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Cherokee County has come down with a bad case of the “Crankies.” It’s possible the virus originated inside some recent county commissioners’ meetings, where many people succumbed to the classic symptoms of an inability to listen and general lack of civility. But I’ve seen small pockets of the infection in other places as well.
On Thanksgiving, for example, I was one of those who had no feast or family to occupy me. I figured that the traditional mealtime would be a great opportunity to grocery shop. I expected a vacant parking lot at Ingles and was surprised to see it packed to capacity when I arrived.
I suppose this spark of scarcity ignited the Crankies. There was a prime parking spot opening up but as I crept toward it, cheering my good luck, another shopper had spotted it as well. Two predators, one prey.
I saw it first, which should have given me prior claim, but the Crankies hold to no such courtesies. My competitor drove a big truck and revved the engine in intimidation. It was a loud and hungry growl.
I buckled down in my humble Honda inching forward, my turn indicator blinking as a warning. We had both been infected.
We crouched, waiting for the driver to make his move. Everybody was on high alert now, the two of us facing each other like the bull and the red cape. Even the poor sap unloading his groceries felt the tension.
But my opponent and I hadn’t counted on the prime-spot driver becoming infested with the Crankies himself. Seconds after glancing at us, he decided to massage his control muscle. Slowly, almost leisurely, he unloaded what looked like a month’s supply of groceries into his trunk. He became fascinated with the laundry detergent, caressing the bottle, and reading the label like it held a secret message. He did the same thing with his giant bag of dog food, placing it this way, taking it back out only to pivot midair and position it back where it started.
The truck driver, in a moment of rash weakness, honked his horn at the guy and for moment, I almost ended my feud in solidarity against the control freak. But, in the last second, remembered we were enemies and so resumed my vigil. The horn honk, of course, only fueled the fiend who made a big show of switching from slow to slower. Finally, the last bag made its way to his car and it was game on.
Except that it wasn’t. The well-stocked shopper got into his car and my adversary and I watched it glow blue from his phone. We had already invested a solid 6-8 minutes coveting this spot, and now the laundry soap lover was going to play solitaire on his phone?
This was beginning to feel like my marriage right before the divorce. I had invested so much time and energy into the thing that I clung to it well past the shelf date simply to justify my previous efforts.
The truck driver, the more sensible of the two of us, reversed his truck to search for a better opportunity. I watched him retreat knowing that even if the prime-spot guy decided to back out, it would be a hollow victory. In his concession, the truck driver deflated my sense of entitlement.
I’m not certain who the winner was. Both the truck driver and I lost a bit of time in the battle. Our heart rates increased as we sat in judgment – another classic sign of the Crankies. The prime-spot guy held all the power, yes, but he, too, was forced to spend part of his holiday in an Ingles parking lot, exerting authority over two strangers in an odd flex of control.
Obviously, the three of us had been infected. The Crankies are sneaky that way; rushing in all hot and bothered, frothing up ill will and unkindness. But there was a remedy. The Crankies made me believe I was the supreme being of the universe and all other humans were annoying and wrong. I could heal from the condition with a dose of grace mixed with a tall glass of humility.
I noticed the prime spot guy, for example, had purchased a bottle of wine. Perhaps clinging to his position was superior to a chaotic home filled with too much family and not enough alcohol. And the truck driver had a car seat strapped into his extended cab. Maybe they needed children’s Tylenol.
It’s possible that all three of us were just unremarkable jerks. Occam’s razor and all of that.
I’ve learned to be on the lookout for symptoms. When I feel a flush of self-righteousness, I check myself, relying on one of the tenets from Rotary Club. “Will it build goodwill and better friendships?” I’ve found that by assuming the best, I become impervious to the Crankies.
Spread the word, Santa’s coming – and he’s making a list.
Abigail Blythe Batton is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Her column runs every other week. Email her at ablythebatton@gmail.com or leave a message at 837-5122.