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A White
Woman in Piggly Wiggly at 7:30 on a Saturday Night
Valerie MacEwan The old white woman in front of me, missing a few teeth, hair a strange browngray, wearing a “Jesus Loves Me” sweatshirt, limegreen polyester pants, purple plasticated windbreaker with a Members Only logo, buying a loaf of storebrand whitebread, looks at the Zima purchasers ahead of her, turns to me as we stand in the express lane and says quiet ly under her breath, "That´s a nice looking girl to be with that man." I look up and see the girl is white. The man -- black. I hadn´t noticed. I only saw the copious amount of Zima they were purchasing. A case of Zima, a nightmare hangover from the bowels of hell, that's what I'm seeing. So I think, "Lady why do you give a rat's ass? What business is it of yours?" But I say, quietly, "I think he´s Puerto Rican." I say this because she's old, and doesn't know why she's afraid of change. She is, and she has always been and she will always be, ignorant. And I can't fix this world. I'm not in charge. Yet, I am embarrassed, even by people I don't know. She says, quietly, "Oh good. You´re probably right." Then I look closely at his hair, his stance, his broad shoulders. Marine, I think, or Air Force ... Cherry Point, Jacksonville ... short respite, a few weeks home from Iraq ... " He can die for you, but he can't date that girl?" I want to slap the woman. The checkout girl says to the old woman, “One dollar and eighty-five cents,” She looks over at me, smiles ... hands the woman her change. As I watch her "Jesus Loves Me" shirt disappear into the parking lot, I remember a t-shirt my daughter wears -- "I found Jesus. He was behind the couch the whole time." She's ordered another one -- "God was my co-pilot but I crashed in the mountains and ate him." Wonder which of us is going to hell... I slam my box of wine on the checkout belt, the conveyor of convenience, and watch the wine slide over the glass window -- a box on a square. A black man walks up and joins our Conga line, behind the middle-aged black couple and their two teenage sons standing directly behind me. I´m the only white person now. He´s carrying a frozen turkey cradled in one arm and in the other, an eighteen-month-old child -- snow suit, pink toboggan hat with bunny ears, mittens clipped to the wrist bands -- sound asleep -- in that quirky broken-neck-looking posture only a toddler can endure. Adapted from time spent in car seats, grandma´s laps and between parents in too-small beds. He puts the frozen turkey on the candy rack, on top of Snickers, Mars Bars, and Sweet Revenge. The gotcha-shelves in the check out lane, they call to his sugar dreams, but he remains strong, doesn't give in. Holds one hand on the turkey to keep it from sliding. “Wish I could be that slack,” I say as I smile, then he smiles. And the baby smiles in her sleep. Everyone looks at my box of wine. For only nine ninety-six. “It's for my 86 year old mother,” I say. “I buy her one a week.” They nod, looking at me in the eye. “Keeps her sane?” they ask. “Don´t listen to doctors,” the man with the baby says. “I don´t, and she smokes too. Keeps her sane ... keeps us all sane.” Everyone nods in agreement. “Ya'll have a good evening,” the check out girl smiles to the non-plural me, because it's Piggly Wiggly in North Carolina and it's ya'll or none. She hands me my change. |
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