GET ME SOME GRINTS

He just stared at the cashier, studied his name tag, "Bert" over a smiley face spelled with  dollar sign, and lifted his again to the store employee's twitching eyeballs. He had a body that was crooked , stooped, like a balsa wood model left in the rain and dried out in a twenty year old microwave oven for  40 droning minutes spent in the Metro Deport Airport. The staring man poked the cashier in the chest.

"Go get me some grits" he demanded. The cashier lurched backwards, held up a flat palm to indicate "whoa." He was a hapless fellow, the rail thin speed freak fried of a friend but enemy of all you took an instant dislike to because he made you think of someone who stole bottles of vintage wine just to smell the corks. He drew back his shoulders as if to throw a punch or receive a kiss from a foaming St.Bernard.

"We are out of grits " said the flustered shopper," and don't touch me again or I will have to something not covered in the Customer Care Manual."

"Don't give me that" said the cashier", said the man, "This is America, this is Chow Town. Go get me some grits."  The store manager walked up from three cash wrap stations down the way, a woman in a blue sport coat with gold trim around the lapels and cuffs and around the button holes. She was of generous build and seemed able to lift live cattle off a South Bend semi.

"Is there a problem here?'" she asked. Her voice had the personality of a large rock meeting the back of a moron's skull. The man and the cashier pointed at one another and spoke at once in an overlapping haiku of accusation.

"He won't get me some grits" said the man while the cashier said "He poked in the shoulder and looks stupid besides."

The manager put her hands on her muscled hips, took a deep breath and seemed ready to say something blunt and final when she stared beyond the two men and through the store's front window, which faced  the large parking lot outside. Bat winged demons were swooping down and picking up shoppers with their gnarled claws while a gang of teenage Grelb Worshippers  roamed among the parked cars with baseball bats playing spontaneous games of Dodge Ball with headlights from some of the uglier autos.

"Goddamnit" said the manager," this again."

She pointed to the cashier."Go to the LIQUOR DEPARTMENT and tell them to
do what needs to be done."

"What about my grits??" demanded the upset customer.

"What about them" the manager replied.