From these vignettes that I post, a reader might think I spend a lot of time at the grocery store; and that’s true. I have a freshness fetish, which only allows me to buy enough food for two days. I’ve considered getting help, but as far as neuroses go, it’s a harmless one.
My favorite time to shop is Sunday afternoon, when the Hispanic families gather around their carts, forming a clump that advances through the aisles like a Zamboni. I enjoy the way the leather-faced granddads in cowboys hats make a production of extricating their wallets from the back pocket of their jeans, count out the bills, and proudly hand over cash; also, how their granddaughters priss about in their church dresses.
The only point where there’s the possibility of anything disagreeable happening is in the checkout line, which can be fraught. If you have a small cart (I prefer them because they’re zippy) the Director of Carts automatically directs you to the express lane. Today that’s where she sends me, though I have way more than the allowed fifteen items. And if you think the people behind you in line don’t count, you’re unaware of reality.
So I get in line knowing that my presence here is unfair, yet bound by my compliant nature to do as instructed. Other people join the line as, predictably, a price check is needed, which gives all behind me a lengthy opportunity to count the number of items I’ve tossed on the belt.
Pretending oblivion, I scan the coversheets of the tabloids in the magazine rack. It’s amusing to see the implausible claims—Barak Obama is insane; a creature that’s half-human and half-fish has been discovered in Florida; also, Clint Eastwood is being investigated by the FBI. Seriously, what could a man his age possibly get up to that would interest the FBI?
“I’m happy to see that.” The woman behind me has moved closer, and she, too is focused on the magazine rack.
“To see what?” I ask, unable to discern the direction of her gaze.
“That.” She points to a picture of Jill and Joe Biden, accompanied by a caption in bright yellow that screams, “MARRIAGE OVER! JOE CAUGHT CHEATING! JILL KICKS HIM OUT OF THE WHITE HOUSE!”
Oh. She thinks we’re going to bond. And though I hear David’s warning in my head—“Don’t engage!”—I cannot stop myself.
“Are you saying that you’re happy that a couple who’s been together for forty-five years is splitting up?”
“Jill Biden is a horrible woman.”
Honestly, I don’t pay a lot of attention to Jill Biden, who seems insipid and frumpy—but that’s not a reason to be pleased that her husband is cheating, which, considering his bearing and age, is beyond belief, though my fellow shopper appears to believe it.
The question here is, what’s the cause of this woman’s enmity?
“Do you know her?” I ask. Though it’s a farfetched notion, I can’t see feeling such a passionate dislike toward someone I’ve never met.
“She’s been scheming to become First Lady since she married him. And he’s a crook and a liar.”
“To be clear, you don’t know them personally? You’ve never met them?”
“Of course not. But you don’t need to know someone to know someone.”
Does she not know what the word “know” means?
This is the type of bizarre conversation one falls into in Central Texas. This woman began talking to me because she supposed that I would echo her spite, which isn’t that outlandish an assumption in that ninety percent of the people around here hold similar views of our current president and his wife.
The issue here isn’t how I feel about the Biden or Trump presidencies. They’re both duds as far as I’m concerned; and I dream of the day when someone possessing character and vitality will offer him- or herself as a sacrifice on the inglorious altar of our political system.
No, what I take issue with is that this woman wanted to share negativity so badly that she accosted a random stranger in the checkout line.
And it’s not just her. She’s one of many in the last couple of years who’ve arbitrarily dumped their mean-spirited political opinions on me. Why? Is there some universally held notion that the way to validate your view, no matter how offensive or extreme, is to launch it from the platform of your tongue?
“Do you realize that you can control what comes out of your mouth?” I ask her.
Well, that’s less than diplomatic and I expect her to be miffed, but she actually gives it consideration; and I facetiously imagine that this is probably the first time in months that she’s thought about anything other than how much she hates the Bidens and how angry she is that the election was stolen.
“I guess I should pay more attention to who I’m talking to,” is her response.
Yes, she should. I turn away and pull out my credit card.
Hot and Dry here. More interesting than another photo of the HEB.
