February 14th

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him. I think it's a him, at least. Pretty sure I can somewhat recognize a mass of white meshed with a pale tone that should be an older man's head with a beard. Regardless, the shock of blue that makes up their vest is undeniable, as is their movement in my direction.

I'm standing at the self-service kiosk with a birthday card in my hand. Both of my Apple AirPod Pros reside snuggly in my ears thanks to the black, extra-small aftermarket tips. The noise canceling gave out 6 months ago. My long and disheveled hair partially obscures my face, and behind my even darker glasses, I wear a blank, but somewhat tired and/or angry expression. My baggy hoodie and baggier black jeans complete the aesthetic. Everything about me should scream, "Leave me alone," albeit perhaps, in more of a whisper-yell. Still, the possible old man approaches.

I turn my head back to the kiosk screen. Maybe if I look away, he'll disappear too. I urgently press the "Card" icon with my left hand, my right already double clicking the power button on my Apple iPhone 15 to bring up Apple Pay. The screen on the phone is horribly cracked from a fight I had with my ex-girlfriend, so I can't use Face ID to pull up my Visa. I type in her birthday instead. Today is Valentine's Day. All I can think to myself - so to speak, that is… I typically don't have an active internal monologue so it's more of a conceptual thought - is please don't, please don't, please don't. Alas, the old man, I'm certain it's an old man now, has reached his destination by way of his slow, shuffling steps.

He crosses my field of vision, past the left grouping of hair strands, then the frame of my glasses, to reach the plastic bag carousel. He is uncomfortably close now, not much space resides between the kiosk screen and the bag rack. I can feel it, his metaphysical stench is invading my senses. It’s disgusting, revolting, overwhelming. I doubt he actually smells, but I recoil slightly as if so, taking a few steps to my right on reflex without even considering the social implications of such an action. They cross my mind immediately afterwards, of course, but I’m really in no mood to give a shit about the feelings of this amalgamation of matter who is invading my presence. I doubt he noticed anyhow considering his rotting husk of a shell.

I do quickly return to my original position in spite of my aversion, but only to finish paying for the card and, to a lesser extent, to prove (to myself or conceivably to some invisible audience) that my initial displacement was out of contempt rather than some type of anxiety. The old man stands his ground. My gaze switches back to the screen, but my attention remains undivided on this unwelcome intrusion to what was formerly my peace. He rotates the carousel, gingerly picking up an unblossomed brown Kroger sack, the kind that typically pisses me off when I have to open it myself while trying to deposit my groceries. Without directly watching the action, I cannot perceive whether this grievance was entirely loose, lying by its lonesome on the carousel, or whether it was still attached to its functional and ready-to-receive brethren. Either way, a wave of relief briefly washes over me.

Surely, he had just noticed the defective bag, and was removing it from the equation for future consumers. Surely, his journey had nothing to do with me. After all, this was his job - to stand guard over the wonderful self-checkout lane. What else was he supposed to with his time besides diligently perform his duty? My relief fades as he turns to me. I see his mouth move, and I possibly catch the word “bag” amidst the Lady Gaga chorus that rings through my inner ear, the rhythm playing a heartbeat on my eardrums. What exactly is it about the elderly that causes them to fail to realize that those wearing headphones or earbuds cannot hear them? What connections in their ancient and decrepit brains are missing so that they, without fail, are unable to grasp this astonishingly simple concept? Maybe my hair is obscuring the source of my music, but no, I am certain that enough has fallen out by now. A bright white should be easily viewed through the transparent, brown veil that rests upon my head. The decaying of this man’s body must have spread to his mind too.

Between the single utterance I manage to hear, as well as my garbage attempt at lip reading (or maybe it was quite an impressive attempt, since I never fully graced his lips with my eyes), I realize that he is querying whether or not I want a bag for the single birthday card I now hold securely in my hands. What a stupid fucking question. I sneer internally, but manage to callously mutter, without hardly a glance in his direction, “No. I’m fine.” I will not be needing a bag today. I turn to leave. My escape from this horrible, horrible infection is imminent. But I can’t leave yet. I forgot the receipt.

I pause - angrily, if that’s possible - and swivel back around to the kiosk. Somehow, in that brief moment in which I began my exit, this bag of bones before me managed to move himself entirely between me and the receipt dispenser. Lovely. I attempt to go around him to reach my golden ticket, but yet again, the folds of skin that make up his mouth part, and he begins to speak. “What?” I counter with only slight auditory annoyance as I rip my left earbud out, my body language betraying more conviction than I would prefer. I briefly eye the thin layer of paper he clutches alongside the useless sack he offered me. This fool grabbed my damn receipt too. This pathetic creature believes I forgot it. But no, it’s just a coupon trail left by the previous customer. I grab the thin square from the dispenser without waiting for a reply to my question. He gives one anyway.

“Envelope… do you— Ohh, you have one,” he stammers warmly, his expression contorting into a kind smile. I feel myself grow hot with rage. Even worse than asking a stupid question or stealing something of mine, even worse than interrupting my life, wasting my time, and disgracing my personal space is to question my basic competence as a human being. Why would I forget half of the only item that I traversed here to buy? And how did you not see that I’ve had it this entire time? Useless. Worthless. Useless. I’ve already begun striding towards the exit, restoring the severed connection between my brain and blissful electro-pop, when I scornfully mumble a “Yeah” back to the old man. I am certain I restrained myself enough, enough to the point at which the disdain in my voice would go unrecognized by those failing ears.

Later, I discover that this was not a unique case. I was not special. In discussion with my father, I learn that the old man tries to speak with every customer who comes his way, regardless of reason or time of day or the identity of those who cross his path. It seems, in his advanced age, that he may find meaning in those conversations. I may have denied him of that meaning, perhaps of his remaining purpose in life. I feel no guilt for my actions, but express it nevertheless.