Other People (Part 2)

Anyway, so Camo Shorts is standing in front of me checking his text messages or surfing the web or something, when the cashier comes back and tells him that he'll adjust the price on his three pound tube of 85% lean ground beef.

"Thanks," he says, not even looking up from his phone. I watch the price change. I kid you not, he just saved twelve cents. And now I'm about to lose it. Even the life-affirming, pallor-saturating, affluenza cure that my liver is fighting as I stand here can't fix this.

I'm counting his items again, louder this time, and he's finally looked at me. He's noting the three items in my hand, maybe thinking that he should have let me go ahead of him, maybe thinking that I'm an alcoholic, probably just thinking about his car and how much nicer than mine he assumes it is.

"I drive a Corvette," I'm saying before I can realize my mistake, and his eyebrows are narrowing. I'm counting his items again, and not grinning, although I feel like it. I want to laugh at the absurdity of what I just said, what it must have sounded like. Later.

I'm smiling, I'm sure of it, but that's okay. It'll just have to be sardonic, so I don't lose this point I'm trying to make. I'm sure the cashier has recognized me by now, but I'm off. There's no turning back.

Camo Shorts is speaking now, his head angled slightly downward, his eyes lifted up at me. It's dark outside, but I'm seeing clearly the imaginary sunglasses over the tops of which he's peering. I'm guessing that he got used to using this posture to look dominant at his team, his staff of employees, or maybe even his yard workers or pool cleaner. Regardless, he uses it to make people feel stupid, like whatever they're doing is trite and meaningless, simple.

Intelligence, understanding, awareness, these are the keys to not being susceptible to this type of behavior, these strong arm tactics of the elite and powerful. You learn these things quickly in Scottsdale if you're paying attention.

I'm rambling again.

Anyway, he's speaking now. "You're being very rude."

"I'm trying to fit in. Assimilation. Solidarity. Rudeness by proxy."

I don't even know what I'm saying now, but I feel like I'm headed toward making a pretty good point, when he reaches for a box of Altoids.

"Don't you fucking dare," I say, his fingers stopping inches away from his twenty-first item, my eyes fury and awe, aware of nothing beyond the red and white aluminum.

A weary voice behind me huffs my name at the same time I say, "Unless you're going to get in a non-express lane." I'm tearing my eyes away now, my teeth clinging tightly to each other, bracing for defeat.

Randall smiles with just his lips behind me, his eyes tired and disappointed. "Greg, hey. Come into my office real quick."