File Under "Irrational Anger"

"You may at times be hit with waves of what seems like irrational anger," they tell you during the Afghanistan after-action outbrief. I didn't think it would happen to me; I like to think of myself as laid back and even keeled. But then the guy in front of me at Chipotle waffled for what seemed like ages over what kind of salsa to get, blocking my burrito's access to the cheese and sour cream, and I thought -- if this keeps up much longer, I'm going to fork you in the fucking throat.

***

I ran into a college friend at a bar and he welcomed me back to DC. "Glad to be back?" he asked.

"I am," I said, "but I'm really tired of talking about Afghanistan." A friend of his, clearly on his way to blackout drunk, only heard the word Afghanistan. "That's so cool!" he slurred. "What was it LIKE?"

I sighed, but it was lost in the thumping techno. "It was fine," I said. "I survived."

"Well, where were you? What were you doing?"

"It's not important," I said, trying to move away from him.  He put his arm around me, hand on my lower back, and then slid it further down. "You have a really nice ass," he said.

I was secretly pleased with that -- I had spent the summer cycling and a nice ass was one of the desired outcomes -- but I was annoyed at his pawing. "I don't think I know you well enough for your hand to be on my ass," I said.  He slid his paw to the front of my shorts, and I smacked it away. "Enough," I said firmly. He grabbed at my crotch again, and I grabbed him firmly by the forearm and leaned in close.

"If you touch my dick again, I'll break your fucking wrist," I said.

***

I went and got a library card in the hopes that the massive MLK branch downtown might have a CD of Anna Bolena, the first opera of the Kennedy Center's season. (They didn't -- they only carry it in vinyl).

Just outside the library, a homeless person lurched towards me, reeking of urine. He pointed a finger at my chest and said, "gimme a motherfuckin' dollar."

For whatever reason, my gut response was to snap back at him in Pashto, a guttural language I don't really speak but love the sound of. He stepped backwards suspiciously, broke eye contact, and spoke

pointedly into the air next to me.

"I SAID, gimme a motherfuckin' DOLLAR," he said, without much conviction.