The Nomadic life

The Incident

Chapter 18

There comes a time in life when a decision presents itself, one of those rare and unexpected moments when fate steps in to help shape your future. At twenty-two, with no concrete plan and a fierce commitment to “make every day count,” I was living life on my own terms.

This Monday starts like any other until an elderly woman, self-righteous and unyielding, demands that I pump her gas. We are indeed a quickie mart, but that is one convenience we do not offer. Our company policy is crystal clear, we are not permitted to pump gas or put air in tires for any customer.

I take a deep breath and try to calmly explain, “Ma’am, it’s against policy, and our insurance won’t cover any mishaps.”

In a sarcastic tone, she shoots back, “What could possibly go wrong?”  

With an evil grin, I can’t help but reply, “someone may accidentally put diesel in your tank.”

She was a smart little old lady and caught the underlying subtext of my statement. Immediately, she bellows, “I want to see your manager!”

Hearing the rather loud customer, Mark, our usually kind and easygoing manager in his forties with just a hint of gray at his temples, comes out from the office. As he reaches the counter, the woman accuses me of threatening to fill her tank with diesel.

“You didn’t!” he protests.

I simply smile admitting, “Oh, yeah I kind of did.”

Mark calmly reiterates the rule, “Ma’am, we don’t pump gas for customers here.”

But she is relentless in her resolve, “I paid for the gas, and I don’t know the first thing about using those pumps. I’m not moving my car until someone fills my tank!

Mark looks in my direction and with a pleading look says, “You heard the customer.”

I reply firmly, “I’m not pumping gas.”

“You will, or you’ll be looking for another job,” the once calm manager retorts.

Not believing Mark would throw me under the bus like that, I angerly untie my apron and toss it onto the counter. With a defiant growl, I say, “Okay…Bye!”

And just like that, my time at this job is over.

Most days, my temper is a quiet force, but when it does flare, disaster usually follows. Today will be no different. I let my anger override common sense. I have a new, well new to me, truck I have financed. Because of many mechanical issues I was forced to trade my old Chevelle for a 1981 Chevy short-bed truck I found sitting on the bargain lot at Harring gear Chevrolet off High Street. I had always dreamed of owning a truck and was so proud when I signed the loan papers. In my furious state I do not think about my newest financial obligation.

Before I am comfortably seated in my truck, Mark comes running out of the store.

“Wait, where are you going? You can’t just up and quit like that.”

“Like hell I can’t,” I say with a smile.

“come on, you can’t leave me in a bind like this,” he begs.

“Watch me,” I reply as I stomp on the gas pedal.

Fate was offering me one last chance to save my job but my temper and perhaps my pride would not allow it.

My impulsive behavior once again puts me in a precarious situation.

Damn it, I am going to have to hide this truth from my roommate for as long as I can. I cannot allow myself to be homeless again. The Chevelle was uncomfortable, but this truck would present a whole new level of claustrophobic.

I shake off the negative thoughts and convince myself; another job is just an interview away. All I have to do is put on my down-home charm and flash my sad, soulful eyes, and I’ll be back to working in a matter of days.

Most businesses prefer to accept applications during office hours, so I tell my roommate I have received a promotion and now am working the morning shift. Ted has never pried into my personal life and accepts my explanation. I hate lying to him but despise being homeless even more. Besides, he is getting a clean apartment and practically gourmet meals each night.

I spend my mornings with the classified ads in the Clarion Ledger and my afternoon applying for the ones I circled. At Bennigan’s, the assistant manager immediately dismisses me because of my “spotty work record,” insisting they need long-term employees. “Yeah, well, good luck with that,” I mutter as I leave, now convinced that working in a restaurant isn’t my destiny and that I’m meant for something better.

Defeated yet determined, I swing by the Kroger at Fondren Station for cigarettes, a cold Dr. Pepper, and some pork chops for dinner. I park at the back of the lot, careful to avoid any door dings on my truck.

Standing in line and growing impatient as I watch the cashier chat aimlessly with her customer, something grabs my attention. An older man in a lab coat cunningly slips a pack of Salem cigarettes into one of his pocket. I cannot understand why he would do such a thing. It does not add up. The day-old pastries and various snacks in his cart cost far more than a pack of menthols. Why steal cigarettes when you obviously have money to pay for junk food?

The cashier rings up his items and from his slacks pocket he digs out, of all things, a change purse.

Great, this will take even longer.

As he counts out the change, I think to myself, he is going to get a free pack of cigarettes. Well, good for him.

My few items are tallied, and I hand the young girl a ten-dollar bill. Waiting for my change I watch as a series of events begin to unfold.

The man in the lab coat exits the store with his groceries as the store detective follows behind him stepping quickly. He catches the old man before he reaches his car and grabs him by the arm, “I need to see what’s in your pocket, he demands.” The brown paper bag hits the ground as bakery goods spill out.

As I leave the store the sun nearly blinds me, and the unbearable humidity feels like a punch to the gut. But that is nothing compared to the events which are heating up beside the white Monte Carlo with the driver’s side door open.

“You need to come inside and speak with the manager while we wait for the police to arrive,” the wannabe cop states in a harsh and authoritative tone.

The old man looks frightened as the rent a cop tightens his grip on his arm, “You’re hurting me,” the man shouts.

I find his manhandling of this man unacceptable. I don’t know why I did what I did, but I could not take another incident of someone in power talking down to someone else.

Stepping in, I fire off, “Look officer, this man was ahead of me in line. The cigarettes kept falling through the cart onto the floor. He picked them up and put them in his pocket. It’s obvious he forgot about them. I doubt anyone who can afford all those snack would intentionally shoplift a pack of cigarettes.”

“I saw him put them in his pocket and not pay for them.”

“Yeah, so did I. Did you bother asking him why they were there?”

“They pay me to stop things like this from happening,” he says smugly.

“Are you also paid to be an unreasonable asshole?” I sarcastically ask.

By now, the manager is outside, listening to our tense exchange. He asks the old man if what I say is true, and with a nod, the incident is over. The manager snatches the pack of cigarettes from the security guard’s hand and apologetically asks the man, “Come on inside, we’ll ring these up, and you can be on your way.

I feel a surge of satisfaction watching the detective’s self-righteous smirk twist into an angry snarl as he reluctantly follows them inside.

As I pull out of the parking lot, I reach behind my head to open the sliding glass window to let some of the heat out as I wait for the air conditioner to cool the interior of my truck. At the intersection of High and State Street, I hear several honks coming from behind me. It is the white car from earlier. The driver waves and flashes an odd smile, but my focus is on the road ahead.

A bit further down State Street, the white car speeds up and passes me, then quickly pulls in front of me, forcing me to nearly slam on my brakes. I wonder, “Is he trying to get an insurance claim?” because if he is, I have no coverage, with no job I had to let my insurance on the truck lapse.

He motions for me to pull into a nearby Circle K. Reluctantly, I oblige, parking behind him at the gas pumps. I roll down my window and warn, “You’d better start with an apology for almost making me crash into you.”

He steps up and says, “You left before I could thank you. I could’ve been in a lot of trouble and would’ve been late for work.” Glancing at his watch, he adds, “Here’s my number, call me, and I’ll take you out to dinner as a proper thank you.” He hands me a bank deposit slip torn from his check book with his number scribbled on the back.

I can’t help but smile. “Thanks, but you really don’t have to do that.”

“I insist,” he replies, then hurries off.

I watch him pull away from the store and curiosity gets the better of me. I let several cars pass me as I think to myself, what an odd little man. I make the decision to follow him and see if he is truly going to work and who his employer is. It should not matter at all to me but there is something intriguing about him.

He eventually turns onto Lakeland Drive and pulls into a convalescent home. A lab coat and a nursing home, perhaps he’s a doctor? It looks like I am going to have to call this person and take him up on his offer of dinner. I have to get to know more about him and what today was all about. Interesting people rarely come into my life and for some reason I feel this person is someone I need to get to know. In time I learn, this old Coot may be many things, but a doctor isn’t one of them.

Today unfolds as a rollercoaster of defiance and an unexpected encounter, a vivid reminder that life is wild, unpredictable, and always ready to challenge the status quo.