The Can of Soup

I remember at the age of nineteen, when I worked as a stocker in a grocery store, a middle-aged man’s adult daughter (more likely his lover) dropped a can of soup on my head. She apologized with a smile that belied the apology, but the man just laughed aloud and said, “Good shot! Two points! Let’s see if you can hit him again!” Incensed, I insulted him. He insulted me and challenged me to a fight. I accepted his challenge, and he arranged to meet me after my shift to decide our differences through combat. I went about my work, resigned to meet my destiny in two more hours.

I should not have been, but I was surprised when the man thought better of fisticuffs with a stock boy. While I was busy bagging groceries at a check-out line, he complained to a police officer in the store. I tried to give my side of the story, but before I had uttered a dozen words, the officer transformed into battle mode. He arched his back in order to appear taller, puffed out his chest, pointed a finger at me, and with a tone of command, shouted, “Shut-up! Be still!” He didn’t say anything else, but waited. It would have been comical if I had not been involved.

A young black female cashier whispered, “Just do as he says. Don’t say nothing.” She was offering wisdom obtained from experience, and I did just as she instructed, making a mental note to thank her later, because wisdom is in short supply in this world. Nothing more was said, so I resumed bagging groceries. I do not remember what came after, whether the officer spoke with the man or not, but in any event, the officer left without another word to me.

The man, displeased at the lack of justice in the world, then complained to my manager, which resulted in a “write-up” being placed on my personnel file. My manager felt neutral about the whole affair, but was required by company policy to write about the incident, just as I am doing now, because I am rather proud of it.

When I got off work, I bicycled home many miles alone. Expecting ambush, I took shortcuts and routes where cars could not follow. My senses were keen for my enemy. I was ready for anything, but was left in peace to continue on with my existence as a stock boy. As for the “write-up,” nothing came of that either, because I quit soon after. It was not that incident that caused me to quit, but another one a few months later.

An assistant manager put his face right next to mine and called me a blind fool, while flecking droplets of saliva across my face, for not arranging an aisle in the precise manner that he wanted it arranged. He had not told me before how he wanted it arranged, and my mind-reading was not so well-developed at the age of nineteen. Many years after I quit, after I had graduated from college with the highest honors and was employed as a computer programmer earning twice his salary, I entered his store with a friend to purchase toothpaste. He followed me the whole time, watching every move I made in a state of paranoia, but did not approach me. As I checked out my small purchase, he berated the security guard for laziness. The security guard did not understand why he was being berated, but I did. The assistant manager was absolutely convinced that I had gotten away with shoplifting something. It was not my responsibility to disabuse him of that notion, because he had not asked me. I burst out laughing, loud enough for all of the cashiers to hear me. His face turned red, but he said nothing. He did not even turn to look in my direction, but stormed off to his office to review the hidden cameras' video footage.