It’s the people of Massachusetts getting their crab on in preparation for their return to the crabbiest place in America. I walk into the gate area and catch the feeling and pretty soon I’m getting my crab on, too. If a grandma with six carry-ons tries to squeeze in front of me, acquired instinct tells me to shuffle and turn so that I just happen to block her.
I got my first inkling that the crab was coming over me shortly after I moved here 14 years ago. Some guy came up behind me on a sidewalk in Cambridge and jostled me with his shoulder as he hurried past. This kind of thing happens on crowded city streets as we all go about our business, and I had usually thought nothing of it.
But this particular bump rankled. It felt as if this stranger had gone out of his way to score a point on me as a penalty for impeding his passage. Irritation nagged at me as I walked on. At the corner, I became aware that I was standing next to the guy, who was now radiating impatience at the red light.
When the light turned green, and without ever looking at him or consciously deciding to act, I raised my elbow and drove it into the soft spot between his shoulder and bicep. I strode off with a put-on air of briskness, as if to say, “Well, I’m in a rush, so all I can spare for now is this elbow, but we can take up this matter again when we’re both less pressed for time.’’
This incident was entirely out of character for me. I am, as a rule, a gentle woodland creature, untouchy about my personal space and unlikely to get in confrontations. But the local style of public behavior had crept up on me. Two of its elements, in particular, put me past the tipping point.
