“Sunday drivers! It’s only Saturday!” – Victoria Beckham, Spiceworld: The Movie
All I wanted was my daily double-shot latte from Starbucks. I had just had lunch, and could already feel the drowsiness threaten to take hold. So I decided to make the 7-minute drive from my office to Pavilion, cursing at having to actually drive to a mall and tussle for a parking spot just to get to a Starbucks.
Traffic was heavier than usual, which exponentially increased my intolerance for bad driving, and I found myself having to plant my hand firmly down on the horn several times because other drivers felt it was within their jurisdiction to switch lanes without signaling or looking out for blind spots.
When I finally made it to Pavilion, I was slightly disgruntled at the considerably long line that had formed at the counter in Starbucks, so much so that the next person to stand in line after me, who was a Caucasian man, had to stand framed in the doorway, and unable to close the door.
It was then that I noticed that a woman standing two places before me in the line was so preoccupied with peering into the dessert display that she hadn’t noticed the people in front of her leaving the line after they had paid. It was also then that I noticed the man standing in between her and me was seemingly oblivious to the fact that there the line now began where this woman appeared rooted to the spot, at the dessert display and five feet away from the counter itself.
I turned around and glanced at the foreigner behind me, who was staring at the woman and looking as incredulous as I felt. So I reached out, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, “Excuse me, you’re going to have to get a move on so that other people can come in.” I knew I probably sounded more insolent than I needed to be, but at that point I was too irate and too impatient to care, and I had long ago given up trying to mask my contempt and distaste for the inconsideration, oblivion and ignorance the people of this country are so notorious for.
The woman turned around, surveyed the line that had formed behind her for a few seconds, and then said, “Oh, sorry.” As she scuttled over to the counter, I could have sworn I heard the foreigner mutter, “Bloody…” and trail off there, perhaps not wanting to be overheard calling a native of the country he was visiting a name she nevertheless deserved.
Malaysians. It’s a charm they alone in this world possess.