“No worries! Take your time.”
I’m just leaving the bank with my receipt in hand, too hurried to spend the five seconds it would take to fish my wallet out of my back pocket and tuck it safely inside. Crossing the threshold from the comforting warmth inside to the blustery cold outside, the mistake is made of a brief upwards glance- one that reveals someone approaching, far enough away to not be of importance, but close enough where my feet freeze to the ground, and my hand remains on the door. Despite the list of things that must be done this afternoon, the decision has been made that this door will be held. This time, being a kind member of society has won out over efficiency.
The approaching person now walks with a quickened pace, breaking into that fast stride that’s not quite a jog, but definitely not a leisurely stroll. It’s the speed similar to how one may walk when the plane’s gate has been changed, and despite the fact that there’s plenty of time to traverse the airport from one end to the other, that sadistic captain could very well decide to take off forty-five minutes early, so it is highly important to ensure an early arrival at the new gate. The distance seems to be a bit longer than original calculations revealed it to be, so now the mind is undergoing the process of determining whether a mistake was made in deciding to be nice. There is still a list of errands to be run, and this is eating into my time. Plus, there’s a basketball game starting soon, and none of it is going to be missed.
After all these thoughts have crossed the mind, my hand is still on the door, and no one has passed by yet. My mind tells me to forget it, as even though I want to pay it forward to a stranger, today is not going to be that day.
As if a sign from above, my phone begins to ring in my pocket. There is no way that I can answer the phone with the current arrangement of hands and door. Despite my best efforts, I cannot continue to wait here, so I let go, the door slamming shut behind me, cutting off the free supply of heat to the area immediately in front of it. Fishing my phone from my front right pocket, I immediately glance down at the screen as if to see who is calling, despite the fact that the ringtone is an obvious indicator that my wife is on the other end of the line. As if to play it up a bit, I quickly insert some worry into my voice while contouring my face into a look of apprehension as I answer the call.
My wife knows that my next stop after the bank is the grocery store, so she has added a few items to the grocery list. Despite the fact that I get a notification that the list has been modified, she wants to be sure that I have seen it, and that the brand is non-negotiable. No edits, please. She receives a quick reassurance that yes, the new items have been found, and that despite the existence of the Y Chromosome within my body, I always check the list as I shop, and this time, I will not modify anything on the list.
This important, well-timed, but brief conversation has carried me from the doorway of the bank to my car. As I unlock it, I cannot bear to look back in the direction of the doorway where my social faux pas occurred moments ago, as I can imagine the stare being made in my direction wondering how I can be so rude, so disgusting, and only thinking of myself. Oh yeah, the person on the receiving end of my rudeness was a guy, now that I think about it, who seemed to be of a bit taller than average height, a normalish weight and probably of Italian descent. He was wearing a tan colored peacoat, jeans, and some sort of expensive wingtip shoes. Wait a minute. He definitely had slicked-back hair which may or may not have been tied into a ponytail, and oh crap! Is this guy a mafia type? Am I going to be followed? Was this stupid decision to be rude going to be my downfall?
I nervously start the car and pull out of the parking lot, quickly glancing into my rearview mirror. If this guy is following me, I want to find out as quickly as possible. I’ll try taking three turns in the same direction, or head over to the police station- as what idiot would follow me there? Aren’t these mafia guys slick? They’re not dumb enough to murder me in front of a police station, right? Right? I’m not realizing that this guy’s car is a mystery to me, so even if he decided to follow me, I’d have no idea. Well, I’d be able to see him in the mirror, but I didn’t get a good look at his face. Well, no chances can be taken, so I take a rather circuitous route, one that no one in their right mind would take, unless they were being followed by someone who may or may not have vengeance on the brain. Wait. That’s me.
Pulling into the parking lot of the store, the winter sun is still shining brightly, but with my nerves right now, it might as well be pitch black outside. The type of darkness under which even the most apprehensive of criminals would be comfortable committing a crime with no worries of being seen. I park in a spot as close to the store as possible, and want to get out of the car, but I cannot. Paralyzed with fear, I look in every direction, my head swiveling three hundred and sixty degrees, and even upward through the moonroof. I can’t help but think that this guy is pissed off and ready to do whatever it takes to let me know that I messed up this afternoon, even if that means snuffing me out right here in the parking lot of a chain grocery store.
I am relieved that this store has automatic doors, which open to receive me with the various scents that one would associate with a grocery store. A sense of calm washes over me while entering, as the realization hits that everything is being blown out of proportion in my mind.
Pfft. Who am I kidding? Having to look around every single aisle before heading down it while taking the most obviously non-efficient paths from one part of the store to the other is no way to shop. A simple trip that should take twenty minutes tops is going to run twice as long. Already, a few texts have come from my wife wondering why my location shows that I’m still at the grocery store. My replies are brief but not curt as she is informed about the non-existent crowds and sudden unwelcome decision by store staff to move items from their familiar spots to somewhere new, not for the benefit of the customer, but to keep someone in the corporate office employed. I’d rather not tell her that a rude decision might get me whacked today, and that I can’t come home for a while out of fear of being followed there. She’ll understand.
With a basket now full of the items from the shopping list, and no possible way to drag this ordeal out any longer, I make it to the self-checkout lanes where I scan, bag, and pay for my grocery haul- my mind now distracted by thoughts that using self-checkout should get some sort of discount because I’m saving the store in labor costs by using it. That, and the fact I’m overreacting. It’s not my day to die. Wait. Die? Yeah, there is definitely some overreaction going on. Yet, as I approach my car, the feeling of dread returns. Was that a rustle I heard? One that a peacoat might make? Is that a person behind me? I can’t turn to look.
With the swiftness of a gazelle, I unlock the car and put the groceries in the back seat, and suddenly feel relieved, but for real this time. That is, until the looming figure that I thought might have been a person but dismissed moments ago comes into focus. Yup, this was going to be it. I was going to leave this earth in a grocery store parking lot. Not exactly that way I thought my story would end, but sometimes you can’t plan for these types of things. Upon quickly surveying the situation, it is noted that it’s the same guy from the bank, who apparently was in the store with me, because in his hands are a receipt and a tub of ice cream. It all happens so fast, but as the half gallon of french vanilla ice cream makes contact with my face, only cold is felt. Then warmth. Now I’m falling, and vacillating between feelings of panic and utter calm, although the calm is beginning to win out. This must be what it’s life in the final moments of life, so as I prepare to issue my good-byes to my early existence, I begin to realize something else.
That is, that I am still standing at the bank, receipt in hand. The random man is now at the doorway, and he thanks me as we exchange those subtle nods of the head that serve as greetings from one male to another, and I let go of the door before heading to my car to get myself to the grocery store. What I don’t realize is that from the nearby dry-cleaners, a little old lady has departed with her freshly cleaned and pressed blouse. She’s gotten into her car at about the same time as me, and wouldn’t you know, but we’re about to be heading to the same store. You see, she’s hosting some friends for their monthly game of bridge, and even though the old ladies don’t eat many sweets- this evening, they want to feel like kids again. So, she’s only buying one thing: a half gallon of ice cream that will be neatly served in small glass bowls. But I don’t know that, and it’s neither here nor there.
-Author’s Note: From the first time I read “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” in high school, I always thought it was a well-written, fascinating story. So today, I decided to have a bit of tribute-paying fun and pen what you’ve seen above.