A while ago I stopped by Bed, Bath & Beyond to pick up a vacuum filter. It was all I needed that day, the one and only thing on my list. Still, I managed to arrive at the checkout with a cart full of stuff. Specifically a bunch of 400 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets that I convinced myself would never, ever, go on sale again. I hate this lingering impulsiveness of mine. It reminds me of being 25 when I would easily forego groceries for an amazing pair of discounted shoes that I just couldn’t leave Bergdorf’s without. Anyway, this die hard habit is how I ended up hunkered down at the cashier, negotiating my 20% off coupons, at the exact time a fight broke out.
It started with someone behind me saying, “Excuse me, but the line starts here.” I turned around to trace the words and found a middle-aged woman with big, beautiful don’t-fuck-with-me hair trained on a tall, well-groomed 20-something male clutching several packages of Simple Human garbage bags. He stood parallel to her, as if in his own line, and had a sidekick. He was about the same age, but much shorter, wearing a buttoned-to-the-neck polo. Immediately, I fantasized that this guy was the line-cutter’s cousin, probably named Vinny, and that they’d been sent on the errand by one of their moms.
Normally, I wouldn’t have paid much attention to the comment, especially given how preoccupied I was over the unnecessary sheets and the fact that people mess up lines all the time. Except that, in this case, when the woman pointed out the young man’s mistake it sounded more like “What’s your problem, dumbass?” than “Perhaps you failed to notice the queue, young lad.” So it wasn’t a surprise that he took offense and—out of embarrassment or the need to reclaim his power–started talking about the woman to his friend. Loud enough for all of us to hear. Making sure to emphasize the word bitch. To which she responded, “Why are you calling me a bitch?” And then, with the sing-song voice of a Kindergarten teacher, “It’s simple. You wait in line. And then you get to have your turn. Easy, right?”
As soon as I heard the words leave her mouth, I wanted to leap over my cart and stuff them back inside. Stamp out the lit match she’d just thrown onto the trail of gunpowder leading to the giant box of TNT. It’s just that I couldn’t move fast enough. Or maybe I was paralyzed like everyone else in the store. But the young man, having been pointed out as being stupid for a second time, went nuts. Like, De Niro nuts.
“Why are you talking to ME,” he demanded? “WHY are you talking to me? Why are YOU talking to me? WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO ME, BITCH?”
I tried to get Vinny’s attention–implore him to talk down his friend–because there was no question who would win the argument if it turned physical. When that didn’t work, I pleaded with the cashier to get the manager. But he couldn’t move either. Which is why I pulled out my cell phone and turned on the camera, waving it around saying, “Excuse me. EXCUSE ME!” to let everyone know that I was now recording the incident (a signature move I sometimes use in heightened moments). But nobody cared, and the verbal abuse continued. If my friend Chris had been there, he would have jumped in between them and talked them off the ledge. Sympathizing with both their points of view. Making them take deep breaths to cool down. I swear he could negotiate a peace deal between the Crips and the Bloods, but he wasn’t there, and my video threat did nothing to de-escalate the confrontation. It wasn’t until an employee opened a new register and shouted “Next!” that the altercation stopped. The big-haired woman raced to fill the empty spot; the towering young man stepped into hers at the top of the line; and though they both continued to mumble a few insults under their breath, they moved on with their business. Like two kids struggling over a toy when one of them finally decides to let go, and all the rage and tears instantly disappear.
I’ve held onto this story for months because I know that kind of anger. An ocean of it boils beneath the surface of my skin, too. Which confuses me because I consider myself to be a kind person. Someone hopeful and compassionate. An optimist. And yet, while I am capable of giving a stranger the shirt off my back, I am also prone to explode at the slightest provocation: a stubbed toe; my kid getting overlooked; an aggressive lane changer. Oh, yes, especially those inconsiderate drivers. My god, how they cause my steam valve to blow. Particularly when I’m alone; when the expletives can fly free; when I can really give them all a piece of my mind. And though I admittedly feel better releasing that pent up energy–sparing my family and friends from the receiving end–I know that the exhaust doesn’t just evaporate. Someone or something else absorbs all that negativity. Feeding their own toxic well. Until they too can’t take one more moment and, provoked at a box store, explode.
In Deepak Chopra’s meditation on grace, he talks about how no two people exist in the same reality. How nothing outside of us can prove anything. Because every experience we have is filtered through our own emotions, stories, and histories. For instance, my take on that combustive moment at Bed, Bath & Beyond is that the middle-aged woman lashed out because she felt overlooked or invisible, something I can relate to more and more as I age. The young man’s aggressive response resulted from the shame he felt being publicly criticized by an elder. I have a profound physical memory of a similar experience when I was a teenager. And finally, my entire rendering of the encounter is shaped by the fact that I struggle with my own short fuse. In other words, I saw the moment the way I wanted to see it. Which is what we all do. Each and every day.
Chopra concludes that only by letting go of our old thoughts and attitudes–which we do through grace, which in its purest form is love–can we know what’s real. He says the entry point is gratitude. No small task when some d-bag truck driver cuts you off going 70 mph. But, okay, I’ll try. Here goes.
