When we were first lovers, my girlfriend, now by wife, examined the collar of my button-down shirt and laughed. The label read “Pure.” Today, after decades of marriage, she thinks I’m cynical when I say that most social interaction is basically a game for getting what you want. She doesn’t agree. For her, it’s as natural as breathing. I don’t know. Perhaps she’s right. Maybe I have a touch of Asperger’s.

At the bakery today, a friend of hers slipped ahead of me as I waited to be served. I didn’t say anything, but she must have realized who I was (and was worried I might tell my wife), for she turned and said, “Oh, were you before me?”

I told her it didn’t matter, and, besides, I half expected it.

She found this insulting (which, of course, it was) and said, “That’s exactly what I’d expect someone like you to say.”

I simply waited for her to pay and leave.

Later, when I thought about our dysfunctional encounter, I realized I had become the bad guy again. I should have pretended that her butting ahead was an accident. Of course, a better man would have been cordial, assumed the best, and put a positive spin on it.

My problem is that I still can’t get used to the notion that people are dishonorable. Worse, watching them cover it up by being Minnesota-nice is galling. Of course, I must change. I’m no better than anyone else.

The thing is—where do you draw the line? Certainly, not at queue-jumping. But how about torture? For example, how can my idol, Lance Armstrong, be good buddies with George Bush? Does getting along and maintaining appearances always trump any ethical considerations? Was this Madoff’s secret?

While walking the dog tonight in the dark, I noticed a woman on the other sidewalk crossing the street, and, simultaneously, a car pulling around the corner fast and heading toward her.

I called, “Car!”

As the car approached, she yelled, “Slow down!”

When he was abreast of her, the guy in the car lowered his window and said, “I did. Didn’t you notice? It doesn’t help to yell.”

From his voice and his peeved tone, I guessed him to be a twenty-something. “What a jerk-off,” I said.

For a moment the woman thought I meant her, but when I made it clear I was referring to the guy in the car, she asked, “Do you know who it is?”

“No,” I said. “Who?”

“Barrow’s son.”

“Oh. Okay.”

As I left the scene and walked back to the flat, I realized she wanted me to know who it was for future reference—one neighbor letting another know how things were. This would never have happened in Minneapolis—not quite in this fashion. It’s not Minnesota-nice to yell in public. Someone might think you were angry.