PLEASE DON’T BANG MY DOOR!

I’ve had it up to here!

This Mr. Nice Guy act never pays off. Never. How it had me hoping and believing that people are different and I shouldn’t generalize or let the sun go down on my anger. But I’ve had way too much experience with gents and dames, wannabe’s and proper’s to throw them all in one basket.

Take the most recent of such gestures that turned mistake. I had walked out from a rather grueling final – the type that makes you want to hire a ninja assasin to take out the descendants of whoever it is who invented school. I figured I could cool off by engaging with my equally traumatized colleagues and whine in unison over the exam. Just as I headed for the door, a lady acquaintance perceived I was driving and asked for a lift. 

My first thought was how muddy the floor mats were – it’s a Probox, its expected right? My second thought calculated the distance to her desired destination. A bearable 10 minutes of conversation would be my contribution to humanity today. Mr.Nice Guy prevailed and I obliged.

We pulled out of school and headed towards her destination. Those floor mats were worse than I thought. Is that a weed sprouting?

It was a Saturday afternoon and the traffic gods had favored me and my small engine by clearing the roads ahead of us. We arrived 4 minutes earlier than I had thought. The chat wasn’t too bad either. Then began the customary thank you and welcome as I pondered on the feasibility of a driving back to Kitengela on my empty stomach.

She opened the door and grabbed her bag. Almost there boys, anytime now and we’ll be smashing into a cheese burger and ketchup-smothered fries. She let out one last goodbye, smiled and then, almost in a dubiously calculated affront on my emotions, slammed the door with every pound of flesh on her bone.

Some type of paralysis set in. What the hell had just happened? I slowly glanced at the window expecting to see a crack straight down the middle like a Thorian bolt from Azgaurd.

Maybe she noticed her attempt at destroying my (mothers) automobile and was coming back to apologize. I caught sight of the offender joyfully trotting across the road like a hippie towards her nirvana. I just sat there for a while, the only way I knew to console Paula (that’s her name) after her aggressor almost maimed her. There and then, soaking in a juice of fury and confusion, I swore never to give anyone a lift again.

To be honest with you, the juices did drain after I shoved some fast food down. In fact, I gave a couple people a lift the following week. Something did, however, change. I was no longer an optimistic Mr. Nice Guy. Oh no, that died when I unwillingly confronted the myth that women aren’t as physically strong as men. That girl almost had me driving a heap of scrap metal. I’ll still give lifts when asked to but this time, I make sure, right before my passengers thank me for being such a nice guy, to say as firmly and direct as I can, “Please don’t bang my door!”