This past Monday I was finishing up my grocery shopping at Kroger, and as I rolled along down the main aisle toward the candy aisle checkout lane, some young guy came rushing out of a side aisle, arms full of something that might have been adult diapers, swerved right in front of me, almost ran into my full cart so I had to wrestle it to a full skidding stop and didn't even say "excuse me." He just hurried on in front of me like I didn't exist. "Asshole," I muttered under my breath. Or maybe I said it aloud. I say it so often. I started having a brief, but satisfying, daydream about chasing him down and running over him with my cart, but I was interrupted. Another young man walked up beside me as I got my full cart underway again and said, "What a fucking world, huh? Can you believe that?" I looked over at him. Clean-cut, dark hair, preppy yellow button-down shirt like a young Republican. Early to mid-twenties. My first thought was that he'd seen the other guy almost hit me and he was lending support. But really! Language, sir. You don't know me, even though I did just call someone an asshole and I might have said it out loud. So I kind of nodded and said, "Uh huh" in my most non-committal tone. I wasn't there to make friends. "I mean, look at that. Why? What a fucking world." He pointed to his head and nodded toward the asshole. Oh. The guy had pink hair. I hadn't noticed. So it was about the pink hair, not about my inconvenience. I lost interest. I gave him a frowny WTF look and shook my head. First, because who gives a shit about the color of some asshole's hair. And second, because who uses such profane language with a strange woman who is old enough to be his grandmother? He didn't know I swear like a pirate. I could have been offended by more than his assumption that I'd agree with his toxic masculinity! I'm not sure he saw my look of distaste though, because he had pulled ahead of me and was honing in on his next victims: a woman in her 40's and her older teen daughter, who were pushing a cart from the other direction. "Did you see that?" he said, pointing at the pink-haired dude. "I mean, what the fuck is up with that?" The mom laughed and said, "Yeah, we did. In fact, my daughter just said ..." He ran right over her -- not literally. "I don't fucking get it. I mean, I'm a man and I enjoy being a man, so I don't need to..." I turned a corner and walked away. No way I wanted to walk through or around that conversation. I was in a red-neck area of town anyway and I don't tend to engage in unwinnable arguments with strangers there. As I looked at makeup I had no intention of buying, I could hear them talking and laughing, but I couldn't hear what they were saying. Finally it got quiet and I turned my cart around to leave. As I did the mother came around the corner with her cart. "Man," she said. "He had a lot to say." "He sure did," I replied. He'd brought us together. We were now family. I continued to the checkout lines, past the self-check, and guess who was in one of the lines. Mr. Smug. He looked up, smiled and nodded like we were becoming friends. If this were a movie, he'd somehow follow me home. I gave him stone face and turned into a different line. And then realized I'd forgotten something. By the time I came back, Mr, Smug had changed lanes and now was in the lane I'd been in before. Grilled Cheezus I was getting tired of his smug face and friendliness. I walked past him, ignoring him again when he turned around and smiled, and turned into the lane he'd been in before. I was so ready to get out of there. As I pulled my cart up to the conveyor belt I looked at the cashier and what a surprise! She had turquoise hair. I could only assume that almost-blue hair on a woman offended Mr. Smug. I mean if boys can't wear pink hair, it stands to reason that girls can't wear blue. Whatever. I didn't ask him. I checked out and by the time I was done, Mr. Smug was nowhere in sight. Probably out looking for other colorful hair to judge. Asshole. I just don't get why Mr. Smug cared about the color of the other guy's hair. The polar ice caps are melting, species of animals and insects are becoming extinct every day, California is on fire, and here in Dayton we endured a KKK march, 15 tornadoes at once, a mass shooting, and a visit from Not-My-President Trump all in one summer. After all that the only thing that bothered him was some pink-dyed hair. What a fucking world indeed. I wonder though if I should have handled it differently. Should I have engaged him in an earnest, yet pointed, conversation about the dangers of certain gender norms? Should I have told him he was being an inconvenient asshole? Did I miss an opportunity to educate him? To have some fun with him? I don't know, but here's why I didn't. First, I had no evidence he was capable of change, nor that he would willingly engage in a dialog about what an asshole he was. Second, his behavior was unusual enough I didn't want to risk setting him off and turning his obvious anger on me. (See number 6 on last night's list.) I mean, how stable can a guy who walks up to strangers to dis another guy's hair be? And third, the guy with the pink hair had been an asshole to me. If we were going to talk about anything, I wanted to talk about that. Not his fucking pink hair. His assholery was the bigger concern.
So I didn't stand up for the pink hair. In the larger scheme of things, it probably doesn't matter. But I still fear (there's that word again) I missed an opportunity to wear my social justice warrior cape and correct a microaggression the victim didn't even know about. What would you have done? Dig in and try to change him? Or ignore him like I did? Is this why my mom always said I think too much?
* I don't get a kickback for anything I post here. If I ever made a dime on this blog, I'd be sure to brag about it.
I'm trying to catch up after my adventuring this past weekend. I drove somewhere into the mountains of Ohio to visit my son Drake and his fiance Montana. I only got lost once twice, but I made it to their house, albeit an hour later than I should have. It was a long drive, but shortly after I got there, when Montana suggested we go to a washboard festival, I was ready to rock and roll. Not kidding. We went to a washboard festival, and it was way more fun than the name would suggest. I wanted to go for two reasons. First, I've got plans to go to a blues jam near my house this week, and last week they posted on their Facebook that they needed a washboard player. I thought, Hey, I don't play the washboard. I should learn. So I wanted to go the festival and buy myself a washboard. Turns out I could have bought one on Amazon, but that would have ruined all the fun. The second reason I wanted to go should be obvious: washboard festival. I wanted to be the first in my class to go. No telling what a person might see at a washboard festival. I wasn't really expecting much, but we knew we could get some bourbon chicken there if nothing else. Turns out the washboard festival was bigger and more fun than we anticipated. They had 4 stages with bands from all over the country, a bunch of vendors -- both food and stuff, and even a little free carnival for the kids. We were impressed by almost everything, including the tricked-out washboards. (I confess I did not take this photo, but somebody did take it at that very festival.) I even bought a washboard that I will learn to play and probably even take to the blues jam one of these nights. It might be a while before I add on cowbells, cymbals, clown horns, and tin cans. I don't know if you noticed up there, but I said we were impressed by almost everything. One thing I didn't enjoy was the many derogatory comments I heard about President Obama, and the assumption that anybody within earshot would agree that he's an idiot who has ruined this country. The casual derision threw a note of ugliness into an otherwise wonderful occasion. Here's an example. Montana and I needed to use the pair of portable toilets we found down a side street. I had just been wondering why so many people seem to poop in those things instead of doing it at home before they leave. Seems like way more than you'd expect, like maybe they save it up or something. I haven't figured that out yet. Anyway, we finished and a woman with a little girl took one potty and Drake took the other. Montana and I snuggled up against a brick wall that was still warm from the sun and hadn't taken on the night's chill. As we stood there puzzling about poop, a middle-aged guy walked up and noted that both potties were in use. "Looks like the Obamas are full," he said. Or I think that's what he said. Another one of those derogatory comments, that I know. I stared back at him for several seconds deciding what to say. I imagine I had that look on my face that causes my daughter Elvira to slip her cell phone into her back pocket because she expects I'm going to take it away. The guy apparently didn't notice; he was still laughing at his own joke. I stared at him a little harder. "I don't get it," I finally said, with no warm brick wall in my voice. He gave one of those "aww, c'mon" frowns, laughed again and said, "Shitters. They're shitters. The Obamas are full. The shitters ...." And then he laughed again, totally in his own shitty world. I did not laugh. I'm not sure what Montana was doing. She's a paramedic. She was probably going over the procedures for pulling a middle-aged asshole's head out of a portable toilet full of shit while holding her future mother-in-law back with her foot. I was still staring at him, trying to decide whether to engage, and knowing my time was better spent just enjoying the warm bricks and the odor of porta-poop drifting on the night air. I opened my mouth and took a breath just as Drake came out of the toilet and gestured for the guy to go right in. He may have whispered, "Hurry up. Your life is in danger out here. You're safer in the shitter. Move along." As he walked up to us I said, "I'm being good. I didn't say much." "I know," he said. "I heard." He got us walking down the street away from the temptation to push that portable toilet over on its side. He avoids having to bail me out of jail, just like any good son does. He also doesn't want to have to defend my honor to the type of person who calls the President a shitter. You know, I don't give a fuck what that guy thinks of President Obama. I really don't. Opinions and assholes and all that. But the very least he can do is respect the office of the President of the United States when he opens his stupid mouth in public. The very least. I had to live through not one, but two, Bush presidencies. And let's not forget Reagan. I kept telling people there was something wrong with him, but nobody else seemed that concerned with a little touch of the Alzheimer's. All those agonizing years of economic destruction and flagrant lies and bungled governance, and I never resorted to calling them shitters to strangers. I can't understand why this guy can't get through the rest of Obama's term with a civil tongue in his head. The fact that the majority of the people there would have laughed with him is no defense. Obama won the election fair and square -- at least as much as our election system allows for such a thing. So shut the fuck up and take your shit in the free public shitter. The toilet paper is free too. Anyway despite those few seconds, which I have made far more important than necessary, we all enjoyed the washboard festival. People were laid back and polite. Not many were walking along smoking and polluting the air behind them, which can't be said for a lot of festivals and fairs. The drinkers were corralled in the beer garden. Lots of families walked around enjoying the music, the food, and the rides. Most important was spending time with Drake and Montana. I've learned that peace is usually more important than trying to teach a stranger a lesson about civility. Or maybe he's just lucky Drake zipped up quick and got him the hell away from me. We'll never know.
