Taking the trash out

I have over the years become a true San Diegan. Despite having spent years on the Eastern Seaboard experiencing things like seasons and icy roads, as soon as it drops below 70 degrees, I put on boots, sweaters, and a parka, while I seriously contemplate moving to Valencia in Spain. Today while I planned my sojourn in the Starbucks downtown, a piercing sound crackled like a lightning bolt in my daydream and jolted me back to California. I peeked up from the top of my scarf to see what was going on, and I noticed that some woman was yelling at the poor bastard behind the counter. How dare he, the apparent lone worker at the establishment, serve the twenty other customers in front of him while she had to leave before her free parking expired. I kind of admired her passion, like she was a prosecutor at the Nuremberg Trials, railing against the atrocities committed against her, and everyone else in the world who had to wait over a minute for their non-fat lattes. She topped it off perfectly with her close, "FYI, your trash is full." Oh, snap. As she walked out, I thought of all the ways I could use that passion, to finally get back at people who cut me off in the freeway, who spilled their drinks on my shoe and got mad at ME, who just treated me as if whatever little mishap that just occurred was my fault. I gained confidence as I sat on the stool drinking my hot chocolate, until finally someone pushed by me and made me spill. As they turned in my direction, I automatically said to them, "sorry."