Mixed Signals

 

It’s always a surprise when someone turns up in my space. I don’t think that I exactly radiate approachability, y'know? At least not usually.

So, I’m in the grocery store, in the bread aisle.

Me, fresh in off over 150 miles alone on the road with Bettina, still decked in full leathers, patches, chains, and combat boots, and pushing one of those stupid little child-size mini-shopping carts with my helmet taking up most of the basket space. Hamburger, Tylenol, and snacks were packed in around the helmet, and my armored-knuckle gloves were in the purse-tray (or whatever that little shelf-thingie is).

I’d been roaming around the store, lost as a babe and feeling older than God. At the moment, I was trying to remember what brand of bread we’re into, and this after spending what felt like a couple of hours trying to sort out whether we bought 80/20 or 93/7 ground beef. When I’m buying for myself it goes pretty quickly as I tend to pick up whatever happens to be nearest my hand when I think of it. The Beneficiary is a bit pickier.

In all fairness, I must have been one odd-looking little duck — or, to be more accurate, one odd-looking large, leathery, fatboy-duck, I guess.

Him, mid-20-something whatever-the-hell they’re calling stereotypical mid-range, lazy-jock examples of the current generation, (Gen "Z", right?) along with his actually kinda pretty little wife/girlfriend. I think she was pretty, anyhow. Now, recalling her, mostly what I see is shiny, longish, light-brown hair on a frame so short she wouldn’t have been able to see over my shoulder without a rung or two boost up a stepladder.

Anyhow, I’m standing there reading rows of bread and about to just give up and grab a couple of loaves at random when they came up from behind me and passed. She smiled and nodded, and I noticed him looking at me like he was trying to remember who I was. I’ve never seen either of them before. 

They stopped in the aisle just before they got completely around my mini-basket, and he nodded and I nodded back. Then he said something like, “So, what are you all about?” which, of course, snapped my focus onto him like a filmmaker’s jump-cut.

I instantly assumed he wanted to stir some shit which, frankly, I needed like I need a sore dick. Using an over-used cliche, I’m too tired and way too old for this shit.

Wary and annoyed, I stepped toward him as I said something to the effect of “And who the fuck are you?” which made him back up so fast he bumped into his Significant Other.

She squeaked and grabbed his arm, eyes wide and he raised both his hands to chest-height palms toward me, and said “I didn’t mean anything. I was just curious about…” he gestured at me, the kiddie-basket, the bread, the whole tableau.

“Ah,” I said, still irritated. “Well, the wife’s sick, so I’m doing the shopping today. Does that work for you, or is there something else you think is any of your fucking business?”

His wife/whatever let go of his arm and pressed her hands to the middle of her chest, and cooed, “Awww, that’s so sweet!” in exactly the same voice/tone I assume she’d use if she’d just been introduced to a fluffy new puppy. This instantly flipped me from irritation to amusement and made me snort laughter, shaking my head. Surprised, she said “No, really!”

I suddenly realized that she’d been the one with the question — she’d just made him ask it.

I laughed again and told them not to worry about it and turned to walk away.

“We usually get the Wonder bread,” he said, gesturing. “It’s pretty good. If you still wanted some I mean.”

“Thanks,” I said. With leather (and probably old joints) creaking, I reached down and picked up two loaves, then the joke basket and I comically wandered away with not another word exchanged.

I don’t know how to feel about any of this. But it seems significant somehow.