target

A few days ago Ryan and I went to Target to get him a button down shirt. We were going to my “formals” later that night for my sorority. There’s a Starbucks in the Target in Selinsgrove, and I spied a poster for Starbucks’ latest sweet concoction and told Ryan I was going to get us something to share. I stepped in line behind an older woman, she looked in her mid sixties. She was talking to no one in particular, as the girl behind the counter was busy making other drinks. As I took my place in line she turned and began to talk to me, quickly.

“That’s my boy out there,” she pointed out the window to a man in a red target vest who was collecting shopping carts and drinking an energy drink. I smile. “Isn’t he big?” Yes, he is big in a few respects, but the first thing I notice is his hair. He has really long, stringy, strawberry-blonde hair. I smile, “Yeah, really big.” I think about mentioning his hair but decide not to.“Well his brothers even bigger!” I smile and nod, “Oh, wow, that’s pretty big.” Ryan approaches, warily looking between me and this woman. “He’s in jail,” she says abruptly. “Oh,” we say, looking uncomfortable. “I know it wasn’t a gun,” she says, “It was only a flashlight. They didn’t even look to see if it was a gun. How can they just do that?” her eyes are sad. I shake my head sadly, and say “How terrible.” “Besides,” she pleads, “it couldn’t be a gun. He doesn’t even like guns!” Ryan tells me he is going to the bathroom. I know he is escaping. The woman orders her drink, a “venti” shaken black tea lemonade, which surprises me. The worker asks the name, she says “Junior” but spells “J-e-r…..uh v-i-n…. I don’t like to spell that name.” She turns back to me and looks startled, “Hey where did your uh… your… was that your husband?” I consider for a moment and finally say, “Yes that’s my husband.” She smiles warmly, “Where he go?” “To the bathroom.” “Oh, they have real nice bathrooms here. They flush good.” I smile. Ryan returns. I whisper in his ear that we are now married, and that I’ll explain later. He says he looks forward to this explanation. “They have good ones in the Geisinger hospital now too. Re-did them. Real nice,” she says. I smile. I consider leaving this Starbucks. I don’t want to because it seems cruel, but even the Mennonite women who got in line behind me left when questions were directed to them. Hey, it can’t be too cruel if Mennonites do it, right? I decide this line of thinking isn’t helpful. I decide I will stay. I am determined to stay and let this old lady talk to me if she wants. She’s obviously lonely and just wants to talk to someone.

I think of the time I was in Moscow on the metro, going home after being out and about. I was standing, trying to balance and not hold on to the railing and it is very crowded. I am tired but begin to notice the crowd thinning. Then I notice a very sharp, unpleasant smell. It smells like stale urine and feces, beer and blood. As the crowd thins more I see a homeless man, he looks Mongolian. He is standing near the doors, wobbling a little. His clothes are streaked in dirt, as is his face. He has cuts on his face. Everyone packs into the opposite side of the car, the women cover their faces with their scarves and point at him, disgusted. He is crying soundlessly. I remain where I am. I ride silently behind him for about 4 stops. He gets off and normalcy resumes.

The woman gets her drink and plucks what I’m guessing is her husband from a chair in the corner. He is grinning. As we leave Starbucks I see this woman handing the shaken iced tea lemonade to a very obese man in a van, he looks like he’s 20.

Ryan and I get into the car. “So we’re married now?” he asks. “As far as that woman is concerned, yes.” We continue on this bit for the rest of the weekend. “Hey honey, could you do the dishes?” “Darling, where would you like to go for dinner?”