A few years ago I began to notice a phenomenon pertaining to power and the exercise thereof. We all know, thanks to Lord Acton, that absolute power corrupts absolutely. We see that not only in daily life but in our ever churning news cycles on a global scale, writ large.

It is equally true, however, that minuscule power is likely to warp its possessor. I noticed this first at the beginning of my career, when the functionary in charge of painting my little office made me go through weeks of process, requisition and clarification; and anyone who has waited for a toll taker on the highway to count out his or her change while a line forms behind will also know what I mean.

I believe it may be possible to work out a mathematical expression of this idea. It would yield an inverse bell curve, I believe, with the amount of abuse highest at the two ends of the power spectrum - greatest and least. While I work out a trademark on this idea, I thought I might requisition your own tales illustrating this concept: small power, big abuse, due possibly to the mental collapse of those who are condemned to suffer with just a tiny bit of self-regard over years of service.

My first illustration of this notion comes from a source very close to home. In fact, she was IN my home up until a few years ago when she had the temerity to grow up. The correspondent is my daughter, who now works in the world of business, too, although hers is slightly more dignified than mine. She writes:

“Last weekend, my friend Jenny and I traveled from Manhattan to Westchester County to attend a close friend’s bridal shower. We had bought round trip tickets between Grand Central and New Rochelle stations, which is on the New Haven line, since that was what made the most sense at the time of purchase. The shower went well: food, games, and much merry. Afterwards, it turned out that it made more sense for us to depart from Crestwood, a nearby station on the Harlem line. Years of traveling to and from our parents’ homes in the vicinity had taught us that both destinations cost the exact same amount on the Metropolitan Transit Authority. To the penny. To the millipenny. And, after years of conflict-free MTA travel, we’d learned that the tickets were basically interchangeable. No conductor had ever contended this practice.

No conductor, that is, until this past Sunday, when we met the one brave—nay, militant—soldier of which the proud MTA organization may boast.

High on the residual effects of the bridal shower, with warm weather, chardonnay, and pasta buzzing about our brains, I thoughtlessly handed our New Haven line tickets to the devout Harlem line employee. She took them, and stopped in her stout tracks.

“Do you have a ticket for THIS line?” she demanded. Surprised, Jenny and I stared at her for a moment. “This is for the New Haven line ONLY. It states that right there on the ticket. DO YOU HAVE A TICKET FOR THE HARLEM LINE?” To which Jenny, somewhat without subtlety, replied, “Are you kidding me?”

“NO. I AM NOT KIDDING YOU!” the conductor yelled.

At this point, we took some care to explain to her, quite rationally, that we weren’t trying to get away with anything. In fact, the tickets were of equal value and we’d done this a million times. She, in turn, launched into a fiery tirade about thoughtless fellow conductors who “DON’T CARE ABOUT THEIR JOBS OR THE RULES OF THE MTA!!” I was immediately transported to a mental image of this functionary on her lunch break, cramming a tuna fish sandwich down her throat while perched above the titanium toilet in the train’s lavatory, muttering to herself while the other MTA employees leap through the aisles, throwing money at commuters and IGNORING THE RULES.

She removed a laminated pamphlet from her front shirt pocket.

“I want you to read these rules,” she seethed.

“Really,” I said. “We believe you. It’s just never been an issue.”

“Well APPARENTLY, you DON’T! READ IT!”

With no other option than either to comply or be thrown off the train, Jenny accepted the leaflet and gave it a mollifying glance. “Uh huh,” she said. “Okay. I see.”

“I don’t know if you UNDERSTAND that or not, but that’s what it says.”

We looked at her in amazement. “No, no, we understand it, thanks.”

“Now,” she continued with quiet menace. “What I DO, in these SITUATIONS…I will take your tickets as a courtesy…” We began to thank her, but she waved our gratitude away. “…As a COURTESY! AND IF I EVER SEE YOU AGAIN WITH NEW HAVEN LINE TICKETS…” Once again her voice deepened to a threatening growl. “You have been warned.” Pale and trembling, we thanked her and mentally willed her to leave. After a long glare, she finally did so, mumbling to herself as she went down the aisle, ““It’s just that people don’t care! The conductors, that is. The rules! The rules! The MTA!” Her grumbling got softer and softer as she made her way down the row and out of the car with a definitive CLANG!”

That’s the story. But it’s only one. I am put in mind of the American Airlines gate agent who recently made an entire planeful of people wait for the redeye while he had a pleasant conversation with a flight attendant.

So many other ripe examples rear up in my imagination. All aggravating. All illustrations of this principle of power.

Got one?