Out of Control

I note this week while some folks mistake a laid-back attitude for comatose, there are times of genuine rage.

One was yesterday.

But before we get to that, years ago, new at managing, I, the younger, and as of yet, only erstwhile comatose, erupted when an employee tried to reverse a decision by appealing to another supervisor. Intense, then, recalling it now, fifteen years later, who cares?

The second comatose-ignitus flashed against a Hollywood backdrop of mistaken identity - can you imagine, a person who bought the Mrs. a Fisher-Price digital camera last Christmas, a paparazzo?

The conflagaration was lit, when suddently, at 3 p.m., chairs and sofas were removed from the lobby and ordinary paying guests of the Bevery Hilton were abruptly ordered to go to their rooms to make way for an Oscars-week function.

Caught up in the frenzy, rebelling against the phony authority, and aching to glimpse real live movie stars (Jack Lemon driving up in his Rolls, Billy Wilder in the passenger seat, stands out) - the fireworks flew after what I'm told is a typically arrogant off-duty LA rent-a-cop took exception to my clicking away from a vantage position behind a potted plant.

Yesterday's incident lies closer to home.

You must first understand how tight commuter train cliques become. Some are harmlessly benign - lots of laughs, camaderie, Friday evening happy hours - all in good fun.

Other cliques emerge terriorial and mean.

Driven by inane conversations too loud for 5:15 a.m., we sought peace in another car, only to encounter something more disturbing.

Living 65 miles south of the City, up at 3:10, in the parking lot at 4, on the platform at 4:30, first on the train at 4:50, a person earns rights to a seat of their choice.

By God, I've earned it, don't you agree?

Yet when a self-privileged clique pack boarded en masse, and one harpie in particular, face scrunched like a dried apple, took a seat opposite, spewing, glowering and mumbling, my usual peaceful mood, fortified so far by only one hurried cup of coffee, cracked and fissured under the strain of four straight days of harrassment. I'll grant you, a whispered aside to the wife, louder than I thought, was uncalled for, yet volcanic ash rages uncontrollably once the lava starts to flow.

Friend Jill senses an instinctive avoidance in me to situations which can't be tightly tucked at all four corners. Air travel, for example, where there's an intimidating security point, a wait for a flight which might be delayed so you miss a connection while your luggage doesn't, turbulence, the whole airlines megillah, is excruciating, until I'm channel surfing for HBO in a hotel room lying on a downy posture-pedic bed.

I note in the past week, however, two more serious occurences, brought to my attention, and not situationally-borne like those above, but long-simmering, where people accomodate themselves to a quiet daily rage which can erupt, but is, for the most part, suppressed.

There's the daughter of a friend, half African-American, half-Latina, who in High School, displayed a scientific brillance, and was surrounded by multi-cultural friends of a similar nature. As a college freshman, on her own, she was lost. While the campus sponsors associations for both her heritages, there is nothing for the blend of identities, nothing to support someone so special, and now we know, so fragile.

In the office, a dear friend, half-African American, half Phillipino, came over to show pictures of her trip to the South Pacific. On Guam, she met a fella of similar dual background. She'd finally discovered the like companion she'd never known and relished the experience.

Teaching Adult Sunday School last week, engrossed in the usual expression of obscure theology, a lady yelled out suddenly, "are you Jewish?"

Jill responded, "he used to be."

I guess it shows.

Growing up in New York, aged 3 months to 12 years, I thought everyone was Jewish. Moving to pre-Disney Florida, I didn't think anyone was but me. Hearing someone say "Jew him down," for the first time, turned my stomach. Already possessing an insular personality, my own company became increasingly sufficient; the world of comics, sports magazines, and books, a comforting retreat.

Moving to the exurbs of a Southern city containing a small Jewish presence, but one lacking eccumenical influence, I gravitated towards another available faith, one effectively active in local service ministry, After Baptism, ironically, I chaired philantrophic boards driven by mission statements exclusively Christian (which I tried to alter but to no effect). Nevertheless, there was no other way to build homeless shelters here.

The Virginia Episcopal parish I joined a decade ago is now split in two by the consecration of a gay bishop in New Hampshire. Fully emeshed in the inclusive remnant, it is the only place outside of immediate family, I've ever felt at home - yet this surviving half-a-parish isn't an exclusive clique, and until the split, the unified church never appeared as such (or else I was blind to it).

Our members defy any evolutionary instinct to shun intruders; each character, original or newcomer, has his or her own place, even those like myself, born of another faith entirely, and let's face it, a bit strange.

St. Margaret's Episcopal is the club to join that would have someone like me as a member.

This piece is an act of contrition. I confess and apologize for calling that woman on the train an old witch loud enough so she could hear. My personal apology was rebuffed so I present it at the foot of the Cross to Him who forgives everything offered by a contrite heart.

Will there be another regrettable out-of-control beserker?

I hope not. The hangover is brutal.