On the Merits of Being Rude

I no longer hold the

door for someone else.

The last time I did

it made the front page.

By all means, assume

I’m simply tactless;

void of bygone manners;

absent of chivalry—

when a woman’s

right behind me in the

torrent—my faking

obliviance; dreading she’ll think

it’s a ploy to get her number.

The last time I was polite,

I stood like an English

footman, allowed 4 others

to pass. Seconds can domino—

throughout eternity.

Faces have a quintillion

combinations.

As for that unfortunate

quartet, the first one

took a header

on the escalator. Did you know

it can rip apart your

visage should you land

on the bottom step?

Or devour your finger-

tips—the worst thing if you

study Rachmaninoff.

Two was on the inside

walking out—creamed

by a UPS—

in the time of a twinkling

eye. Have you seen an iris

twinkle? I mean the flower,

in its effort to stand

so stalwart in the rain.

We squander much more

water

when we shake off our

umbrellas in the hall.

Third had caught the

train by half-a-stride.

The derailment

made the headlines

in every corner of

Washington.

Not that one—

the one with Walla Walla.

For short it’s Walla Squared.

Mathematics

has never been my

forte. Exactly where

the accent fled I

do not know.

I’ve always pronounced

it four-tay. Like a snooty

little sommelier.

And speaking of all things

4, the final one was smitten

with cirrhosis. Now you may say

I cannot take the blame—

I’m not responsible

for her Pinot nor

her liver—but she only began

to drink when, in the interim before,

I'd held the door with an after you,

not knowing she’d fall in love,

watch me place my jacket

over a puddle, keeping her

stilettos dry.

She sat there in the bistro—

waiting for me to show,

ordering two martinis—

then another and another

and another—while I had been

detained, helping Agatha

cross the artery, 

her groceries in my arm

while we trudged along the

sidewalk to her flat,

a simple four-floor walk-

up where I dropped her

eggs on the stairs,

raced back to the Safeway

for some more,

spent a quarter-

hour choosing

either white or

organic brown, pondering if

our lives can be cage-free,

if St. Peter will shut

the gates just like

an elevator in my

face, my ill-bred

soul that’s dared to feign

salvation in the clouds.

Andreas Gripp

May 8, 2026

William Vanderson / Getty Images