“That guy,” said Alex, “is a jackass.”
Greg looked across the food court at the jackass in question; he couldn’t find any fault with Alex’s reasoning. The guy, inexplicably wearing a pink polo shirt over his sweatpants and untied, oversized basketball sneakers, was laughing raucously into a cellphone and, even from this distance, sharing a lot more details of his opinion on the traits of some woman than anyone nearby was comfortable hearing. The other people at the jackass’s table were scowling at him pointedly, but it was apparently not getting through.
“Indeed,” said Greg, and turned back to his chicken nuggets. “I wonder if he knows.”
“…if he knows?” said Alex.
“Yeah,” said Greg. “I mean, presumably, nobody wants to go through life as a jackass. So either he doesn’t know he’s a jackass, or he’s aware of his jackassery but unable to do anything about it. Neither scenario is very appealing, I must admit; although I imagine it’s at least more comfortable to go through life in blissful ignorance of your jackassery than to struggle in vain against your nature like some repentant vampire jackass.”
Alex blinked. “Wow. Geeze, I never thought of that before. You could live your whole life as a jackass and never realize it. That’s a scary thought. Anybody could be a jackass. Me, you–”
“Well, you, maybe, but not me,” said Greg.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” said Alex, frowning.
Greg shrugged. “If I was a jackass, Brigid would waste no time letting me know,” he said.
Alex blinked. “Well… yeah. You’ve got me there.”