The man in front of me looked like any man in Alameda: white, late-40s, deliberately casual but clearly upper middle class, moderately good-looking. He was only purchasing a few items, but the checkout girl couldn't find the right price for his leeks. As he cornily made a joke that the leeks "must be free!" the young checkout girl--bookish, tall and pale, with a Band-aid on her chin--ran over to the produce section to check the shelf. Just then, another male clerk walked up, and the man proceeded to make pervy comments to him about another female clerk who wasn't there that day. When the girl returned, the two men continued their lecherous conversation about the absent clerk. After the man made his purchase and left, and the girl rang through my lettuce and lemon, she was quiet for a moment. It was then that I noticed her face had turned a light salmon color. "Did you hear them?" she asked, rolling her eyes. "I tried not to," I replied. "Yeah...creeps," she said, giving me my sales total. "That man's wife is suffering through some pretty intense breast cancer."
I shook my head. Although I was aghast and my heart sank, I wanted to say something about how people grieve in weird ways. But thankfully, the words stuck in my throat. "What an ass," I muttered instead.
"I know. Market drama!" she said, and laughed. "You'd be surprised what goes on around here..." We both wished each other good days, and she thanked me for being there to bear witness to this one tiny horror.
And yet, oddly, I am the one who is suddenly grateful.
