16.30, Saturday. 80% of one of Paris' most crowded neighborhoods seems to be crowding into the same supermarket - elbowing one another to get to the canned corn, impatiently standing in line at the fresh fish counter. Upstairs, at the checkout, the lines extend to seven, eight, twelve people. Anyone looking to only buy a tomato or shampoo gives up: it's not worth waiting half an hour.
A ruckus stirs at the top of the down escalator. An old man, who reminds me physically of my grandpa, is insulting another man. He is dressed nicely, wearing a wool coat and hat like old men do. Heads turn and cashiers slow their mechanical swiping of products. I can't see the details of the run-in, but a baby has started crying in fear of the now enraged old man.
A rapid physical mouvement and the surrounding crowd gasps. Two security guards run over. The old man has tried to hit an only slightly younger old man. The oldest one is yelling something about a lack of respect, about how nobody understands, about how you can't just treat people that way.
He turns towards my lane and walks past the six lanes seperating us slowly. He is standing parallel to me, one lane over. He loudly says over and over "Il faut pas exagerer, eh? Mais quand m�me, il faut pas exagerer. J'ai 75 ans, il faut pas exagerer, quand m�me." He's upset because of the way the manager of the store spoke to him; she apparently said something terribly rude.
Meanwhile, the man whom he tried to hit is yelling "Ta gueule!" repeatedly over the noise of all the registers ("Shut up!" in it's most vulgar form). The old man keeps yelling as if giving a speech to a raucous assembly. He's 75. His brother was a prisoner of war in Germany. They found him dead on February 21, 1942. Nobody knows what war can do to a man. Young people have life handed to them on a silver platter nowadays. Il faut pas exagerer quand m�me. He's 75. He's fought throughout his life. People have no respect anymore. He can't believe the way those people insulted him. He's 75. What is happenening to people? Il faut pas exagerer quand m�me.
People around me are laughing at him. Laughing. Laughing directly at him. He sees them doing it. I can't believe it. He's gone crazy, sure, but he's somebody's husband, somebody's father maybe. He's doing his shopping on foot, alone, at 75. I can't help but think of my own grandmother who left her house and was found three miles away. She didn't know where she was. Luckily, a nice person helped her, and with the police she found her way back to her front door by nightfall. Were they laughing at her then, too? Was it funny to somebody?
I bite my lower lip to hold back the sadness. The woman in line in front of him is arguing with him, telling him to keep his voice down. She's yelling it. Let him yell. She picks up her groceries and clucks her way away, shaking her head. He passes through the counter. His brother was a few years younger than him, born in 1929. The youth of today haven't lived through hard times. He forgets his card in the wireless machines the French have. He walks away jeering at the security man. He's 75. Il faut pas exagerer quand m�me.
The young man behind him catches up to him halfway down the grocery's long entrance corridor. He touches his arm and hands him his card. The old man laughs heartily.
Behind me in line is an elderly homeless man with an unshaven beard and a goofy hat. He has long fingernails and is buying flea powder for a cat. He sees how sad I look, I think. He leans in and says, "All old people should be shot. Only young people should be allowed in the grocery store. Keep the crazies out." He flashes me a crooked smile.
He's making fun of himself.
I ask him if he wants to go in line in front of me - he only has one item and I have several bags worth. "No, Madame, everyone has his turn."
It's a crock but here's the long and short of it:
http://money.cnn.com/2003/02/12/pf/yourhome/disasterplan/
You write so well!!! I felt like I was there, in the supermarket, hearing the old man yelling and talking to the homeless man who is buying flea powder for his cat.
This is a gorgeous entry, well-written and thoughtful. Thank you.