Bullet Time

She says Oh, don't worry about that. Leave anything big, heavy, or awkward in the cart and I'll scan it from there.

The old guy lets the giant bag of dog food settle back down.

Well it's a good thing I'm not in the cart, he says. I'm all three and I don't need no scanning.

He waits for her to laugh. She stands there a moment, gives him a polite little smile, then scans the dog food and moves on. He opens his mouth, I assume to repeat or explain the joke to her.

That's when I strike.

I don't think about it at all. I've got no plan for it. I'm just waiting for my turn to check out, but something about this guy triggers me.

You know how sometimes in movies everything slows down for a gunfight so you can actually see the action? They call that bullet time. I'm in bullet time, watching myself swing a day-old, marked for quick sale, baguette at his balding crown. He cringes on impact. The bread breaks. There's an explosion of crust and crumbs.

The crumbs land everywhere. A lot of them concentrate in the curly wisps of short grey-brown hair that are still clinging to life around his bald spot. I see some in the hood of his red and black buffalo check flannel coat, and on his shoulders. The groceries that buddy still has on the conveyor belt are covered. His strawberries and broccoli are probably fucked. The cashier has some on her apron, her face, her glasses. I hear someone behind me yell out you got gluten in my mouth! and I turn to see a huge muscly guy dropping both his gym bag and to his knees in despair, clawing at his tongue and spitting on the floor.

Everyone else I see is standing still, or slowing to a stop. They're all looking at me, at what's left of the broken baguette in my hand, at the mess we've made. No, the mess I've made. I can't really blame the old guy, can I?

I hear him ask Jesus, bud, what was that for?

A manager scurries over before I fully understand that I don't have an answer. She tells me sir, you have to leave. Immediately.

Her tone tells me that I won't be welcome back.

I look down at my basket, at the cheese and the chips I won't get to eat now. I shrug, and toss in what remains of the baguette.

Ok, I say, as I hand her the basket.

I lock eyes with the cashier and I see she's biting her lip, like she's trying not to laugh. Worth it, I think to myself, then walk past the old guy, out of the store and into the sunshine.