Sometimes, I have trouble telling colors apart. A lot of men–if not all–are like that. For instance, violet, lavender, amethyst, lilac, mauve. To me they’re all purple. How about chartreuse? At first, I thought that referred to a female nightclub singer, which is why I have to brush up on mon français if I ever plan on going back to France, nightclub or not. I would describe chartreuse as yellow, green, or lime. Actually, I wouldn’t venture beyond yellow. I feel safe there. So, when I tell you her hair was a sort of pink-purple-red, just imagine anything you’d like. Think of Oz’s horse of a different color.
I could spot her hair halfway down the aisle as I gradually made my way to her checkout stand. Once in her lane, I detected a definite attitude on her part. It was hard to miss. It was made up of two fifths boredom, two fifths disdain, and a fifth of disgust as if she had just discovered fresh snot on her scanner. No wonder there wasn’t much chitchat around her.
Dutifully, I set my basket down on the little conveyor belt and started to take items out, starting with a jar of pickled beets, which I love, along with deviled egg potato salad. She kept the belt moving so that I had to reach farther and farther away to grab the basket as it moved toward her. She didn’t stop the belt but watched as I reenacted that scene of Lucy Ricardo and Ethel Mertz at the chocolate factory.
She never looked up or acknowledged me, but I noticed her. She had acne and braces, although, honestly, it took me a while to spot the braces since she hardly opened her mouth. I want to say that she parted her lips only to blow bubbles with her pink gum, but that’s probably too much poetic license. She did, however, grimace as she waited for me to stop bumbling with the basket. Still, she wouldn’t look up.
I took advantage of her lack of interest to check her nametag. It read, “Fiona.” I decided that her last name was “Unger” so that her initials would be, appropriately enough, “FU.” That made me recall Felix Unger’s “FU.” We were, after all, an odd couple at the counter–me, oddly obscure with pickled beets, and her with indefinable hair that screamed “look-at-me,” skin affliction, and a tortured soul. Actually, she was more of the Oscar Madison character than anyone else.
When I asked her to pass the baking soda so I could add it to the bag that I started myself without waiting for her help, she shoved it behind her toward me without even looking. I believe I heard her grunt, though. When the time came, she ripped the receipt from the printer and flung it toward me without so much as a how-do-you-do. I would have welcomed another grunt at that point, but she left me hanging.
Actually, I take that back. She turned halfway toward me to make sure I had cleared my groceries so that she could completely ignore the next putz in line and treat him with similar disdain. I want to say that she snorted as she did so, but I don’t know if you can do that while chewing gum. If it is possible, then I am sure she did it if for no reason other than to piss us all off.
As I finished bagging my groceries and tucked the receipt in my pocket, I couldn’t help but smile. I even looked around to see if anyone else caught what was happening. “Fiona Unkempt” had served up something different, unexpected, and genuine. Let those with the eyes to see, see, and the ears to hear, hear. She showed absolutely no appreciation for my patronage or the initiative I took in bagging my beets. Rather, she acted as if she didn’t give two shits and couldn’t wait for me to get my slow ass out of her lane.
I’ll tell you this; there was nothing phony about it. Her disdain was real, but it wasn’t personal. It was directed at the world at large. It was, in a word, refreshing.
Image credits: Eduardo Soares, Bryant Churckyno. Want more? Go to Robert Brancatelli. The Brancatelli Blog is a member of The Free Media Alliance, which promotes “alternatives to software, culture, and hardware monopolies.”
