I was at the grocery store early on a saturday morning. I’m a busy girl, not necessarily productive, but stretched for time nonetheless. I pulled into an empty parking lot, and saw a mangy-looking guy, lurking around the outskirts of the building. I parked in the front row, across from the only other shopper’s car in the vicinity. I noticed the other car’s windows were down, and that a wiry dog was panting inside for the swift return of his human. I greeted the fellow with a high-pitched, “Well what in the world are you doing in there?” The shaggy face paid no attention, although his ears twitched in response.
I let go of my hurt feelings, grabbed a buggy and continued on with my chores. I bypassed the bakery (because I’m a pastry-snob) and headed for the fruits and vegetables. I picked up a few items, made my rounds among the season’s best, I drew the melons closer to my nose for further inspection. I edged past the lettuce, dried fruits, and dyed floral arrangements, and that’s when I spotted him.
He was standing in a corner near the high-sugar, canned beverage machines, and bathrooms. He was staring at me without remorse, embarrassment or hesitation. Now look, I’ll admit it, I’m a little cute, but lord help me, I’m not a pin-up-hold the phone, kind of cute. However, for argument’s sake, I was in my workout clothes, which squeezed me in all the right places, and showed off the lengths of my skin, but damn that man was nasty.
You’re not going to believe this, but he had his hand jammed so far down in his pocket I thought he was going to yank off his trousers. His hand was dancing at the rate of a jack in the box, popping up and down. He was jingling his junk like my ninth grade history teacher-with the thick glasses-used to do. My eyes widened, my nostrils flared (until I was fearful of catching a whiff of him) and I said out-loud, as I turned on my toes, “You’re a sick, foul man. You’re disgusting.”
I pushed my cart away in the opposite direction, down the cereal aisle as fast I could. I looked over my shoulder for him but figured he wouldn’t follow. I finished my business, and unloaded my goods at checkout. I told the cashier, and bag-lady, “There was a man in the back playing with himself. They looked horrified, “Really? I’m sorry Maame.” Well, just as I opened my mouth to reply, there he was, lining up right behind me, talking to himself. I said to the ladies, “And that’s him.” I didn’t look at him again, and kept my shopping cart between us as a barrier. I told the lady bagging my groceries, “Would you mind walking me out to my car?” She said, “Of course not, I don’t blame you.”
I held my head high, and marched out to my car not even considering my contribution to society. I’m going to take credit for making his day. Something about me made him so happy he had to tell, using sign language, his stuff about me. However, the perverted pig should learn how to have those little conversations without anyone else around. Oink.
When I told Susan about what happened, she asked, “Well what happened to him?” I said, “I don’t know, and I don’t care. All I was concerned about was getting away from. I didn’t call the police because I figured his life was already miserable enough.” (Again with my favors.)