This Way Out

The look on the cashier's face said it all. It was a mix of weariness, veiled anger, and the certain knowledge that saying what he really thought would get him fired. The customer, a tree trunk of a man in a vile temper, slammed his fists on the check writing platform.

“Where's your supervisor at, white bread?” he demanded. My head snapped up and there was an audible gasp from the people behind me in line. The cashier sighed and reached for the intercom. The customer fumed.

A supervisor arrived and quietly explained to the customer exactly what the cashier had already said. The customer narrowed his eyes and leaned toward the supervisor.

“Figures you'd take his side, Uncle Tom,” he said nastily.

The supervisor's jaw dropped and from behind the barrier of the customer service counter, I saw someone reach for the telephone. The people behind me began moving away to other registers.

A second supervisor appeared, followed almost immediately by a uniformed officer resting one hand casually on his gunbelt. I was thinking that the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups weren't worth it and wishing hard I'd chosen a different line. I wasn't in any danger (it crossed my mind that that was probably exactly what the letter carrier was thinking just before he was shot to death a few door down from my house) but the whole thing was giving me butterflies in my belly. As with any confrontation or even the threat of one, I had an all consuming desire to run. Raised voices make me sick with fear.

Luckily, the big cop had no such problem. The irate customer was ushered from the store and the situation naturally defused itself. No harm, no foul. Except for that shrill, nagging little voice that wants to keep reminding me that the world has changed and none of us are really safe anywhere.