You, a fortysomething male in a white shirt and tie—perhaps some Mr. VP of Something Something in the big-name high tech firm at which we both work. Me, a young female struggling to pull a fully loaded cart. You made eye contact with me as you entered the same door to which I was headed and paused to hold it open for me. However, as I neared the open door, you suddenly let it shut in order to pay heed to your Blackberry. You heard me scream as the cart, too heavy to stop before smashing me into the now-closed door, rammed into my leg. Then you walked right by me yakking into your hand-held, pretending not to hear me crying or see me hunched in pain, and disappeared around a corner. I guess you and your phone call are much more important than the well-being of a mere stock clerk, you arrogant, self-centered a**hole. There is a special place in hell for jerks like you, and I hope you discover it soon.

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