What I did today

It’s not easy being me. But sometimes I get the weekends off.

Ah, Sunday. Nobody around. The Boss is off whoring at that club downtown, The Pleasure Center. The Big Boss is off somewhere, too. So it is just me to mind the store, so to speak. Even the Kid is gone. He has to go to his Anger Management class, and the lesbian who runs it keeps them on lock down. Which is kinda funny when you think about it, ha ha ha.

I drink a lot of Coke Classic. It helps me relax. I have to keep the Boss’s mini fridge stocked. If I drink it, I have to replace it, he says. So, after an exciting day of computer war gaming, computer porn, and just plain surfing, it is time to restock the fridge with all the Coke, Doctor Pepper, and Ginger Ale that I drank.

***
So, I go to the local supermarket. It is open 24/7. I tried to get a honest job there once. Two of the guys I went to high school with work there. It is nice.

OK, so I get three fridge-mate cases: Coke, Dr.Pepper, and Ginger Ale, and I go to the express line. It’s like five items or less. You know?

Well, there is this guy, this stupid fool with half a cart up in front. Can’t he read? This is really going to slow me down. He is wearing a poncho, shorts, and sandals. And a man bag. Perfect haircut. Keeps his money in his purse in a wallet.

Then he tries to pay by plastic, but he doesn’t know how the swipe works. Will my suffering never end? Now I start to get angry, but there are too many witnesses to work out my feelings. I look around. Way too many witnesses. So, I feel unhappy. My psychotherapist would say that I was crying inside. Yeah.

Stupid fool then asks for a cash advance. I grit my teeth and look behind me: the line is getting longer. A nice lady, then a lady with a stroller and a cute sleeping kid, and then a retired guy buying mix for his Sunday rum tonic.

***
The Boss always says that in western civilization the proper role of the police is to protect criminals from vigilantes.

I follow the illiterate stupid fool out of the supermarket. I hang back a bit and follow him towards his car.

Oh, look. His license plate. I memorize his plate number and watch him drive towards the exit. He signals to make a left into heavy traffic. Figures. I write down his license plate number on the note pad I keep with me.

I heft my cases of drink and bee line to the first person I see leaving the store. A geezer with a load of diapers for the grandkids he is sitting. Excellent.

‘Hey!’, I say, ‘that guy pulling out just scratched your car.’

‘What?’ says gramps, then he looks towards where his car is parked.

I follow his gaze towards his car, and point in that general direction. ‘That your car?’

‘What?’ says gramps, then he focuses in on the problem, ‘yes, that’s my car, the white Ford!’

I establish eye contact with gramps, ‘That man hit your white Ford.’ I take out my notepad and give gramps the piece of paper with the license number. ‘This is his license number. He is a criminal and must suffer.’

Gramps looks at the number, then over to where the stupid fool is making another left turn against traffic. Gramps scowls. Main and Danforth is no place to make a left turn. The stupid fool may be illiterate, but now he has The Avenging Furies on his trail.

‘Hey, I gotta go get my kids from the Sunday School at Church,’ I said, lying. I give gramps a business card. I get them from the dumpster behind the printers. This one is Roop Sharma at Falafel King. ‘Call me on my cell!’

And off I go, into the heat, bearing my three crates of drink, and the good feeling of a job well done.

It’s a rare feeling. And that is what I did today. But nobody cares.

It’s not easy being me.