The old man and the seafood

I was at the supermarket, heading from Produce to Meat.

Passing the seafood case, I was stopped in my tracks by a display of pink jumbo shrimp, artfully arranged over ice.

“Fresh from the Keys!” the sign said. On sale, no less.

Tommy’s grilling shrimp tonight.

There was no clerk at the counter but through the glass wall of the workroom behind it, I could see two white-aproned clerks, busily trimming meat.

No rush. I'm on Florida time. One of them, I knew, would eventually look up, see me and come out to take my order.

I was standing there, trying to decide how much shrimp to buy and how to grill them, when an old man wheeled his cart up to the counter. When I say old, I mean old. I’m 61. This guy could have been my father.

“Where the hell are they?” he asked loudly.

“They’re in the back room,” I answered.

That, for some reason, seemed to enrage him.

He turned his cart, rolled it a few feet, then turned it again toward the swinging metal door into the workroom that separates Seafood from Meat. He rammed the cart through the door, Bruce Willis-like.

“Hey,” he screamed into the room. “Don’t you Mexicans work? Get out here!”

He backed his cart out of the door and returned triumphantly to the counter.

Two Hispanic men emerged, their eyes bulging from their sockets, as if they were in shock.

“I want a pound of scallops,” the old man barked as they took their place behind the counter.

The men said nothing.

“Don’t you people speak English?” he demanded.

“Yes,” the taller of the two replied.

“Well then, say something. Don’t act like you don’t understand me.”

“You want a pound of scallops,” the man repeated mechanically.

“If you don’t know how much a pound is in this country, it’s 16 ounces.”

The men looked at each other, as if trying to decide which of them should have the privilege of leaping over the case to strangle the old man. But they said nothing.

“No it’s not, it’s 18 ounces,” the old man (in)corrected himself.

“Can I help you?” the other clerk asked me.

“Uh, a pound of shrimp.”

He looked at me imploringly.

Our eyes met. I shrugged, acknowledging his distress, but said nothing.

Both orders were filled, wrapped, handed over, and the old man and I went our separate ways.

I’ve felt guilty ever since.

I should have told the old man he was wrong to treat people that way.

I should have told him that, if the men are like most Hispanics in southwest Florida, they’re not Mexican. They’re probably from central America and came here because they, like most of our ancestors, heard America is a land of opportunity.

I should have told the old man who, for all I know, fought at Guadalcanal or Omaha Beach, that he was an asshole.

But I didn't want to make a bad situation worse. I just wanted it to be over. And, I assured myself, I was taught to be respectful of old people.

My cowardice -- that's what it was, cowardice -- made me as big an asshole as the old man, and for that I am truly sorry. Next time I'm at the supermarket I am going to apologize to those two men.

And, for the record, I burned the shrimp and had to throw them away.