It was one of those days; grueling, exhausting and quite frankly, unproductive. As if all I did the entire day, was shuffle stacks of papers from one end of the desk to the other and back. The end finally came, and with it the rains; nothing like rush hour traffic in a full blown storm to top off a perfectly miserable day!
My stomach reminded me about half way home that I hadn’t taken a break for lunch and needed to eat. Too tired to even try to visualize the contents of my kitchen, I realized, as the line of cars in front of me suddenly came to a screeching halt, and I almost ate the ass end of a mini cooper, that I’d need to make an unwanted stop for food.
I knew I’d pay more, but didn’t care, as I whipped into the parking lot of the Fresh Market. The thought of driving circles in Publix parking lot to try and find a place to park, then face the mass of shoppers, under row after endless row of glaring florescent lights, then argue with the check-out boy that I could manage just fine pushing my own cart to the car, made me want to gouge my eyes out.
So, into the Fresh Market I strolled; strolled in the pouring rain, with no umbrella and too tired to give a shit. The scent of the wicker baskets hanging from the ceiling, mingled with cinnamon and vanilla assaulted me the minute I crossed the threshold. The dim lights and soft music instantly calmed me, as I took my cart and began to stroll through fresh cut flowers and candle displays; choosing a lovely little hydrangea arrangement to adorn my kitchen table.
The gentleman at the meat counter waited patiently with a smile, as I tried to decide between chicken cordon bleu, or chicken ala Venezia. I turned to look; no one behind me, hmm…maybe I don’t want chicken after all. He thanked me seven minutes later and told me to have a wonderful evening, then went back to whatever it was he was doing before I interrupted.
I wandered aimlessly, picking items that suited my fancy, sampling the pretty pink, perfectly chilled watermelon; my feet no longer hurting, the pounding in my head all but gone; enjoying the experience, wondering why I don’t do all of my shopping here. Totally relaxed and nearly done; though I wasn’t ready to leave the safe, comforting haven, to face the ugly rainy world that awaited me, just on the other side of those doors.
She made my decision for me, as I must have traveled too close to checkout territory, and she said with a bright and cheery smile, “I can help you over here Miss.” MISS…how long has it been since anyone called me Miss!
Alrighty then; into her stall I turned.
She commented on my flowers, then proceeded to explain that even though I was purchasing reusable green bags that she was going to wrap my watermelon in plastic because she didn’t want to get the rest of my things wet, just in case the container should leak. How very thoughtful, I mused to my self.
Then I don’t know what happened; she started telling me about her last job at the pet store and how she got attached to one of the tropical fish, because every day when it saw her it swam to the side of the tank toward her and how one day she came in and it was dead. So upset she was over this dead fish that she was crying when her sister called her; but when her sister asked the cause of death, suggesting that perhaps it had drown, she reared her head back and released a raucous laugh that literally sent chills up my spine.
I suddenly noticed that during the story she was holding my snow peas hostage in her crazy clutches, and that most of my items still remained in the cart; only one green bag opened, and not even half full. Then I watched helplessly, as the other lone shopper turned and walked away; leaving me alone with the mad maven of blathering chatter.
Two items later she asks if I had a bad day, said I looked tired and worn out. Before I could respond with a righteous fuck you, she starts in about a new employee just recently transferred from another store; how mean he is; young guy that acts all fruity and that she’s certain is gay. I took out my checkbook and asked her for a pen, prompting her to move her prejudice ass; as the ugly outside world didn’t seem so ugly to me anymore.
On and on she went, until finally I looked at her and said, “did you ever think maybe that’s why he’s mean to you?” she looked at me and said, “Huh?” I repeated myself, more slowly than the first; “Did you ever think that maybe that’s why he’s mean to you?”
“Well, I don’t know him or nothin’, so he’s got no reason to be treatin’ me mean the way he does.” She gave a slight jump when I exclaimed, “Exactly!” and pointed my finger at her.
“You don’t know him, he doesn’t know you, and yet because he doesn’t act in a manner you’ve come to consider normal, acting instead in a way you consider ‘fruity’, you automatically make the assumption that he is gay?! What exactly about his behavior has led you to the position of assuming you know anything whatsoever about his sexual orientation?”
“His what?” I looked at her and shook my head in disgust. “His sexual preference; whether he prefers to have sexual relations with a person of the same or opposite gender.” Just then a tidy little man with black rim glasses, who would have been perfectly fetching had his ensemble included a bowtie, came into view, making his way toward us and stopping to adjust some miscellaneous item at the end of the isle; obviously her manager.
He came into her line of vision, making his presence known and she immediately began scanning and bagging my remaining items. She gave me my total and I stroked a check. She thanked me by name as she handed me back my driver’s license. “Well,” I said, as I took it from her and put it back in my wallet; “are you some sort of psychic, or have you been called upon by a higher power to act as judge and jury?”
She leaned toward me and whispered, “We shouldn’t talk about this anymore, ma’am.” Oh, alright, suddenly I’m ma’am; no longer the friendly Miss! I leaned right back and said, “You’re right, we shouldn’t be, but I didn’t ask for this conversation, and your coworker didn’t ask to be judged and talked about behind his back; by a prejudice, no-count, blathering idiot. No wonder the fish is dead!”
I grabbed my bags and left her standing with her mouth agape, no doubt trying to decipher exactly what I had just said, then turned and nodded acknowledgment, when I heard clapping behind me and the pretty young cashier stood looking at me, with a grin that covered her whole face; obviously thankful that someone had put that old bag in her place.
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