Messed Up

Yesterday was unseasonably warm--the kind of day that makes you uneasy because you know you're going to have to pay for it later.

I already had my window down as I drove around the back of the dry cleaner's. I turned Emmylou Harris off so I would be able to give my full attention to the tiny Asian woman who owns the shop. There was one car parked by the door, and I could see there was no one in it, but through the open door, I could hear shouting. Loud shouting. Shouting I couldn't not hear. It was verbal abuse shouting. The f-bomb was being dropped as an adjective in front of every word that was being said shouted.

I suddenly felt on high alert, waiting to hear gunshots. I grew up in a home where yelling and cussing were common occurrences (although not gunshots), but it still unnerves me when I'm not the one yelling and cussing. (When I am, I just feel guilty...later.) Someone was bludgeoning someone else with their words, and I hoped it wasn't my sweet little friend. I thought about calling 911. I pictured myself in a shiny spandex outfit with Bully Buster emblazoned across the chest getting out of my car and going in to investigate. I couldn't imagine that ending well, so I pushed the thought away.

Eventually a stubby, bald, very angry man came out and threw some stuff in the back seat of his car. He looked right at me. Now he knew he had an audience, yet he continued his tirade.

"I don't care if you have to tear the f---ing place apart! Find that f---ing coat, you f---ing moron! I'll be back at 5:00!"

When he walked back inside, I could hear another voice--a man's voice--saying something about never being treated that way by a customer. Then the mad yelly guy returned, opened his car door and shouted "I'll be back, and you'd better have that f---ing coat!" Then he was gone.

I was shaking as I pulled up. I wasn't surprised to see no one at the desk, no one rushing out the door to see how they could help me. I didn't want to honk my horn, so I sat for a few seconds before squeaking "Hello?"

First one, then two Asian men walked out to my car. They were both smiling as if they had missed all the screaming.

"I am so sorry for the way he treated you," I said. "There is no excuse for that."

They laughed.

"I am sorry for you," one said.

"He's not normal," said the other.

"Maybe you should have the police here when he comes back," I offered.

Again, the smiles. "It's okay."

They brought me my clothes, took my money and brought me change. With smiles.

I watched the local news later to see if there had been a shooting at my neighborhood dry cleaner's. I tried to imagine what it was about the guy's coat that had him so messed up at the prospect of losing it. What kind of a day/life had he had? Did he hate his job, his wife...? Even more puzzling was the way those two gentlemen were able to shrug the horrific incident off--with smiles--and continue on with business as usual.