etiquette – Susan Marie Molloy

Once upon a time, my spouse was the President of our condominium association. He was the designated point‑man for every vendor, handyman, contractor, and the property manager. And without fail, something out there seemed to decide that the exact moment we sit down to eat was the perfect time for someone to call him.

It didn’t matter when we ate:

11:00 AM? Phone rings.

12:15 PM? Phone rings.

4:45 PM? Phone rings.

7:30 AM? Phone rings, because apparently breakfast is also fair game, too.

It was as if people had a sixth sense for when a fork was about to touch a plate.

Even the other board and committee members who should have known better seemed to be compelled to call precisely when we were eating, and not all of these calls were emergencies, either.

Appointments were no better. If someone was scheduled to arrive at 9:00 AM, they absolutely, without hesitation, called at 8:15 AM to announce:

“I’m here.”

Not “I’m on my way.” Not “I’ll be there soon.” No. They were already standing outside like a time‑traveling courier from the future.

And as if the mealtime ambushes weren’t enough, his phone also believed in a 24‑hour discipline of interruption. Text messages arrived at 5:55 AM, before the sun, before coffee, before a bagel, and texts continued rolling in as late as 10:30 PM when we were just about to drift off to Sleepyland. Ostensibly, the entire world has silently agreed that he was available at all hours, like a one‑man emergency hotline for condo‑related existential and non-crises. I was convinced the only time his phone doesn’t buzz is when nothing in particular is going on in our home. Oh. It doesn’t ring or buzz when we are at Mass; our phones are turned off completely then.

It got to a point that I was convinced our condo was either:

bugged;
under surveillance by a secret intelligence agency; or
being monitored by people with remote‑viewing abilities who can see the moment we sit down with plates of food.

I’m kidding, and honestly, who knows? But if someone knocked on the door the next time we even thought about lunch . . . I would’ve d just laughed. I continued to laugh it off.

The most important part of this hilarity is that my spouse and the rest of the board at the time were doing an outstanding job getting the formerly poorly self-managed association back on the right track. They were righting the ship . . .

There is a particular sadness in watching people who live in a constant state of anger, and I see this quite a lot in my neighborhood, and especially since 2020. Their anger is not the righteous anger that rises to defend the vulnerable, but the chronic, simmering kind; the kind that becomes a personality, a worldview, a permanent narrowing of the soul. Some of these people turn ugly and violent when they are cordially greeted by neighbors. These are people who treat every encounter as a contest, every disagreement as a threat, every difference as a personal insult. Perhaps they believe they are defending themselves, but in truth they are defending the walls that imprison them.

Anger becomes their only vocabulary. They speak it fluently, instinctively, even proudly, and peppered heavily with vulgar and filthy words. But beneath that lies a deep poverty of spirit. A person who must always be angry and offensive is a person who has forgotten how to be free and kind.

The tragedy is not merely that they harm others—though they do. The deeper tragedy is what they lose within themselves without realizing it.

They lose the ability to be surprised by goodness.
They lose the capacity for joy that comes from generosity.
They lose the peace that only humility can give.
They lose the richness of a larger world than their own reflection.

They trade all of this for the brittle satisfaction of being “right” and boorish, even when that “rightness” isolates them. They probably do not realize that the fortress they build to keep others out is the same fortress that keeps them in.

My sadness for them is not schmaltzy. It is not the soft sadness of pity. It is the sharper sadness that comes from recognizing wasted possibility. These are people who could be expansive, curious, generous, a positive addition to the neighborhood, but instead they choose the cramped rooms of anger and rejection. They choose to live in a world too small for any soul. It is as though they are possessed by demons.

A life fueled by anger cannot lead to peace. A heart closed to others cannot experience love. A mind that rejects difference cannot grow. They may cling to their fury and their narrowness as if these things protect them, but in the end, they protect nothing. They only ensure that the person holding them remains untouched by the very things that make life worth living.

I made my way to the deli counter at my friendly neighborhood grocery store, ready to place my order, when a five‑foot‑nothing woman glided under my elbow with the confidence of someone who has never waited her turn in her entire life. Before I could blink, she was already whisper‑dictating her order to the clerk.

“Four slices of Havarti cheese,” she breathed, in a tone so soft it sounded like she was sharing state secrets.

When that order was handed over, she continued.

“Six slices of Buffalo‑style chicken breast,” she whispered again, as if the poultry might overhear and object.

This pattern repeated itself — item, whisper, handoff — like a tiny, highly specialized espionage operation. Then came the tasting sample. The clerk offered her a slice of Gruyere, and that’s when her true form emerged.

She took a tiny, tiny bite. It was a bite so miniscule it would have required laboratory equipment to detect. And she chewed it with her front teeth, slowly, methodically, exactly like a squirrel working through a hazelnut. Then another tiny bite. More squirrel chewing. I half expected her to scamper up the deli case and store the rest in her cheeks for winter.

The whole performance was incredible: she whisper‑talked like Jackie Kennedy and nibbled like Rocket J. Squirrel. I never did get my order in (I eventually grabbed some pre-cut cheese in the refrigerated case), but honestly, I left feeling like I’d witnessed a rare and delicate species in its natural habitat.

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