In the mid-80s a friend and I went to see Sting at an outdoor festival. Someone thought it would be a fine idea to have open seating on rows of benches. We took the day off work and stood in line. When the gates opened at noon, we went straight to the benches and staked out the ideal center spot, about 5 rows back.

Over the next several hours we took turns saving the seats and getting up to enjoy the festival. Of course, by sunset the rows were filled to capacity, everyone shoulder to shoulder. Bags and blankets were stowed under the benches. When Sting took the stage, the people up front stood on the benches, no one behind them could see, and soon everyone was standing on the benches.

About 10 minutes in, a guy came up behind us and asked me and the girl next to me to move over. I stated the obvious: “There’s no more room up here.” The girl, apparently unconcerned about the people on the ends of the bench (who also had arrived hours earlier), squeezed over a few inches. He set a foot on the bench and said, “She was nice enough to move; why can’t you?” (Yes, “bitch shaming” has been with us since ancient times.) I repeated: “There’s no more room up here.”

So this self-entitled moron stepped onto the bench and squeezed up against me, pushing me against my friend. If not for the crowds of people balanced on wobbly benches, I would have shoved him away, or worse.

Instead, I bent my elbow. It was down at my waist, barely protruding. He wasn’t going to push against me without that elbow in his gut.

“Move your fucking elbow!” he shouted. Every time he yelled or pushed, the elbow got a little bit pointier. Eventually, he gave up and left, undoubtedly looking for an easier target.