Recently I went to a Yankees game at their brand-new $1.5 billion stadium in the Bronx, and while waiting in line to buy beer, I heard a deep male voice behind me describe what I was wearing:

"Let me see, here: plaid shirt, Converse All-Stars, not wearing any Yankees shit. Are you facking lost, dood?"

I turned around and saw a large, young, ugly bearded man in a pinstriped Yankees shirt standing between two callower friends, staring at me with a mixture of confusion and wrath. I explained to him that I wasn't originally from New York but that my friend had got free tickets to the game.

"Let me tell you something," said my new friend. "If a starving twelve-year-old in Indonesia was wearing those pants, they'd STILL be skinny." His friends smiled. This must have encouraged him, because then he said: "I oughtta beat your ass right now."

I regarded him in a new light. "Let me get something straight here," I said. "You're going to beat me up for wearing plaid and for being from out of town?"

"No," he explained. "I'm gonna beat you up for being a facking schmuck. Let me ask you something," continued my interlocutor, "What the hell happened to your nose?" He nodded towards the mole on my nose.

I sighed. "I was born that way," I explained. But when he still looked upset, I said, "The same way that you were born a fat, ignorant douchebag."

I turned around to face forwards, for it was my turn to place my beer order. "ID," said the sleepy woman behind the register.

I considered this. "I showed it to you last time," I said.

"I need to see it again," she said, in a tone that ruled out further discussion. I sheepishly pulled it out of my wallet, the woman inspected it, and when she handed it back to me, my curious, rude new friend snatched it from her hands, and cried triumphantly, "He's from fackin Massachoosetts!"

He turned to the crowd in line. "This guy's a Masshole! I should definitely kick his ass now, right?" A couple nice-looking men smiled and said, Yeah!

Admittedly, my left leg was visibly shaking. I looked down at it and tried to stop it.

"Plus you're goddam pigeon-toed. Let me ask you something," he said again, and I wondered desperately when the interview would end. "How much do you make a year?"

He must be implying that I am a yuppie, I thought, and proudly told him how I made poverty-level wages.

He guffawed and pulled a card out of his pocket. "Take this, dood. Maybe I can get you a job."

He offered his card to me for a moment, smiling benignly. I considered it while keeping my distance. Whence came this pitying offer, with its pretense of generosity? At a loss for words, I asked the gentleman if his allegedly higher annual earnings were sufficient proof that he was better than me, as he seemed be suggesting.

He turned to a teenage Puerto Rican boy with curly, gelled hair. "Hey kid," he said, "I make more than this guy. Does that make me better'n him?" And the boy said, "Yeah, kinda," and laughed, showing his braces.

I took my beers and got ready to leave. I walked up very close to this guy and stood so that our chests were nearly touching. He looked down at me. His eyes were a clear blue. He looked like a caveman. "I'm not scared of you," I said, "Just because of your knuckle-head friends, and your fat fucking arms."

As I walked away, he yelled, "I'm not afraid of whales either, but they can still eat me!"