“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
The words sounded ridiculous coming out of his mouth; would’ve sounded ridiculous coming out of anybody’s mouth. There had to be a million ways to strike up a conversation, he’d defaulted to the tritest of all. He might get points for bravery, but quippery had always eluded him; today’s supermarket offering was no exception. A shame, because the chestnut-haired siren ahead of him at the checkout counter practically begged for engagement. Or so Ryan had told himself as he unloaded bread, milk and dried papaya onto the conveyor belt.
“Maybe from here,” said the checkout woman, casually ringing up chestnut hair’s haul: sourdough wraps, oat milk, a bag of clementines and toothpaste. “Been working here for seventeen years; it’s quite possible I’ve rung you up before.”
“Okay,” shrugged Ryan; “But I wasn’t talking to you.”
“What’s the matter?” ventured the Queen of Coupons — ‘Alice’ — according to her nametag. “—I’m not good enough for you?”
How to respond? Of course, the truth wasn’t an option, wouldn’t do. Alice wasn’t good enough, but he’d play the discretion card for the time being, maybe chestnut would applaud his gallantry. Alas, ‘gallantry’ wasn’t a strong suit either; before the clementines could be bagged, Ryan had responded as Ryan might — especially on the heels of a day whose highlight was tracking down a sock that matched the notorious “other” sock. “I doubt we’ll ever know,” said Ryan; “You’ve got your cross to bear, and I’ve got dried papaya.”
“Great,” shrugged Alice. “You’re creepy — and mean.”
“Honey, you don’t know ‘mean’.”
“Really? Guess you’ve never met my second husband, my younger brother or my father.”
“Hey, ho — the patriarchy’s got to go.”
“Starting with you,” said a leering Alice, hands on hips. Ryan couldn’t tell if she was inviting confrontation, but she certainly wasn’t running from it. The line thinned, a few defectors taking their intended purchases to adjoining counters. The chestnut cherub stood her ground; could Ryan keep her in his orbit? How would she address the situation; would she even bother? Maybe he’d be better off turning the other cheek, but it was too late for that.
“And I suppose you’re God’s gift?”
“I have a good mind to call security and have you escorted out, Sir.”
“Who’s in charge of security here?” said Ryan, digging deeper, “Your third husband?” He thought it was a serviceable diss, would show Alice who she was reckoning with. As it turned out, Ryan was subject to the reckoning; Alice broke into tears. Big tears, big sobs, big mess. “Really?” said Ryan, “You’re that thin-skinned?” Bigger tears, bigger sobs, bigger mess.
“Are you proud of yourself, Sir?” said the commando-clad gent behind Ryan, holding his bacon near and his bananas nearer.
“I wasn’t talking to you, either.”
“She’s just doing her job,” said G.I. Gen Z. “Why do you have to pick a fight?”
“Because Alice is a pathetic worm.” More defections. Ryan wasn’t going anywhere, had more invective to share. “Poor Alice was probably abused as a child, hasn’t managed to claw her way back to respectability.”
“Who raised this turd?” A store manager type descended on the checkout counter; his ‘customer-is-always-right’ training hanging in the balance. Ryan was further outraged, references to his upbringing had a way of infuriating him. His mom had kept life-and-death secrets, his half-brother made him want to jump out of his skin. There was no other family left; no biggie, as far as Ryan was concerned. He came from a long line of underachievers, knew he was no prize — except, possibly, when it came to shredding strangers, to making them feel even smaller than him.
“Oh, now I’m the bad guy?” Ryan. “Your employee makes me wildly uncomfortable, and I get the blame?”
“Nice try,” exclaimed the store manager, using his liver-spotted hands to point out his lofty perch. “But I saw how things went down, have a pretty good view of here from there.”
“Look, I have no issue with you,” said Ryan, ripping off his glasses and letting them fall the full length of his eyeglass chain. Along with his loafers and patchy shave, he could’ve just walked out of a Social Security office. Instead, he’d walked into an afternoon altercation. “I’ll forget the whole thing if Alice apologizes.”
Alice sucked up her tears, unleashed a torrent of slaughter. “That’ll be the day!” she cackled.
“I’m warning you,” roared Ryan, brandishing the loaf of bread (rye) he’d planned to use for a tuna melt, twirling it around his head as if to launch at his adversary. There would be other loaves in his future, and a school of tuna melts. Alice raised her scanner, readying to return the favor, pricing precision be damned, “They have a name for women like you!”
“And for men like you — ‘bully’.”
“I’m calling security,” said the store manager. “You are security,” said Alice, “And I can take care of myself.”
“Sure, you can,” said Ryan, “With plenty of government assistance.” Alice reverted to tears, the place erupting into bedlam. G.I. Gen Z, mindful of his social responsibilities, caught it all on his phone.
Ryan knowing that things would not end well, already hadn’t, took a deep breath. Was there anybody present who would back him, support his stance?
Chestnut!
“You saw it, heard how things played out,” said Ryan, sidling up to the probably-Unattainable — but possibly-Unbiased.
No response.
“Hello?”
Still no response.
“Earth to Clementine.” Another cliché, or at least a variant thereof.
“Do you have a sec?” Ryan tapped on Chestnut’s shoulder, she wheeled.
“Do you mind?” she said, pulling an earbud out of her ear.
Ryan did mind, he minded very much. And next time, he might even mind his own business. He’d been well and truly ignored. Or so he thought. Until, that evening, he got a message from a long-lost acquaintance. His high school soccer coach, who’d seen Ryan’s raw encounter on social media. Ryan had gone viral, was enjoying a real ‘customers gone wild’ moment.
“You really know how to make an impression,” Coach’s posting had read.
Ryan had winced — and again, upon reading Coach’s subsequent message: “I never figured you for a dried papaya guy.”
