Baboon

CANDY

Working our way down the long shopping list, we at last reached the shelves with sweets. We grabbed two bags of mixed candy. You placed them in the large woven market bag, which your mother had bought in Bali. We also grabbed a bar of chocolate, unwrapped it and broke it in half. We devoured the sweet sticky mass. Then we walked up to the checkout and began to unload the groceries onto the conveyor belt. You remembered to put down the chocolate bar wrapper. The young woman at the register threw it in the wastebasket for us. I paid. And then a skinny woman with glasses and gray wispy hair stopped you. "What do you have there?" she asked, pointing at the woven bag. "Oh," you said, "I forgot to put them on the counter." You smiled at the young woman. "I'm sorry." "Sorry isn't good enough," the woman said. "What do you have there?" People watched. "What do you mean? It's candy." "Have you paid for it?" "No, that's what I just said. We forgot to put them on the counter." Red splotches spread across your neck and down your chest. "We'll just pay for them now," I said. "And you're saying that it's candy?" asked the woman. "Yes." Her lips pressed out and down in a nasty smile. "It's stolen goods," she said, "and I couldn't care less about what you've forgotten or not forgotten. You're coming with me right now." "What do you mean?" you asked, confused. "Just what I said," said the woman, pushing her glasses up. "Excuse me," I said, "we spend lots of money in this lousy store every day of the entire summer." I was losing my temper. "And then you scold my wife like a child for forgetting to pay for two cheap bags of candy!" I waved one of the packages in her face. "Here!" I shouted, "Take the money!" and flung a handful of coins on the counter. The young woman at the register looked miserable. The money stuck in the conveyer belt where it fed down into the counter. A German man who was loading his groceries into a large box tried to wiggle the coins free. It ended with the young woman stopping the belt. The long line of people with full shopping carts were asked to check out at another register. Meanwhile the woman with glasses was saying, "Sir, this is not about paying now, it's about theft, we have our procedures in this store, and your wife needs to come with me." She grabbed your arm. You were on the verge of tears. "Thomas," you whispered. "Don't worry. I'm coming with you," I said, gathering our things. "Let's get this over with!" I shouted. "Right away!" "Sir, your wife will be questioned alone. Those are the rules." "I want to talk to the manager!" I shouted. You looked down at the floor. She still had your arm, and was now walking off with you. You didn't resist. I called to the woman at the register. "Get me the manager of this shithole!" I shouted. The woman looked scared. She rang the bell. I could neither see you nor the skinny woman. It felt like it took forever before the manager showed up. Meanwhile I got all worked up over the fact that the woman had taken great pains to humiliate you as much as possible by addressing you casually and calling me sir. The manager appeared to be a good-natured man in his mid-thirties. In a raised voice, I told him about the situation. The manager covered himself. "The store detectives are not my responsibility. We use the same procedure for theft in all our stores." "It's not theft," I shouted and almost grabbed the poor man. "Bring me to my wife!" "Unfortunately," the manager said, smiling apologetically, "I'm not allowed to." Then in a rage I threw the bags of candy on the floor and pushed my way through the checkout. I ran down the produce aisle and banged open a metal door behind the meat section. Two men with bloody aprons looked at me surprised. They were putting hamburger meat onto trays. "Where's the OFFICE?" One of the butchers stepped toward me. "It depends on which office you mean." After I explained myself, he shook his head. "Sorry. I can't help you with that." I slammed my hand down on the table and raced for the door farthest back in the building. But that led out to the parking lot. So I ran back into the store. All the way in the back past the shelves of wine I found the door. It was locked. I pounded on it with all my might. I yelled for you. People watched, concerned. Then a security guard with keys jingling on his belt came toward me with quick steps. And when I didn't follow him voluntarily, he grabbed me and pushed me through the store. I yelled. He was strong. He pushed me right out into the street. "Get lost," he said. "You understand?" I kicked a parked car. "You're not going to get away with this," I hissed. "I'm going to report your fucking bullshit." He looked at me arrogantly. "Unfortunately, it's your wife who's going to be reported. Get lost." I stepped toward him and he shoved me and I stumbled over the curb. He hoisted up his pants, making the keys jingle, and went back into the supermarket. I was out of breath. I sweated. A muscular young man poked me on the shoulder. "Hey, did you kick my car? You'd better cut it out." Two others towered behind him. A tall lanky guy and a dark-haired dumpling. "What do you say guys? Does he have the right to kick my Benz?" "Come on, nothing happened," I said and turned to go. But the dumpling twisted my arm behind my back. "That'll be a hundred bucks." When the others circled me, and asked if they should find the money or kick my ass a little first, I gave in. With my free hand I took some crumpled bills out of my pocket. And the tall lanky one smiled with satisfaction when he took them from me and realized there were one hundred and twenty dollars. "Thank you very much. That'll do." The dumpling shoved me away from him, and that time I fell flat on the ground.

There was a big bloody scrape on my knee. A woman asked if I needed help. The sun blinded me. I noticed a small group of people had gathered around me. I got up and limped away. A young woman muttered, "Look, he's shitfaced," when I passed her. The manager was waiting for me in the store. "Sir, I'll have to ask you to leave at once. The customers are disturbed. We can't take responsibility for that." "Responsibility!" I shook my head and clenched my jaw. I made a show of taking out my phone and calling the police. "Police!" I hissed so that he'd know I wasn't pretending. An impertinent police officer told me that they had already talked to the store detective who reported the theft. My wife would hear from them within the next few days. She might get off with a fine, but there's a chance it'll go on her record, as he said. The manager gently grabbed my arm. "It's all going to work out. " I jerked my arm away with a lot of force. It swung backward and knocked over a pyramid-shaped display of cans of clam chowder. There was an enormous crash when the cans knocked each other down. They rolled all over the place. My hand throbbed with pain. A little girl tripped over one of the cans and began screaming. Her father came rushing over. "What the hell are you doing, you idiot?!" Standing a few inches from me, he lifted his fist as if to punch me in the face, but controlled himself when the girl pulled on his leg. "Fucking idiot," he hissed, giving me the evil eye. Then he picked up the child, gave me the finger, and stomped away in his plastic sandals. People glared at me shaking their heads. Some began to restack the cans. The manager grabbed my shoulders. "That's enough," he said with a clenched jaw, "now you've got to go." He gave me a little push. "And don't you dare come back again."

Then you were suddenly standing in front of me, red-eyed and pale. Maybe you had been standing there for a while. In the background I could make out that scrawny woman's strained gloating face. "That's the way out!" The manager raised his voice. Your hand slid in mine. We must have looked defeated. Then we slowly began to walk, and when we got out to the parking lot, you broke down sobbing. I put my arms around you. The air shimmered with heat. We had forgotten to take our groceries and didn't go back for them. A blue Mercedes roared by us, and with the horn going off they shouted and laughed at me through the open windows. I looked at you, and for a moment it was as though I didn't recognize you. Your face reminded me of an old ball that's been kicked to death and left at the edge of a large green field. Misshaped, gray, and flat. I left you standing there and got in the car. I suddenly had no desire to touch you. A little while later you crawled sniffling into the passenger seat. I accelerated and heard you gasp several times because of how fast I was driving as we headed out of town.