Famous Nobodies
I'll freely admit that I'm a spiteful person. But not in the way that most people are spiteful. Typically, the average person must be provoked to spite by extraordinary circumstances. It's an act to engage when someone has committed a serious, personal offense, or at very least served you a bad coffee. But I don't simply wait for spite to happen. I relish it, embrace it, and seek it out at all opportunities. Because, really, how many good stories, jokes, or major works of literature revolve around everyone being happy, getting along, and going on picnics together? The answer is, of course, none. Blood feuds, petty grievances, and even just plain misunderstandings are the fuel for an interesting day. So I, for one, am always grateful for every opportunity I find to develop a new nemesis. You might even say that whenever I shake my fist at someone, it's my way of saying, "Thank you for this opportunity."
But sometimes I worry that I may take my spitefulness a bit too far. For example, my girlfriend and I were walking down the street the other day, which is always a bad starting point in New York City, as you can't make it through a single block without finding something to obstruct your path, offend your senses, or badger you for a donation. Elderly ladies hobbling to their appointments with death; garbage piles of the size of a school bus; cheery, smock-draped clipboard holders who mistake the inability to avoid eye contact for a philanthropic disposition; puddles of feces that could equally well have come from an old Labrador or a young wino. Irritation is everywhere, and all the headphones in the world can't keep it out.
However, on this particular occasion, the streets were relatively clean and clear, and I sauntered on my merry way unhindered. But almost inevitably, my bouncing stride was broken when I passed through a small group of people, who at first sight seemed like nothing more than an uncollected group of tourists. That is, until the hive mind kicked in and they formed into a collective paparazzo mob that swarmed around me with cameras flashing. For a brief moment I thought, "My reputation precedes me!" Of course, I quickly realized that their attention was not drawn to the tall, devilishly handsome, and grossly under appreciated comedian, but instead was focused on a couple of young ladies getting out of a limousine. Using my astute powers of deduction, I concluded that given the attention they were receiving, these ladies must be famous. I tried to catch a glimpse of the young starlets, but I was disappointed to discover that I had no idea who the women in question were.
With that realization, I was suddenly seized with an urge to approach them and inform them of my discovery. I didn't want an autograph or a photo; I just wanted them to know that they weren't really as famous as they think they are, and they certainly weren't important enough to interrupt interrupt my travels.
Bear in mind that celebrities are a dime a dozen in New York, and when I do manage to catch a glimpse of one of my favorite artists in day-to-day life, I have no urge to let them know how much their work has meant to me or collect evidence to prove that our paths once crossed. But these people were different. They weren't people I had adored from afar, they were just the objects of a media entourage that had momentarily impeded the flow of my day, and the only interest I had in their aura of importance was to take it down a couple notches.
In the end, I decided that as glorious as the moment of spite could have been, my girlfriend might not have felt that making a couple young girls cry would set the best tone for our date. So I let the moment pass, certain that something equally trivial would come along to vex me as soon as she'd gone home. But I like to think that maybe one of those girls will stumble upon this post some day, reflect back on that strange tall man who glared at them on their way to dinner, and shed a small tear for their long-past fifteen minutes. What can I say? I'm a dreamer.
-TC