Jerky boy

I try to live my life as a pretty nice guy. Humble, too. Once, I helped a little old lady across Michigan Avenue without a hint of an agenda. I’m sure those who noticed thought it was pretty amazing, but that kind of behavior comes naturally to us nice guys.

Styling: Taryn Bickley; Hair: Lindsey Williams; Location: Fixx Coffee Bar, 3053 N Sheffield ave; Models: Constantine Sotos/Ford, Bee Chelsea, Stephanie Parey; Assistant: Chris Litwin

Unfortunately, there are a lot of people out there who—well, let’s just say they’re not like me. So when given the chance to act like an annoying asshole for one day to gauge how Chicagoans react to rudeness, I couldn’t resist seeing how the other half lives.

My experiment begins on a crowded Milwaukee Avenue bus on Monday morning. After sandwiching myself in a three-across seat between two commuters, out comes my cell phone. “What’s goin’ on, dawg? Did you ever get your test results back?” I bellow, sounding like a total prick. Since the most irritating loud talkers are those who share shockingly private details (and use words like dawg), I’d arranged the night before to call my buddy Tim for a conversation about his fictional STD.

“Does it still burn when you go?” I continue, raising the decibel level. “Can you hear me? I SAID IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU HAVE CHLAMYDIA…YES, CHLAMYDIA!”

My wife, who agreed to act as my eyes and ears on the condition that we not enter the bus together, later tells me that the middle-aged woman to my right shook her head and visibly mouthed the word Jesus to herself after that last comment. As I keep blabbering—“DO YOU THINK SHE WAS A PROSTITUTE?” I yell—a burly guy looks up from his book and glares at me. But overall, the bus is curiously unfazed—although I’m sure most passengers are glad they brought their iPods.

My next stop is a downtown Starbucks in the waning minutes of the morning rush. I preface my order by telling the girl at the register that I had never been to a Starbucks in my life.

“Bear with me here,” I explain, “these sizes are confusing…so is a Tall bigger than a Venti?” She slowly explains the sizes. I proceed to ask her to describe the differences between a cappuccino and a latte, as well as their respective calorie counts. Amazingly, no matter how asinine the question, she maintains a professional demeanor. But when I ask where the coffee was grown—“Was it grown in America?”—a barista who’s been listening to this conversation reaches his boiling point.

“It’s a blend of beans from Latin America and Indonesia,” he tersely informs me.

“Indonesia…that’s near Asia, right?” I inquire, feeling an odd adrenaline rush as I finally draw blood.

“They’re grown on islands off the coast of Indonesia—yes, that’s in Asia,” he snaps, getting more annoyed. A small line has formed behind me, but I hear not a peep. Here I am, trying to be as huge a douche as possible, but surprisingly, these Starbucks customers are downright patient. So far, I’m pretty impressed with our city’s tolerance of assholes. But I’m also beginning to understand the allure of acting like a total prick. It’s kind of a power trip, and getting under the skin of a total stranger is strangely addictive—and fun.

I keep up my jerky behavior that evening at Whole Foods. I’m starving, so I decide to go to town on the deli-counter samples, but when I get there another dude is beating me at my own game. After slowly savoring several freebie meat slices, he just stands in front of the display case, acting as if the fate of the free world rests on him deciding between the rosemary- and the peppercorn-crusted turkey breast. “I’m gonna go with both—for a little variety,” he says, finally.

This sampler hog is such a master, I just follow his lead. I taste three flavors of turkey, a few types of salami and a giant potato latke. After each request, the woman behind the counter tolerantly waits, apparently unaffected. “Is there a limit to the number of samples I can have?” I ask, starting to feel a tad ashamed.

“Nope, have as many as you like,” she responds cheerily. I inquire if she finds my behavior annoying, and she says no. “The only time it gets annoying is when people ask for tons of samples and then they don’t buy anything,” she explains.

I ponder that statement briefly, but don’t hesitate as I turn and walk away…meatless. For a lifelong nice guy, this final asshole act is incredibly satisfying. I don’t have the heart to look back, but I secretly hope she’s giving me the finger.