I'm walking out of Ralph's and the automatic
sliding doors are wide open, their sensors being triggered by a train of
shopping carts, one tucked into the other. Behind the mass of metal there
stands a Ralph's employee, young, with thinning hair and a soft face.
He is clad in a glowing orange-yellow vest, the kind they
wear while on cart patrol.
He's trying to talk to me over the carts, but he's
nervous, distracted, his attention pulled by something I can't see.
"What?" I ask. He starts to point at something,
shifting from foot to foot.
"I don't understand," I say walking closer.
"I'm scared of him,"
he says, nearly whispering, prying his hands apart and gesturing
generally toward the carts. I stop walking and wonder if this
guy has just lost his mind and now sees dark demons in broad daylight.
"What?" I ask again.
The sliding doors are still open and shoppers come and go around us. I
wonder, with two cold cartons of almond milk in my arms (my reusable
bag in the car as usual), why me, why not one of them?
"There." He points
passionately, specifically now, so I follow his finger and find a tiny
bumble bee resting on one of the carts.
"Oh, it's a bumble
bee," I say relieved, as if naming his demon will render it
powerless. I half expect him to say, "Oh right, a bumble bee, I'm all
good, never mind." I half expect this because I'm not afraid, because
bumble bees are one of the only insects I'm not scared of.
I swat at the bee from across
the carts, a good effort, and see it lift off, so I start to walk
away.
"He's still there," he
yells after me. I turn back and see he is still dancing nervously, kneading his
hands. I imagine the sweat between his palms and likely beading on his
brow. I imagine the constriction in his chest, perhaps prickling in
his cheeks, as his breath shallows and he can't get himself to take in air. I
imagine all of the things that happen to me when I'm afraid.
Not long ago I was walking
through this same parking lot and a car rolled up along side me.
I assumed it was looking for parking and scooted farther to one side.
But as I continued, the car slowed, keeping pace with me. I kept moving,
throwing sharp glances through the driver's darkened window in an attempt
to say, 'Don't think I'm unaware, I can see you." Which I couldn't. I
slowed slightly and so did he. I quickened my step and the car sped up.
There were people in the parking lot, I could have called out to someone, but
it was hard enough to breathe and walk and figure out when and where to run.
Suddenly the driver's window descended and reflexively, I turned and looked.
The man behind the wheel stared at me. No words or weapons, just the
intrusion and intimidation of his stare. I glared back but by
then I was running out of road. The cross street was coming
and I'd have to decide which way to turn, so I slowed completely until I
stopped, and he slowed until he stopped.
"WHAT?!" I
screamed, completely facing him as he sat in his car. He
said nothing, just gave me a sliver of a smile. And then sped
off.
"I can't move
these," the Ralph's employee exclaims to me, to everyone, to the
universe. How many minutes have passed since he first called for help? Two maybe? How many minutes did that
car trail me? Two. Maybe.
I hurry around to the other
side of his shopping carts and shoo the bumble bee away. I keep shooing
and keep shooing until I hear him say a quiet thanks and the sound of
carts clattering by. The automatic sliding doors finally slide shut as
customers come and go.
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