Monkey Lover

The service line at the local meat market was slow. There were a handful of folks in front of me, further down the cases by the bacon and chicken parts. At my end, distant from the action, there was only a woman in front of me and, a few minutes after I got there, a mother and daughter behind.
     The way the place works, you show up, wait at the far end of the display cases, past the freezers with all the stuff you might want if you were in a hurry. When one of the folks behind the counter finishes with whoever’s in front of you, the counter person will come over and ask “Who’s next?”
     To which someone responds and the service of that customer’s needs begins. On and on, over and over like that. It’s pretty quick and painless.
     Besides, it’s the only locally run, family-owned meat market in about a twenty mile radius and the quality and choices are better than the under-plastic stuff you buy – usually from who knows where – at the local chain grocery stores.
     So there I was, in line, up by the sausages – which are usually too salty for my tastes or health – waiting for the next person to get free and come down to help the lady waiting in front of me.
     The mother and daughter behind me made a comment about it being slow.
     “I think they’re just busy. Not enough help right now.”
     “It’s the black people,” the woman in front said. She was a short, pudgy person with small eyes, almost pinched closed, grey hair. All of that. “They can’t never make up their minds,” she said.
     I snorted. “That's bullshit,” I said. “And you know it.”
     The mother behind me said “That’s not fair.”
     The woman in front said “I’m prejudiced.”
     “You are, damn sure,” I said. “I’ve seen white people can’t make up their minds plenty. It ain’t some race thing.”
     The daughter and mother behind me exchanged some words about racism. I was too hot to hear.
     “Well,” the racist lady said, “They always go around causin’ trouble and crimes and such.”
     “Bullshit,” I said again. “You can’t tell me white people are any better.” My voice was getting louder. “I lived next door to a family of sociopaths, white people, tore up my stuff, broke windows in my garage and when I went to talk to ’em about it they wanted to call the police for me scarin’ their kid! So don’t give me that crime and race shit!”
     The mother and daughter behind me were silent. Then mom said “We used to get those pork shoulder . . .”
     I turned and touched mom lightly on the shoulder. “And thank you for changing the subject.”
     “Oh, that’s ok,” mom said, “I just didn’t want you to have a bad day.”
     “I can’t have a bad day. This is my second week or retirement and I’m havin’ fun.”
     Mrs. Racist was staring at me.
     I lit into her again. “And many a time when I when was in the navy, a black shipmate helped me out. Saved my ass or otherwise kept me out of trouble. So don’t give me that shit either!”
     The racist lady moved down the counter a tick. One of the help came up and started serving her up stuff. Then another person came and helped me through my light weight needs. A package of ground round and “Oh, what’s that there in the wrap?”
     “That’s our home-made corn beef. We have it for St. Patrick’s day and all. Just this month.”
     “Good. Give me the large one in the back, please.”
     Got through that pretty cheerfully.
     So I chatted with the mother and daughter about my plans for the corn beef. Cabbage and carrots and maybe some kugelis, the Lithuanian potato pudding thing that’ll stick an extra twenty odd pounds on you for just lookin’ at the recipe.
     Then I was at the check out with the racist lady again.
     “You know, I was in the military too,” she says.
     “Yep. You got a lot out of that didn’t you?”
     “Twelve years. My husband . . .”
     I stopped listening.
     “. . . Havin’ babies right and left. Welfare . . .”
     “I have a dear friend who is raising his daughter. Has a good job. Solid citizen. So don’t give me that ‘common as dirt’ shit, either.”
     She shut up, paid her bill and split.
     I turned to mom and said “Thank you.”
     “You’re welcome. Please have a nice day.”
     “Ma’am, I can’t help but have a nice day, with good people around me.”
     I paid my bill and split too. As I walked out to the car, I wondered if the racist lady was sittin’ in her car, lookin’ at me, memorizing my face. I could imagine her going home and telling her husband what had happened.
     “Goddamn ni66er lovers,” he probably said. “Probably voted for that monkey!”
     And, to be truth up, I did.