A Thoroughly Disagreeable Little Man

The line at the pharmacy counter was six deep with unhappy, impatient customers.  They muttered and complained, shifted from one foot to the other and cleared their throats with frustration.  The hapless cashier, a frozen it’s-not-my-fault smile on her face, was doing her best but she was badly outflanked by the little man with the pageboy haircut and the overflowing grocery cart.

He wasn’t but four and a half foot high and clearly oblivious or indifferent to the traffic jam behind him, was engaged in a whiny, nasal and protracted conversation with the cashier.  He wanted someone to block print the directions for his prescription on a sheet of paper.

 Letter size paper,  he demanded, White with black ink.

The cashier assured him the pharmacist would be happy to oblige if he wouldn’t mind waiting and allow her to wait on other customers.  He stamped one small foot defiantly.

Certainly not, he snapped.

In that case, she countered, perhaps she could begin to ring up his purchases to save time.

He glanced at his grocery cart, piled so high it towered over him, and shook his head vehemently.

Not until I get my directions, and there was an edge of sneer in his tone, I’ll wait.

There was a rumble of discontent behind him and he glanced over his shoulder, wrinkled his nose.

I have as much right to be here as you do, he announced arrogantly and the rumble began to sound more like a growl.

They’s a dozen lanes open, fool, a tired looking but hefty black woman said clearly, Carry your skinny ass to one of them and come back later.  Ain’t no need to hold the rest of us up!

I’ll do no such thing, he declared, And you can’t make me!

Try me!  the woman invited and took a step closer to him.

The disagreeable little man paled, hitched up his high water pants nervously but stood his ground.

You wouldn’t dare, he mumbled.

Now ya’ll hold on, a younger black man intervened smoothly, Leave him be, Mama, can’t you see he ain’t right?

And indeed, I realized, there was something off about the little man in the long sleeved check shirt, loafers, and khaki pants with the belt cinched so tightly that they rode up and exposed his bare ankles.  His pageboy hair was only pageboy’d on the back and sides – from the top and front he was shiny bald with wispy muttonchops and a tragic goatee – I could barely see his eyes through the thick lenses of his glasses and what I suspected was a permanent part of his wardrobe, a black imitation leather pocket protector, was sturdily attached to his shirt pocket.  Then there was his cart.  Everything was in 12’s – 12 quart bottles of Pepsi, 12 bags of bird seed, 12 light bulbs, 12 granola bars and 12 of 12 kinds of candy bars. 

The black woman gave the cart a nasty jolt with one knee and the little man began to panic, I could see it in his face.

Mama!  The young black man snatched her arm and pulled her back, Mama, leave him be!

Just as I was deciding I didn’t need to know how all this would end, the harried, young pharmacist materialized at the counter and slid a sheet of paper toward the little man.  There was a collective sigh of relief as he inspected the paper, folded it 12 times, tucked it into his pocket and began unloading his cart.  One item at a time and keeping an eagle eye on the cashier and the computer screen.

White folks!  I heard the black woman mutter as she shook off her son’s arm, elbowed her way past the others in line and stalked out, Some be crazy as bedbugs!

There was an uncomfortable silence as everyone digested her words.  The wide-eyed cashier continued to ring up the little man’s purchases although it was a slow and tedious process as he would only lay the one item at a time onto the counter and then wait for her to scan it before reaching for the next one.  It looked and felt like intentional gridlock.  The pharmacist returned to his pill counting and the black woman’s son lowered his eyes and made his way out, murmuring apologies as he went. The line continued to lengthen, finally attracting the attention of a managerial-type who surveyed the situation and immediately sent in a second cashier to move things along. 

The thoroughly disagreeable little man was finally done but as he chose to plow his cart into and through the now double line – it was impossible not to believe that this was an intentional effort to displace as many people as possible since there were clear paths on either side of him – he felt the need to make a parting shot and announced nastily that he’d never felt so ill-treated all day.

Give it time, an anonymous voice from somewhere in the line called after him, Day’s still young.

This brought some scattered laughter and humiliated and infuriated, he immediately fired back with that if people like that were going to shop here, then he would take his business elsewhere.  

It’s them or me,  he crowed confidently.

The managerial-type looked from him to the line of customers and back again, shrugged and smiled.

We’ll miss you, he called politely.

Turning the other cheek is a noble notion and a worthy goal but in the real world, sometimes you just have to speak your mind and return fire.