Gross-ery
the scene is this: i am buying peppermint patties at ralphs at 12:30 in the morning yesterday. three people are behind me and i am fourth from the cash at the only open checkout. two girls in chic, fitted coats are ahead of me, shivering and mussing up their dark hair and shaking it out again. we are all waiting because a man with a pockmarked face is being insolent with the cashier.
the man is exchanging an unopened bottle of astroglide for one of a different brand. he is wiry and looks like the kind of person who would talk loudly on his phone in a crowded area while flitting his eyes around to see who is eavesdropping on this interesting world he is creating with his amplified conversation. right now he is subjecting us to his qualms with ralph’s return policy. his voice carries. “why do i have to give a reason? and my zip code? what a time-waster. every ounce of my time that you’re wasting is not good right now.”
i am sympathetic towards the cashier, who is patient and kind. i tap my phone against my lips and am careful not to break my stare with the selection of pocket word seek books on the rack front of me. one of the girls in coats is dealing with painfully tall high heels; she balances on one leg while taking the pressure off the other by bending it backwards, like a flamingo. she and her friend are resisting the urge to sigh loudly, which is achieved by exchanging silent, knowing glances at each other, glances that convey: “get on with it.” “fuccck thisss, he’s taking forever!” “gross. we should have gone to a pavillions.” it makes me feel alone, but included, being close enough to see these wordless ruminations.
the cashier leaves to check something with his manager, so the astroglide and its less expensive counterpart sit on the stationary black conveyor belt, and the wiry man with the pockmarks has puffed his chest out and assumed a posture of exaggerated indifference to protect his pride from this public situation of private subject matter. the tinny christmas music that floats from the store speakers is not relieving the silence and tension in this lineup. it builds like the songs churned from jack in the boxes.
he speaks to one of the coat girls: “honey, i tell you, when you’re older and uglier and you get lucky, it feels good. it just feels good.” following this is a laugh that suggests he would like her to affirm this statement. but she is very young.
i think she may respond- if forced not by true sympathy, then by her ink signature on the social contract. i think i would respond, if it were me. he is asking for relief and it would be a courtesy to extend it to him, like holding a door. he’s seeking comraderie, understanding, a nod, a wan smile - anything. but she bows her head and i can see her pained expression behind a curtain of layered hair. she is embarrassed now, too, by proxy and proximity.
this rebuff has intensified his i-don’t-give-a-fuck stance. i wish he was just returning dog shampoo or spoiled meat, i wish he could relax, i wish that he had been nicer to the clerk, who returns then and exchanges the items. the man leaves.
there is no feeling as powerfully unifying between strangers as the relief upon the exit of someone like this: who has not signed the social contract, who is not paying polite dues. i feel guilty that i am included in this collective relief, because i feel like an impostor.
i have signed the contract, of course. but my left hand was behind my back.
fingers crossed.
