I don't think I'm a cynic. Sarcastic yes, with perhaps just a shade of cynicism. But I don't believe the cynicism I do have to be random. I limit myself to cynicism based on experience and knowledge I have. Meaning that if I do express cynical tendencies, they are generally to do with things I know. Suffice to say it can be difficult to temper cynicism to maintain a sense of realism. I think this is where so many, including myself more often than not, fall down. I also think the reason for this is frustration and laziness. After all, it is often easier to let it all flow than express one's ideas truthfully. Confused? Then let's try this…

A nice meaty topic of the moment to use, and what the hell I'm going to use it… racism!

Now to generalise about an ethnic group as to their supposed stereotyped traits is easy. The easiest path is the one most trodden. So, when presenting an argument, emotion so easily takes control and blurs reality. And I think often the author of such argument becomes lazy in not speaking as he "knows" but more of what is populace thought. For instance, to say to be black is to be criminal is obviously incorrect. And grossly so. But the reason behind it is to brace one's arguments with populace thought and therefore avoid the inconvenience of justifying such arguments with alternative comment. Clear as mud right. I know. But it is tough to explain. I know what I mean but damned if I can express what I mean in words. Sometimes my explanations come together and sometimes they don't. Simple as that.

Anyway, I was in the public library today reading the daily newspapers, like I said.

I had been there for perhaps 30 minutes, reading, contented and peaceful, relaxing to the day's killings, wars and mayhem. A woman entered the reading area and sat down directly opposite me at the table. She was early to mid thirties I guess, and appeared as of gothic style tendencies. You know, the heavy, cheap silver rings and wristbands, the black nail polish and lacy-style clothing. Probably new-age expressionism in old style garb. Gothic's hardly new after all, as are neither Levi jeans. But then the old jean is apparently of a by-gone era of late. The usual headlines of factories closing, the end of a generation and stuff. It's a new generation you know. Seems as though it's the one after mine. So where did that sneak up from. In fact you could be forgiven for believing the "next" generation, the one behind you, sought of lurks in the shadows somewhere, just observing, quiet and hidden. Then, from absolutely no-where, like a dive-bombing magpie it strikes. Suddenly the "next" generation are bloody well everywhere. Just look around. You find yourself thinking, "where the hell did they come from?" Suddenly your generation is no longer the darling. The new baby has arrived into the family and you just aint the centre of attention no more. Dejection! If at least you could have been a little more on your guard and, if not had actually seen the little shits coming, at least have been expecting them. They got me a good one.

So I guess that makes me a Levis guy from the Levis generation. They do this on purpose you know. It lets all of us at some stage fully realise our age. Wham… you're 30! Aging is a brutal thing. Taken down by a bunch of kids. I was obviously sleeping the last decade off and failed to notice. Next thing I know, some kid's going to be offering me his seat on the local bus to town. I dare them all!

Now I'm not really in the slightest bit critical of this woman's style, dress sense or anything like that. In many ways I felt a little sorry for her. Though the moment she arrived at the table, the irritation began. There were several reasons for this, which I'll endeavour to explain.

First things first. The Perfume. Oh my Lord the perfume. Last time I did a tear gas tolerance exercise on a Police training day I fared better. At least it was for a good cause and we all knew it was "meant" to be unpleasant. Man did she reek of perfume. At least if it was a desirable fragrance you know. Something with a little class and 'panache'. Perhaps if the stuff had been laced with genitalia burning pheromones or something, it may have been bearable. But instead my every orifice became clogged with this woman's smell. The fumes seeped ruthlessly and unabatedly into my body, occupying my person, so as to asphyxiate my respiratory system. Air I thought! I need air! But I didn't move. What could I do? I had no intention of leaving, as I hadn't finished with my reading. I could hardly move to another table. What, and embarrass the poor woman? Not my style. So I stayed. And I suffered. I was so moved by the experience I was almost swayed toward bringing her choice of perfume to her attention for all its social inadequacies. But I said nothing. I mean, what would one say?

"Excuse me, ahh… excuse me… I like to help people out wherever possible you know, and I really have no desire to embarrass you in any way. It's just that, well, from a guy perspective, that perfume you're wearing, it's not really that nice."

"I beg your pardon!"

Anyway, I didn't do it so it's not important.

Upon sitting at the table the woman retrieved from her bag a textbook on mathematics and a writing pad. Now call me critical and over-reactionary but what followed over the next 10 minutes served to reinforce my belief in the fact that some people quite simply have "no idea".

The woman arranged her two books by shunting them around on the table in front of her, building herself a little nest of personal space on the tabletop. She pushed newspapers aside, including giving the one I had before me a good shove. She crumpled, crushed and generally stampeded her way into position. The word is rude. Downright rude. There were no subtleties here. Translated into words, this bellowed, "I have arrived, make way, I have arrived, stand aside folks, gimme space team, thank you, thank you…"

The three cell phone calls the woman received over the next 10 minutes was the icing on the cake. One yeah, maybe. But three? I'm sorry but we're in a library, not a stock exchange. Despite not owning a cell phone, I do know they have on/off switches. I know this because of the failed calls I've made in my time to cell phones, only to receive the recorded message, "the mobile phone you have called is either switched off or outside the coverage area, please try again later!"

From this I can draw but one conclusion. All those unsuccessful calls? The intended recipients of my calls were all in the library, showing a little respect to those around them.

Copyright © Anthony Gibbons 2000.