Old man at the grocery store. You’re in line in front of me buying ten sacks of frozen vegetables and you haven’t seen the inside of a clothing store in a couple of decades.

First you try to talk to me about the balloons at the checkstand. Normally I’d humor this and chat back, but on this particular morning I had just found out an old friend of mine had died. I was upset, and I just wanted to buy my lunch and go back to work. I ignore you.

But, you just don’t stop, and you sneak a peak at my cleavage as you keep talking. Then you mention the balloon comment to the cashier, and she’s polite, because it’s her livelihood. And even though she thinks you’re a knuckle-dragging unwashed suburban neophyte, she laughs a bit in response.

But that isn’t enough. You then look at me and say “Why don’t you smile?” And then, I was done. All the years I worked as a waitress and bartender, sucking up to every old man to possibly earn a dollar or two tip came rushing back. They were always asking me to smile. To feign happiness. To enjoy having the pleasure of waiting on them no matter what my personal circumstances were. The crude jokes, the leers, the sexual harassment, and all of the years of education I paid for on my own so that I’d NEVER have to smile at some dusty geezer again to survive.

So I looked at you and called you a fucking moron. You looked surprised, but said nothing more.