When did your average supermarket turn into the Roman Coliseum? I half expect a lion to come up behind me toting a rib roast.
The aggression in the check-out aisle for example is really getting out of hand.
Life With The Top Down in one of her comments said, how she kindly let a man go ahead of her and rather than thanks she got a, “Well I do only have two items,” like it was his due to go before her.
It made me think how it’s become, dog-eat-dog, when you’re just buying milk.
I remember one man in particular who was outrageously rude. He was in front of me getting annoyed at the young cashier who wasn’t moving fast enough for him. I was watching his impatience, biting my tongue, because I don’t know about you, but we need to give those truly doing their best a break. As I stood there, my urge to club him with my baguette was ballooning before me.
He did everything but jump behind the counter and ring it all up himself. He was a man I’ve seen before…very rich and effeminate…Gucci shoes and a solid gold belt buckle kinda guy. He was seventy at least, dressed in running attire that made him look like he was trying too hard. Shorts on a man that age make legs look like two sticks of gum one could break in two, an alluring thought as I watched him steal this girl’s self-confidence right from beneath her.
I couldn’t control myself any longer…Joan of Arc or Bark, as Camille likes to call me, stepped up to the plate. Just imagine Joan, rather than armor, wearing a SWAT suit.
“You know sir, with all due respect, she’s doing her best.” (here it comes)
“And what business is it of yours may I ask?” Oh boy, did I want to take his dozen eggs and crack them one by one over his hair-plugged head. Steady Susannah, he’s an old fart that could easily go into cardiac arrest.
“You know sir, rather than argue I’m going to pray for you. I think you need it.” Did he go off the rails.
“I don’t need you or anybody else to pray for me. Don’t you dare!” The cashier and I, a little Spanish girl who you know prays, started to laugh. It wasn’t nice but couldn’t be helped. You would have thought I said, I’d stab him on the way out, the way he yelled at me like a lunatic. All this because he was being momentarily detained.
“What did you say lion…there are a lot of assholes out there? You’re not kidding.”
My favorite story though is the little, old black lady who more or less challenged me to a duel. She had to be close to ninety dressed in her church clothes on a Wednesday. I remember what she wore: a Chanel type suit in a deep burgundy with the cuffs of a very crisp white blouse peeking from its sleeves. She also had on those granny shoes with the square heel buffed to inky black perfection…her pearls in place. I was behind her and all I did was put my few items in back of hers that made her go postal.
“Don’t you rush me…I’m takin my time…so don’t you rush me now.”
I of course was gracious since she looked like Rosa Parks and kindly said, “Of course I won’t…my things are just heavy.”
“That’s why they have baskets, ” she snapped, clutching her pocket-book like I was about to steal it. The cashier carefully put that strip of wood between her things and mine but that only made her madder.
“You don’t need to be doin that. I know what’s mine.” She then took out an ancient wallet counting her money like a seasoned croupier. “Don’t you be lookin over my shoulder, you hear me?” Again, grace descended upon my mouth like a divine gag order.
“You know ma’am, you really have no cause being this angry at me. I’m the last person who would rush you.”
“Then stop lookin at me then.” Whether it was done on purpose or not, she took forever. I could have gone home and back in the time it took for her to pay and write out her delivery slip. When she finally finished, she turned to me and said, “Don’t you ever rush me, I have my rights ya know.”
“Yes I know,” I said, trying not to smirk..she was so cute. When she got outside, she stopped to look at me through the window still jabbering about her rights, and how great she looked in her Sunday clothes telling me off through the glass.
How about the guy who cuts you off with his cart to get ahead of you. This was one time I lost my temper. Might have been his smell that prompted it…cigarettes and sweat with a little beer breath thrown in. “Excuse me sir, but I was here.”
“I don’t think so since I’m here now.”
“That’s because you rudely cut in front of me.”
“Tough…haven’t you ever heard if you’re not the first in New York, you’re the last?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of manners? But of course you haven’t…why? Because you’re a schmuck.” Yes I did…he pressed my ‘you are so way out of line’ button a little too hard.
“Who you calling a schmuck?”
“If the shoe fits?” Then I pulled out my trump card..what I call my, lady in distress Queen.
“Where’s the manager…excuse me…get me the manager…this man is frightening me.”
Mr Rodrigues came to my rescue ASAP and told Smelly if he caused any more trouble he”d be barred from the store.
You see, I’m really nice to Mr. Rodrigues every time I see him…ask how he is, how are his kids doing? Pays to be pleasant. This is why they give me extra pickles at the deli whenever I get a sandwich.
However, I just wish one didn’t have to put up their dukes so often buying cleanser, salt and a lousy loaf of Levy’s Jewish rye.
Photo: Google Images