There's an extra bit of slide to the shake. We're not jive-ass- turkeys in some long lost Harlem yesteryear. No one says slap me some skin anymore. We're all about fancy handshakes and firm handshakes. Fist bumps. That slide speaks volumes.
How many people do you know who shake hands and then immediately shove the shaken hand into a pocket? That's what I'm talking about. You need to look for the things that are off. The things other humans don't do. That is, if you want to see what really happens on the streetcorners in your neighborhood.
If you've never done it, maybe you don't look for it - that sliding shake. But don't go thinking you're too slick. Don't think you're fooling everyone. You may fool most people, but there are a bunch of us who know exactly what you're doing.
We just don't care.
Now I'm thinking about some stuff. Slick always calls itself out.
ReplyDeleteThe dude buys cereal. Boxes and boxes, always when there’s a sale, two for ones, off brand or not, doesn’t matter. Every Saturday he’s at the store, tall, thin dude with a bow tie and glasses, every hair in place like he’s got a tiny personal landscaper for his scalp.
ReplyDeleteAnd he always ends up on your egister. Force of habit? Thinks you’re cute? You’re not supposed to ask why. They told you at training. Be friendly but not that friendly. Don’t comment on the purchases. If, say, they’re wearing a team jersey you can smile and say “go team” or whatever, but never, ever, ever tell a guy his team sucks. It’s like the golden rule of retail, the trainer said. If a cashier checking you out in a store ever said something that pissed you off enough to go to the manager, don’t be doing that to someone else. You don’t know what people are going through. Might have just lost their job, is why they’re buying ramen and off-brands and shit. Maybe they’re pregnant when they didn’t want to be, maybe their mother just died.
So that’s what you do. And you must be doing something right, because you haven’t been written up for anything in the seven years you’ve been there.
He’s back again now. Today rocking the bow tie with a white shirt and jeans that look ironed. Comes in, gets a cart, disappears down the big aisle and you know he’s going for the cereal. You never see him get any milk, though. Unless he gets it somewhere else, you don’t know if he actually eats the stuff. You’ve made up stories about him in your head. He works for the church and he’s buying for the food pantries. Like some food insecurity Robin Hood, only he buys the stuff, and brings it to the poor folks.
Then he’s in your lane. Ten boxes of generic corn flakes. And some razors, shaving cream. His eyes have their usual shine, like he’s brand new to the world, taking it in for the first time. It’s a slow morning and curiosity gets the best of you.
“You must really like cereal,” you say.
“I do!” he says.
You wave another box over the scanner. Blip. “You have it with milk, or straight out of the box?”
“Oh.” He looks like he’d never thought about it. “Both ways, depending. I just…really like having it around.”
“Must have a big pantry or a whole lot of kids,” you say. Blip. You think you might be on the edge of non-trainer-approved behavior, but it feels like he doesn’t mind being asked questions, not in any rush to check out and go home.
“I keep it in my basement,” he says. “I just feel better knowing it’s there.”
“Oh.” You’re getting an odd feeling now. Like you should stop engaging. Like he’s some kind of weirdo. Like, what else is in the man’s basement?”
“Doubt they’re gonna stop making it any time soon,” you say. Blip.
He gives you a long look, a little smile. “You never know.”
You finish ringing him up, take his cash—he always pays in cash—and with a polite thank you, he leaves.
Girl on the next aisle doesn’t have a line, leans over. “Guess Mr. Wizard is taking a shine to you.”
“Mr. Wizard?”
“He’s some kind of rocket scientist, I heard. Nuclear something-or-other.”
Your radar pings. Nuclear. Cereal. Basement. Something your mother said about when she was a girl in school. Duck and cover under the desks.
You try not to think about it anymore. You go back to work.
Later that night, your husband finds you in the basement with a measuring tape. His eyebrows ask a question. You say, “I think we should put some shelves down here. You know. In case.”
It came today. The phone call I once dreaded yet lately anticipated with new hope.
ReplyDeleteIt's cancer. Inoperable, incurable, ending in my painful death. There is now only one thing that remains to be done in my time left on Earth.
My final mission, save America by cutting off the head of the snake devouring it. Countless hours sitting or lying prone in all conditions on my private firing range. My rifle, burning through thousands of rounds of 7.62x39 ammo while perfecting my aim at a man sized dummy.
Hours upon hours studying Google Earth for the perfect perch from which to launch my attack.
While I expect success, I don't expect to survive. Once again the blood of a patriot will water the roots of the Tree of Liberty
I've no illusions that his death will end attempts to destroy my country, but perhaps the next dictator-to-be will think twice.