I had a run-in. I didn't close things as well as I could have, and it's gnawed at me ever since.
I was sitting at the bar at Abbraccio when Steve walked in and ordered a beer. We've generally only talked over beers, and he regularly forgets that he's met me. We started talking, and he introduced himself to me.
"Sure, I know you," I said. "You're Steve Lentz, the guy with all the bumper stickers. We have pretty different politics." I said this matter-of-factly, with no mlaice intended. He laughed. I had been talking about my house with the bartender, the legendary Kenn Kweder when Steve had come in.
"Where do you live?" Steve asked.
"A block or so south of the 13 trolley," I said.
"OH! I know that place! I was going to get that and build a pool in the basement." he cracked. "No seriously, that's a cool block. Do you know Kelvin?"
"Yeah, I know Kelvin," I said. "He coaches football after school."
"Yeah, I'm involved with that too," Steve said. "Meetings get pretty hot sometimes. Kelvin's like you, a member of the Looney Left."
"Hey!" I said. "There's no need to call me names. I mean, w would you like it if I called you a jacckbooted quasi nazi thug..."
"Yeah, yeah.."
"No, I'm serious," I said.
"Yeah well, hey look," Steve ploughed on. "I'm involved with this program called Grandma's Boys. There's a lot of these kids, their parents are absent or in jail or whatever, and their grandparents watch 'em. I heard you talking about your yard and well, our group finds them odd jobs during summer, you pay like $10 an hour or so for their labor."
And that's where I fucked up. I was still angry from the "looney left" comment, and said "I don't give to charity."
"No, it's not chari--"
"No see, I'm conservative like you. I don't give to charity. It's someone else's problem. Let them pull themselves up by their own bootstraps."
That was the wrong response: it made me look like an asshole.
The proper response would have been "Excuse me. Just a moment ago you referred to me as a 'member of the looney left.' You impugn my character and make assumptions about my political affiliations, and now you're trying to enlist me in your pet project? Steve, it doesn't work that way. You can't tell me to go fuck myself one day and expect me to help you out the next."
I've been keeping my eye out for Steve lately: I have to explain this to him.
I've also been keeping my eye out for Kelvin: he's probably involved in the Grandma's Boys effort too, and I'm always willing to lend a hand to my local Demmycrats.
Stephen Lentz is staunch Bush supporter who lives in my general neighborhood, and by neighborhood i mean "somewhere in University City." He's a tradesman, some sort of plumber or electrician, and his van is covered with bumper stickers: "Bush-Cheney 04", "No New Taxes!", France Sucks". And while I normally refuse to associate with republicans, outside of politics, Steve's not a bad guy. You can talk with him about home repairs, he's active in the community, he likes music.
But a few months ago, Steve and I had a run-in. I didn't close things as well as I could have, and it's gnawed at me ever since.
I was sitting at the bar at Abbraccio when Steve walked in and ordered a beer. We've generally only talked over beers, and he regularly forgets that he's met me. We started talking, and he introduced himself to me.
"Sure, I know you," I said. "You're Steve Lentz, the guy with all the bumper stickers. We have pretty different politics." I said this matter-of-factly, with no mlaice intended. He laughed. I had been talking about my house with the bartender, the legendary Kenn Kweder when Steve had come in.
"Where do you live?" Steve asked.
"A block or so south of the 13 trolley," I said.
"OH! I know that place! I was going to get that and build a pool in the basement." he cracked. "No seriously, that's a cool block. Do you know Kelvin?"
"Yeah, I know Kelvin," I said. "He coaches football after school."
"Yeah, I'm involved with that too," Steve said. "Meetings get pretty hot sometimes. Kelvin's like you, a member of the Looney Left."
"Hey!" I said. "There's no need to call me names. I mean, w would you like it if I called you a jacckbooted quasi nazi thug..."
"Yeah, yeah.."
"No, I'm serious," I said.
"Yeah well, hey look," Steve ploughed on. "I'm involved with this program called Grandma's Boys. There's a lot of these kids, their parents are absent or in jail or whatever, and their grandparents watch 'em. I heard you talking about your yard and well, our group finds them odd jobs during summer, you pay like $10 an hour or so for their labor."
And that's where I fucked up. I was still angry from the "looney left" comment, and said "I don't give to charity."
"No, it's not chari--"
"No see, I'm conservative like you. I don't give to charity. It's someone else's problem. Let them pull themselves up by their own bootstraps."
That was the wrong response: it made me look like an asshole.
The proper response would have been "Excuse me. Just a moment ago you referred to me as a 'member of the looney left.' You impugn my character and make assumptions about my political affiliations, and now you're trying to enlist me in your pet project? Steve, it doesn't work that way. You can't tell me to go fuck myself one day and expect me to help you out the next."
I've been keeping my eye out for Steve lately: I have to explain this to him.
I've also been keeping my eye out for Kelvin: he's probably involved in the Grandma's Boys effort too, and I'm always willing to lend a hand to my local Demmycrats.
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