Prelude to Violence
Standing in line at the check stand.
My items to purchase on the conveyor.
Separated by a marker.
Waiting my turn.
Person in front of me has much more to buy than I.
Person behind, less. He sits in a senior scooter. Heavy, 60s.
I have never seen someone drive through the check stand before.
He keeps clearing his throat.
For some reason every time he does it bothers me.
It's not a big deal, but it's irritating.
There's another customer, a woman, waiting behind him.
He clears his throat again.
He barks at me “Move forward! Someone wants put their things on.”
I look at him.
I move forward, but there's not a lot of room.
The other customer isn't finished packing and paying for his goods.
I am getting really upset now.
I wonder why the woman couldn't wait her turn like the rest of us.
And why does this guy get so pushy?
I'm really feeling my anger rise and fast.
I'm not ordinarily like this.
I feel like telling him to fuck off—or even punching him in the face!
Crazy! What's the matter with me?
But this son of a bitch really aggravates me.
He continues to give the eye.
I feel his pushiness—bet he wants me to move even more!
I think—there's no God damn room moron. Can't you see that?
It's like he wants to speed by me in his senior-mobile.
It's my turn: they scan my rewards card, ring up my purchases.
I pay with cash.
I begin packing my items into a fabric shopping bag.
The pushy guy—still eying me.
I am starting to have fantasies about telling him to go fuck himself.
Why is this bothering me so?
I am not normally like this.
It's not a big deal—but it is to me.
I walk away lugging my shopping bag.
I say to myself—it's a good thing you didn't say anything to him.
You'd only regret it later.
Still I feel angry—can't shake it.
Then I remember the calendar, the little circle marking the day before.
A full moon.
So that's how murders are committed.
