The idiot driving that truck....

I am very sad I have to buy diesel for this trip but the weather is so cold, even my water freezes!

I exit the double glass doors of the filling station, holding the door slightly open so it doesn't hit the older white man who is entering.

He takes the door, peers at me, and then asks me if I'm the idiot who is driving that truck. He motions to my truck that is parked in front of us.

I ask him why he has to call me names? He grunts and stares. I ask him again, why he has to call me names.

He has nothing to say. I tell him I am not an idiot, he doesn't know me. My temper flairs so I tell him I am smart, well-informed, and compassionate.

He is incensed that I should call myself compassionate - so incensed he is forced to say “compassionate” as he waves to my truck.

I ask him to discuss the matter with me, instead of calling me names. His face has turned brighter than the pink shirt he has the nerve to wear. He glowers at me, still not able to express himself, except to mutter “compassionate” once again. He stalks into the gas station, refusing to talk.