A Short Fuse in the Supermarket

I spotted him the moment I entered the grocery store, this old man, standing where he had no business being, lingering over something ordinary, like a hand sanitizer dispenser, or a stack of hand-carry baskets, there in the threshold of the Albertsons.

He was an ordinary man, I guess, doing an ordinary thing. 

Fixating. Time on his hands.

All I remember is that blue surgeon’s mask, the cheapest kind, the ones people wear when they feel compelled to cover up but don’t really care enough to do it right.

And that bald head, a thrash of white hair.

That’s it.

This is no rant on the elderly; he wasn’t that much older than I am.

He just acted old.

Know what I mean?

What I didn’t know then was that this character would soon bring out my worst instincts, make me fight off a flurry of flash-anger, episodes that once plagued me as a younger man, ones I have unleashed on family, friends and strangers alike.

My wife used to say I could go from zero-to-asshole in six seconds flat. Don’t match my sing-song greeting? Watch out. Challenge me in public in the slightest way?

Boom.

There are benefits that come with advancing age. You get to know yourself better. You see your faults for what they are. You work on them, whether it takes therapy or just self-awareness. You try to avoid the same old traps.

But eventually you get tested.

We like to go to the grocery store when it’s late.

At night, the crowds are gone, the aisles unpeopled. You can get in and out.

We didn’t need much, but she wanted to go. She’d made chicken soup for dinner and wasn’t thrilled with the finished product.

She wanted to buy some organic celery and a few more tomatoes to add to the pot and try again the following night.

Inside, the store was empty, just how we liked it.

We picked up our celery and then I struck out ahead. I remembered that I needed some half-and-half for my coffee. As my wife headed for the canned goods aisle, I went for the dairy section.

And there he was, the ordinary man.

He was on his knees, his left shoulder holding the cooler door ajar, reaching way back on the the bottom shelf for a hard-to-reach product, maybe something with a fresher expiration date.

I could have waited; stepped back and given him space like waiting for someone at the ATM or a public drinking fountain.

But there was my half-and-half, right there on the top shelf, very reachable.

Who knew how long he’d be down there?

I stood behind him, leaned over without touching him and grabbed a carton.

I, too, held the door open with my hand.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

That’s when he stood up. 

“Are you done?” he asked, clearly irritated.

For a split second, his reaction took my breath away. The old instinct returned.

I had a round in the chamber, with my inner voice commanding, “Fire!”

For those of you with shorter fuses, you might appreciate the situation. Somehow, it feels good to blow your top. Like an emotional volcano blasting off magma.

But then, just a nanosecond later, you’re filled with shame and regret.

You’ve told a stranger where to get off, and then, the moment your tantrum subsides, you want to reach out and hug them. Say you’re sorry. Offer to buy them a beer, as one fellow human being to another.

The only way to avoid these awkward moments is not to fall prey to the demon in the first place. Without really thinking about it, I somehow let the moment pass.

It’s like someone flipping you the bird and you not feeling compelled to flip back.

It isn’t easy for some of us. It's as hard as holding back a cough or a sneeze, this outburst you have allowed to spew forth in the past.

“I’m sorry,” I said again and stepped back.

That was it. No stony stares, no face off.

I walked away, glad of having avoided another episode of what a friend calls my drive-by mouth; hurling invective, your brain not along for the ride.

I found my wife, but didn’t say anything about what had just happened. Her response would have only been, “What, do you want a medal for not being a jerk?”

Up front, the store was saving money by having everyone use the self-checkout. 

We walked up and there he was again, at an adjoining kiosk.

The ordinary man.

I could feel his eyes upon me. It was close to a stare, but not quite, the kind of look that in some tough-guy movie might prompt the response, “What are you lookin’ at?”

I didn’t take the bait.

We walked out to the car with our celery, raw tomatoes and half-and-half. My emotions were still in overdrive, like a horse sweating off a just-finished race.

We drove home, headlights illuminating the darkness, and talked about our weekend plans; nothing spectacular, just talk between people who have been together a long time, who know each other well.

Ordinary talk by an ordinary couple.