I'm Not Mad

I notice a disheveled old man sitting at the picnic table outside of Sunrise Convenience as I pull into the small, five-spot lot. I can feel his gaze through the front windshield as I turn my car off and gather my bag from the front seat. He watches me as I get out of the car and adjust my strapless dress before walking toward the entrance. As I pass by, he says, “Oh, might as well just pull it down! Hah hah hah…” 

With his redneck, gap-toothed intonation, it takes me half a second to realize what he’s said. I almost just smile and nod before the specific words register, but as soon as they do, I’m in too much shock to speak back. Instead, my brow instinctively furrows, my mouth turns down into a frown, and I’m shaking my head at him in disapproval. 

For the duration of the three minutes I spend inside buying a six pack of beer, I’m formulating exactly what I’m going to say to this dirty old bastard when I walk by him again. My first thought is something along the lines of “you’re an embarrassment to drunk, old pieces of shit everywhere” but then I realize that I might ultimately be more effective with disappointment than anger. The old “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed” routine. 

So just as I’m staring the guy down, about to say “you may have meant that as a harmless joke, sir, but to a strong, young female like myself, it really just comes across as embarrassingly immature and rude—especially from someone your age” — just as I’m about to say that, he beats me to it. He speaks first, and he truly surprises me. 

“Ma’am, I’m very sorry. I’m very sorry for what I said. Shouldn’t have said that. That wasn’t right, I’m sorry for saying it.” 

I can hardly look at him as I force myself to respond with the sincere thought that’s going through my mind. “I appreciate your apology.” 

“Thank you, ma’am, I’m sorry,” he says once more as I’m shutting my car door. I make sure not to look at him again as I back out and pull onto the road. For most of the drive home, I wonder what the old guy’s childhood was like, what his mother was like… I wonder what she’d have thought of her son’s behavior.