A Fight I Forgot To Talk About

Last Tuesday morning Randall and I were eating breakfast when we stopped to eavesdrop on an argument that was taking place behind us. A brother and sister from New Jersey, both in their late teens, were arguing about each other’s behavior in the buffet line. He complained that she was taking forever at a particular station, and she thought it was rude that he had cut ahead of her and moved on down the line. His girlfriend was caught in the middle trying to mediate, albeit unsuccessfully. The sister kept saying things like, “It’s called ‘culture,’ Eric.” She was a bit of a busybody and I sided with the brother, who at this point was shaking with anger. Their parents joined them and the father snapped at them to cut it out. The mother, an Edith Bunker-like woman, said that they should make up and “that there’s no such thing as cutting in a buffet line anyway. If you don’t like something just skip ahead to the next plate.” The argument escalated with the brother making several good points. His sister won, however, by playing her trump card and saying, “Well at least I’m not a racist.”