The Grouchy Man and The Cell Phone Lady

A grouchy man walked into Planet Care today.  I don't know why he was grouchy.  He just was.  He walked past me in an aisle where I was running back stock.  I looked him in the eye, smiled, and said "hi" as he approached me.  He just looked at me with no response and walked on by.  I thought nothing of it.

Immediately after that, a lady who was talking on her cell phone walked into the same aisle where I was running back stock and the grouchy man stood staring at cans of soup.  She walked past me as she was talking on her cell phone.  And then I heard the grouchy man say in a very loud and grouchy voice, "If you have to talk, please keep your voice down.  It is very annoying."

At first I thought he was talking to me.  And then I saw the lady with the cell phone looking at him, stunned. 

"Excuse me?" she said. 

"I said, if you have to talk, please keep your voice down.  It is very annoying." 

She was momentarily speechless.  "I, I'm talking to my husband," she stammered. She began to whisper into the phone about the grouchy man who asked her to keep her voice down. "It's very annoying, he said."

I marveled at this scenario.  First of all, the grouchy man stated, "If you have to talk," with emphasis on the word "have." What constitutes having to talk?  Some people, it would seem, have an innate need to constantly verbalize their thoughts, feelings, observations, pontifications in a relatively stream of conscious manner.  This seems to be driven by a biological predisposition to moving the mouth.  Others may need to communicate critical information involving national security in a timely manner.  Others may need to negotiate a top secret rendezvous.  It seemed to me that this question was too subjective, hence open-ended. 

Next, the grouchy man made the request, which was spoken more as a demand than a request, that the talker keep her voice down.  Why?  Because it was very annoying.  What was annoying?  Her voice?  The fact that she was talking?  The fact that she was talking on a cell phone?  Did he ask every person he passed to stop talking?  If so, how did he ever get anything done?  What would he do on a subway in New York?  Tell everyone to stop talking?  What does he do in large department stores during the holiday season?  Wear a sandwich board saying, "Don't talk?" What entitles him to demand people stop talking?  The world is full of talking.  We just have to put up with it. 

The woman told the grouchy man that she was talking to her husband.  She emphasized that point.  Was she indirectly threatening grouchy man by suggesting her husband would kick his ass? Did it validate her talking any more to be addressing her partner, who, I feel it is important to note, is a man?  Would it validate her talking if she were talking with any man?  Or does it only count when the man is your husband? 

Grouchy man scowled as he walked out of the aisle where I was running back stock and rounded the corner into the next aisle.  The woman walked in the opposite direction.  Did she think this would lessen her chances of running into the grouchy man again?  It would seem to me that it would increase the likelihood since he would be walking towards her from the next aisle over. 

Poor sad people.  The grouchy man continued to seethe on into the evening, opening a can of organic soup and eating it unheated directly from its packaging.  A scraggly cat begged piteously for scraps.  After the man finished his meager meal, he put the empty can on the floor for the cat to clean and slouched down grouchily in his sagging armchair.  The large house contained no other life save him and the cat, who loudly slurped up the residual bits of cream of tomato soup.

The cell phone lady drove her Miata to the country club where she complained to her masseuse about the rude man she encountered at the grocery store.  She sat in a hot tub afterwards.  The facial mask that had been carefully applied by an esthetician cracked around her mouth and furrowed brow as she related the story to her tennis partner, who later joined her for gin and tonics at the bar.  She drank one too many and missed the chair she'd intended to sit in.  She fractured her tailbone.  

The grouchy man sits alone, wondering why he's so grouchy.  Was he always this way?  He thinks not.  But he can't remember when things changed.  He pulls himself up out of the chair and kicks the empty cans aside on his way to bed. 

The cell phone lady lies in bed with an inflatable inner tube under her ass thinking of nothing at all as she flips through the channels on her wide screen flat screen deluxe screen t.v.  

The Abortion

Yesterday at work, I saw a man wearing a t-shirt that had obviously been designed to stun people such as myself. In larger-than-life gold letters against an olive green background, the words "Cure Abortion" were emblazoned across his chest. The back of the shirt said, "Abortion: leading cause of death in America. 1,200,000 a year."

This man clearly had an agenda. And his steely eyes and tightly clenched jaw revealed his determination to fight about it. I had never before seen him in Planet Care. And I made a silent plea to the Universe to keep him out of my lane at the check-out.

The Universe wasn't listening.

The man began to unload his goods onto the conveyor belt while being polite but curt and watchful. He was ready, oh so ready, for me to make commentary on his attire. But I did not. I turned my attention towards his daughter, who was wearing a remember 9/11 t-shirt. This girl looked like she might be 10. Which would mean that she had been an infant during 9/11. Clearly, her daddy dresses her.

I tried to make small talk with the girl since talking to the man proved to be excruciating. He would not allow the conversation to be diverted. I learned that he is a sixth grade special ed teacher. The girl offered up the information that her mother is a teacher as well. 8th grade. I said, "Wow. Both your parents are teachers. Do you get enough attention?"

A stunned silence ensued. The girl reflexively gaped at me as if I'd discovered a family secret. She cast her eyes to the ground and murmured "sort of." I could tell by the father's bulging vein that I needed to smooth this over. "I'm only asking because my dad was a teacher and I never got enough attention from him. But I'm the sort of person who always feels like they don't get enough attention. So there you are!"

The father immediately protested. "She gets plenty of attention. When I leave work, I leave it behind. I know how to let things go. I can draw the boundaries between work and home. I don't have a problem with that like some people do." He continued to sing the praises of his strong family life while the girl continued to eye me. I couldn't tell whether she was suspicious or curious.

The man had been ruffled by my stream of consciousness chatter. The vibrational intensity of his emotional disturbance generated a tangible heat. I was glad when he left.

About 15 minutes after the life-loving patriot left, a lovely boy came through my line. He must have been 16 as he wore the uniform of a fast food joint - complete with name tag. No one was with him, so I assumed he drove. But even if he were only 15, he looked like he was 12. His face was freckled, his hair curly-red and very short. The light reflected off the peach-fuzz on his cheek. He was timid and shy, never looking me in the eye. He was buying peanut butter.

As he opened his wallet to pull out a card with which to pay, I noticed a dark pink line, surprisingly thick, tracing the inside of his right forearm. Before it fully registered what this line might be, I automatically checked his other arm for a matching scar.

This precious child had already attempted suicide. At what age? And over what? I wanted to do or say something. All I could think of was to ask whether he had to work all weekend. He nodded with a vague attempt at a smile. I replied with something like, "Ah, retail!" To which he lightened up tremendously, revealing teeth untainted by tobacco, tea and other staining agents. He seemed almost grateful that I had made a poor attempt at humor. Undoubtedly he sensed my realization as it occurred, my momentary confusion, my overwhelming desire to protect this precious being from anyone or anything that could hurt him - from people wearing "Cure Abortion" t-shirts who carry an unnecessary amount of rage in them at all times, for example. So I'm certain he was relieved that I merely attempted humor and camaraderie.

I awoke this morning thinking of the boy with the suicide scars, about how he must endure the curious scrutiny of everyone he encounters as long as he wears short-sleeved shirts, about how his mother may have wanted to abort him but did not because it was immoral, about how his life had been at some point in time, and might possibly still be, unendurable and he had wanted it to end.

For some reason the words kill or be killed continue to circulate around my brain.

None of this makes any sense. The only thing that is clear to me is that I want to visit the fast food establishment indicated in the uniform the boy wore. I want to find this angel baby. And when I do, I want to give him flowers.