Anger

‘Just as you judge and criticize and condemn others, you will be judged and criticized and condemned…’

Richard Steele, a middle aged man, was incredibly angry over an incident he’d borne witness to earlier in the day. Though it was Friday, he’d spent the whole evening in an excited, agitated state and had written a letter of complaint, expressing his anger. He printed it off and read it over.


Dear Sir/Madam
I am writing to you to complain about one of your ticket inspectors, whom I had the misfortune to observe at work today. I am incredibly, incredibly angered by his racist actions, and I won’t be happy until he is sacked.

Boarding the 16:08 metro from Monument station, earlier this Friday afternoon, I found myself in a crowd of six or seven passengers, in addition to whom were a group of inspectors. Now, as I and several other members of the public boarded the train, the ticket inspector turned to a young man behind him, an olive-skinned man, perhaps an Indian, perhaps an Arab, perhaps a Brazilian and said to him ‘let me see your ticket.’ I and the other passengers stepped on board, as did the inspectors; but when the young foreign man attempted to – whilst simultaneously searching his pockets for his ticket – he was told by the inspector to remain on the platform until he found it. When he finally did, the train doors had already shut on him. As the metro was set to leave, he stood on the platform, holding his ticket to the metro windows, asking to be allowed to board. When he realised he wasn’t going to be let on, he asked ‘what did I do, what did I do?’ to which the metro inspector cockily replied ‘you know what you’ve done, you know.’

I cannot express my total, total outrage over this affair, my anger to see that man humiliated like that, fooled and conned by the deceitful inspector whom he had shown an implicit faith in. I am so, so angry. Believe me, I am no bleeding heart liberal, but I cannot stand by and let that piece of vermin get away with what he has done. That foreign man deserves justice, he shouldn’t have been treated like that. This behaviour exhibited by your employee, is exactly the sort of stupid, petty but above all vile behaviour, which turns people’s hearts sour, which breeds terrorists.

I will come to your offices first thing on Monday morning. I will point out to you the ticket inspector in question. I expect to see him sacked immediately. Otherwise I will take this matter to the police and to the papers. I won’t let this rest until I see justice.

Yours Sincerely

Richard Steele


The incident had left a real mark on him. At first he had wondered why the inspector had just been asking to see the ticket of that young foreign man, and not those of himself and the other passengers. He had thought perhaps, that the foreign man had skipped the barriers at the entrance and that the inspector, having seen this, was now pulling him up. Then, when he was on board and saw the foreign guy flash his ticket at the window, he had considered, standing next to the doors as he was, pressing the button to at least try and reopen the door. Yet for some reason he’d stood there like a statue. Then the train had ridden off and when he saw the humiliated face of the foreigner left alone on the platform, it was as if he had suddenly woke up to what had happened.

As the metro ran on, he had been overcome with rage at the trick that the inspector had played. He looked around at the men and women on the train, who had boarded alongside him. Surely they had seen the whole incident to? Yet they all bore frozen, disinterested expressions, as if nothing had happened. He had thought of asking the inspector, who stood only a few yards away what the hell he thought he had just done. He had thought of accosting him. He had thought of asking for his name and telling him that he would be reported. But in the end he had done none of these things.

It was partly because he felt himself getting excited, nervous and agitated, and some part of himself told him to calm down and ignore the incident. He had felt that if he betrayed his agitation to the other passengers around him, they would think ‘Oh God, what is he getting so worked up about. He’s really lost it.’ And moreover, he didn’t want to come across as a busy-body or a do-gooder, he didn’t want to play the head teacher or policeman. He had been so enervated and upset that he worried that if he made his feelings clear, people would just tell him to calm down, and to stop being so dramatic. He had felt they would feel contempt for him, that he was trying to be a hero, a TV or film star. He had felt he had to be more sedate, and to mind his own business.

Plus he didn’t know the whole story and wondered if the foreign man hadn’t done something first to the inspector. In that case, it would be so wrong to interfere like that and be judgemental. He hated it when people saw only one side of an argument like that, and he’d been on the wrong end of people’s misguided righteous interference before.

Yet when he finally got off the metro, he saw that actually, probably, and in all likelihood, something bad had just gone down. He had borne witness to the entire incident. He had watched it unfold with a clear eye. Yet he had been as if paralyzed as it occurred, consciously unaware as it were, frozen. He should have opened the door for the young man, or at least tried to. That way the situation would have been resolved, the stupid inspector made an idiot of. Then when that failed he should’ve questioned the inspector. But his better judgement had dissuaded him from doing so.

Now, now that he was so distant from events, he saw with a clear perspective what had happened. He was enraged. Yet the moment was gone. It was too late. Too late to accost the inspector, too late to allow the foreigner to board. He was haunted by his unhappy, solitary figure, standing on the station alone, as the train went off, with everyone on board standing like frozen, disinterested statues.

It had ruined his Friday night. He should be feeling light hearted and relaxing. Instead he was in a tizzy.

He worked in an office above a carpet making factory. His boss was a self made Indian man, Mr Saleem. Though Richard couldn’t exactly say he was a bad man, and though to some extent he did like him, still, it would be a lie to say he was whole-heartedly enamoured of him. Saleem was mild mannered and considerate, but also hungry for success and money. He was a petit tyrant. He demanded efficiency. The whole office staff and factory floor were intimidated by him. Though he had come from absolutely nothing, he was rich now and had a beautiful house and several expensive cars. He had a beautiful daughter, and she, along with her mother would often come into the office to see her father. The factory workers had to look upon Saleem, his riches, his cars, his wife and daughter, with an envious eye. The same was true for Richard and the other office workers, though they at least had the opportunity to see them at closer quarters. The mother was a very nice woman and always made an effort to be polite.

Still, at the end of the day, the situation – that of working under Saleem – never quite sat right with Richard. On some days, business associates, also Indians or Pakistanis, would arrive in their BMW’s and hold meetings with Saleem. Richard would have to make the tea and biscuits, and walking into the plushly upholstered, intimidating environment of the board room, serve the refreshments, bowing and scraping as he went, and feeling ignored and worthless. On other days, he had seen Saleem down on the factory floor, nastily scalding workers for messing things up. Whenever he, Richard, had had to go down there, in order to relay orders, for example to instruct workers as to how to carry out the production of a new order, he always spoke to them kindly, sensitively, almost apologetically, as if he was sorry to have to set them such menial tasks.

Today Saleem’s daughter had been in. Because she had an eating disorder, she’d been bullied at her private school for girls and Saleem had pulled her out and brought her here. Richard had had to make her tea and biscuits, and taking these to the board room, where she was waiting, he’d put them down in front of her. She was a sweet little nymph, shy, innocent and beautiful. She had been on her phone when he entered, laughing, giggling and gossiping to her friend about how handsome somebody or other was. Richard had set the tea down smiling, and walked out. Later he’d spent nearly two hours trying to fix her internet connection for her.

It was September, and when he walked around town, at the end of his work day, in the sombre rays of Autumn, he would see hundreds, and hundreds of students, relaxed and enjoying themselves at the start of term. Of these the foreign students especially struck him. They seemed so beautiful, so rich, they appeared to have everything. He would, after work, read one of his many novels. Crime novels he loved to devour. So too popular history books. At the moment he was reading about Auschwitz. The book intrigued him. He wondered how such a thing could ever have been allowed to happen.
Usually he would either sit down in a park and read, or, more so now in Autumn, he would go to a coffee shop. And in the coffee shops in particular, he would see the foreign students. Yesterday it had been a posse of Greeks. The men, the women – both seemed so good looking, so fashionably attired. They sat there chatting all day in Greek, ostensibly having nothing else to do, sexy, at ease, bronzed, dark Latinos, appearing arrogant, smoking profusely and chatting endlessly.

However, whatever insipid feelings of racial tension he felt in his heart, none of that could in anyway justify the incident today. The two sides of the coin did not add up to a satisfactory conclusion: the incident just made him all the more angered. When he had got home, he had spent a good while trying to understand the motives of the inspector, wondering whether he hadn’t been brought to his actions, by the sort of subtle, indirect pressures that he, Richard, experienced in his daily life with foreigners. He had thought long and hard about it, trying to imagine the inspector being slighted by some rich, foreign woman. Yet in the end, he had been unable to conclude anything except that the inspector was a stupid, worthless idiot, who had done what he had done because he was a knave. Pure and simple.

His single, stupid, senseless act had caused untold chaos. Not least it had ruined Richard’s Friday evening. Here he was, at nine o’clock on a Friday evening, wasting his time getting worked up, when he should have been relaxing after his hard week. What a fool he was! How oversensitive he was, he thought to himself, to worry like this about such a minor, minor incident. He should have opened the door for that guy, or he should’ve accosted the inspector. But it was pointless now crying over spilt milk. He had to let it go.

He had to let it go, because he was wasting his free time, ruining his evening. Like a revenge scheme, it had consumed him, and he knew he had to give it up. However that irked him because it seemed that he had to do something for that man, he had to bring about justice.

However he felt like such a do-gooder, such a moralist. He didn’t want to stand in judgement of others, he just wanted to mind his own business and enjoy his own life. Who in this day and age wanted to stand in judgement, to be a holier than thou old busy body, or to ruin their own well earned free time getting agitated, dramatic, and acting like an anti-racist super hero? Who wanted that?

If he had have wanted to help, he should’ve acted at the time. It was too late now. Now, he had to let go. In an outburst of miffed anger he crumpled up the letter, and with frustration chucked it in the bin, sighing. He tutted to himself, and walked out the room. He went to the fridge and poured himself a cold beer. He sat down to watch the TV, his favourite show having started ten minutes ago.

At a fast food restaurant in town, three Brazilian looking men sat at a table chatting. One chewed a match, another ate a burger, the third one talked away.

‘I tell you these people are scum! Complete and total scum. All of them. Every single one of them. Never trust them, never trust any of them. They’re all bad.’

He had been deeply upset by the incident. He had felt so vulnerable and despised as he stood alone on the platform as the metro drove off. He felt such hatred for the inspector who had betrayed him, yet in some sense that didn’t bother him so much. What bothered him the most, what so utterly pained him, was that not one, not one of the passengers had cared to do anything. They had all, men and women alike, been completely unconcerned. He had watched them drive off. Either they had stared at him and his predicament, as though he were a villain who’d gotten his just desserts; or they had looked arrogantly and indifferently at him, breathing a sigh of relief since they were going home after their days work, and what had happened didn’t interest them. Or they had just stood there like statues, with frozen, immobile faces, passively allowing the inspector to commit his crime.

‘I’m telling you, they’re total filth. They’re like robots, their blood is cold, putrid, inhumane. They might have riches, they might think they’re an advanced nation, but actually, in reality, they’re not. They don’t have souls and they don’t have a God. They’ve forgotten what it is to be human. Someone once told me a story about how a man was kicked to death in the streets here, in full view, and everyone just walked by indifferently. I didn’t ever believe it back then, but now I see how true it is. They’re horrible, mindless rats. The white race is vermin. It’s easy to see how Auschwitz happened. They don’t share anything, they never eat together, there’s no spirit of community amongst these people. It’s just each son of a whore for himself. I’m telling you never ever trust them, they’ll stab you in the back, the bastards!’