Can't stand me now

It's not easy to know where this story begins. I guess really it is the story of one man, and not about me. Or about how lives intertwine.

His name was Chris -- probably still is -- and all I knew of him was he was some friend of a friend that got a job in the pub where I worked. He seemed like a nice enough guy -- and I'd vaguely known him before this, as you do in this town with almost anyone -- but even know I can identify he always had an attitude about him. He always had a chip on his shoulder. He was always hard done by, and shouldn't have to work. Or, indeed, whatever. I never knew him that well to really go into too deep an analysis.
Skip ahead; he quit the job he had because he couldn't stand to be bossed around by our mutual friend. That was his tough luck, he took the job, she'd earned her position. And he'd left almost as suddenly as he started, taking his attitude with him. And he faded back into the background of someone you know but aren't really friends with.

And as a disclaimer, it's my libellous belief he was, is, or has been screwing Deb. That's a whole other story.

Skip way on ahead to Christmas eve, a night like most others I'm walking to the pub with a few friends. As we approach the cash machine, Chris is already ahead of us. With a sneer and a snarky comment he says he doesn't need to guess where we are headed that night -- yes, I know, I don't like that my friends won't go anywhere else either. And maybe I felt defensive, as while my friends stayed quiet I told him "Yes, your mum has a special offer going tonight -- two for the price of one". He warned me not to make comments like that. Oh, so I shouldn't say things like "..." and here I omit details for the sake of anonymity. He told me he would warn me again, but there wouldn't be a third time.
I paused. I considered it. What's the worst that could happen? I weighed up the options and figured being punched in the face probably wasn't worth pushing my luck over. When he and Deb turned up at the pub about 5 minutes behind us, I did feel slightly justified in combatting his sarcatic tone of voice, but forgot about it. Jon mentioned to me that Chris was actually adopted, hasn't handled it very well and apparently -- so it would seem -- doesn't react well to comments about his mum. This was all news to me. If it hadn't been, I might not have said it.
On the other hand, I can make pretty damn insensitive comments if so inclined.

Almost a week later, I'd pretty much forgotten all about it. I was out playing pool and I saw Chris arrive with some of his friends. It hadn't really struck me as that odd that although people had seen me, nobody had acknowledged me. Even Deb arriving with Chris didn't. Even Laura -- whom I'd worked with for however many years and am still close to, didn't acknowledge me. As I say, I didn't think anything of it. Until I ran into Chris at the bar.

Maybe I was naive, or underestimated quite how much I'd annoyed him. I wasn't about to try and be the best of friends with him, but I called his name and he seemed to ignore me. At first. Then before he left the bar he came over, stood over me and told me that the next time I said anything like that again and didn't have my friends with me, he would put my nose through the back of my head. He poked my face and told me to remember that, and walked away. I called his name once, if only to ask what the fuck. But I quickly remembered my 'warnings'.

And it's funny, because part of me is still amused he reacted to such a stupid comment. Comments I make to my very closest friends all the time. Part of me wants to tell him to just get the fuck over it, nobody cares who the fuck his parents are -- or aren't. I might have been tempted to apologise for any offence caused, before he reacted the way he did. Now I'm torn. Part of me wants to be very zen about it, tells me that my holding a grudge against someone that apparently holds a completely ludicrous grudge is not only absurd, but bad karma. It tells me that hate is a disease that will kill you, and harbouring bad feelings only makes you sick. Part of me is all fucking zen master about it.
But the other part is funnier still, because he has really no idea how close sometimes I am to the very edge of sanity.
He has absolutely no idea that while I might be standing smiling and playing pool, I'm thinking about burning down his house. I'm told the difference really lies no with people who would think of it, but the people who actually would go through with it. Those who would go through with it probably aren't those who turn to writing for an emotional release.

To me, the whole thing is a symptom. A symptom of this town, this county, this whole damn life here. Why I want to move out, move away, skip the whole country and watch it carry on sinking into the sea.

But for now, what does this mean? Be careful whose mothers you suggest offer sexual favours for money (and to think if I wanted to be really insulting I could have tried to drop in some reference to the Suffolk strangler), don't be so sarcastic to people, watch your back. And if he will ever get over it, I don't know.