Early one Friday afternoon, I was standing in a long line at my local Piggly Wiggly with a cart-load of cold beer, collards and a freshly butchered pork butt. It has absolutely nothing to do with this story, but a “pork butt” isn’t really a pig butt…it’s actually the shoulder.
Seems that in the late 1700’s, folks in New England would store their pork shoulders in barrels they called “butts,” giving way to the name “Boston Butt.” Since the Southerner in me refuses to cast accolades upon a Massachusetts town when it comes describing this “south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-line” staple, I’m gonna stick with “pork butt” for this story…consider yourself educated.
There appeared to be some confusion ahead of me as Ms. Lisa (my favorite cashier) carefully explained the difference between rutabagas and turnips to the bag boy. Delayed by an impending price check, I noticed the lady in front of me was entranced with the latest edition of US Weekly.
According to the cover, Sarah Michelle Gellar is apparently preggo with a real-life vampire’s love child. If you don’t see the irony in that, I can’t help you. I reached for my own copy (cause, hello, Sarah Michelle Gellar), and I see this lady’s son, a scruffy, mullet-head 8-year-old boy, standing at the end of my cart shotgunning a 20-ounce Mountain Dew like a Natty Light on race day. After placing the bottle BACK IN THE COOLER, he began rifling through candy bars like a crack head searching for spare change.
He was a portly, surly-looking little kleptomaniac, rocking a Ninja Turtles wife-beater covered in either mud or chocolate…it was tough to tell which. We locked eyes just as he ripped a monster belch that easily registered a 2.3 at the US Geological Survey station in Colorado.
To be truthful, I wasn’t expecting an “Excuse me,” (and certainly didn’t get it). Instead, I got the stone-faced lear of a future diabetic serial killer who stared me down through steely, sugar-filled eyes and murmured “I bet ya can’t beat dat!” No sir, no I couldn’t. This kid was obviously a pro. That burp had the depth and tone of a dual exhaust Chevy with cherry bomb glasspacks. Instead, I complimented him on his strong oratory performance as he peered into my cart clutching a fist-full of Almond Joys…
”Nice burp there, boss.”
“Yep,” he heartily agreed, then stared up at me with a furled brow.
“Hey, what’s all dat green crap, man?”
Resisting the urge to correct his grammar, wipe the vestiges of a stolen Hershey bar from his chin, and wear out his backside with a splintered 2×4, I explained in my best south-of-the-river accent, “Dem dare is collards, man.”
He chuckled, and we connected…I spoke his language.
Now keep in mind I don’t really like talking to people’s kids, but his Mama was too busy gasping at the lurid details of Buffy’s immaculate conception of a blood-sucking progeny to notice her heathen child pocketing York Peppermint Patties. I felt it was my duty to keep this kid talking so he wouldn’t shoplift a box of Marlboro Lights, or worse, shiv me with a sharpened Twix bar.
I asked little Javier Bardem if he liked helping his mother shop…and he said no.
I asked if he played any sports…he said no. I asked if he liked school…he said no. I asked if he liked BBQ…he said no. I asked if he knew any words besides “no”…and he said, “yep, nope.”
Sadly, before I could ask if he was excited about going to the penitentiary in a few years,
his mom finished her purchase. She beckoned him to her side and admonished him for the handful of Almond Joys…”You don’t even like Almond Joys, boy!” (Something tells me if they were Twizzlers, she wouldn’t have said a word.)
I’ve got to admit, after watching him walk off, I began to feel a little guilty. I’m sure he wasn’t really a bad kid. Probably just misunderstood. Perhaps he didn’t get the attention he deserved. I began to wonder how my own kids were perceived by others? I mean, who am I to be so judgemental, so high and mighty? Shame on me. Shame, shame, shame. I paid for my beer, butt, and collards, then spent a couple minutes listening to Ms. Lisa’s advice on rubbing my butt. I finally made my way to the door, determined to be a better person.
I stopped outside the doorway as a shiney new Volkswagen rolled past with music blaring.
Just as I was putting away my wallet and reflecting upon my new outlook on life, I was suddenly hit with a pain in my right kidney that literally dropped me to my knees. I feigned a scream that only came out as a whimper. My pork butt rolled across the sidewalk as I struggled to stand, unable to catch my breath. The smell of Mother Earth Dark Cloud wafted from the broken bottles as they shattered on the concrete.
Who hit me? Was I being mugged? Assaulted? Had Elizabeth put out a hit on me with hopes of cashing in on my collection of James Bond DVD’s? My mind was racing as my defensive instincts completely eluded me. This was it…was I really going to die at the hands of a stranger in the doorway of a Piggly Wiggly for a wallet containing $7 in cash and 2 losing Powerball tickets? I tightened my body and prepared for a second blow. Through the wincing pain, I peered over in a futile attempt to catch a glimpse of my assailant…
And then I heard it…
“PUNCH BUG! Hahahahahaha! Enjoy dem collards!”
He waddled quickly across the parking lot, pilfered Almond Joys falling from his rear pocket as he ran. At first I was angry, but apparently, I’ve made a new friend. And maybe one day, he can snag me sixer of MEB Dark Cloud. 
~dso
… it’s nice for someone to point it out rather than let you roam around all day looking like greasy old Snyder from ‘One Day At A Time.’
Perhaps figuring out that his cashier wasn’t minoring in theological studies at Bob Jones, he tried to explain.
