He was old, and by old I don’t mean just older than me. I mean he was probably “the old guy” in whatever room he was in. He was wearing a wind breaker, khaki pants, white sneakers and a VFW baseball cap. He was standing in the bulk area of the supermarket, next to a sign that read “Hands-free shopping zone”. He was obviously a gentleman with great respect for the rules as he used the little scoop to carefully take one jordan almond out of the barrel. He dropped it in his palm and popped it in his mouth. He put the scoop in the barrel and pulled out another almond. This time he put it in his palm, and seeing me watching, put an index finger to his lips. Then he threw it over the containers holding oats, malted milk balls, and carob chips and into his wife’s purse. He waited for a second, disappointed that she hadn’t noticed. He scooped out another almond, put it in his hand, and ate it. He scooped out one more, put it in his hand and threw it in his wife’s purse, grinning like a child.
“Cut it out Bud,” his wife said. Maybe she said Bob, or Buck. I couldn’t really tell so I decided his name was Bud. He looked like a Bud, and guys named Bud steal food to throw at their wives.
…
You know, as a kid I wanted to be a pilot, a fireman, or a policeman. As a teenager I wanted to be an artist, a writer, a chef, or a photographer. I also wanted to be Lloyd Dobler or George McFly when Marty got back from 1985.
Some of that didn’t work out. But some of it did. I did become an artist. I did become Lloyd Dobler. I can also cook and take pictures with some degree of competence. But I can’t fly a plane or put out a fire of alarming size. I suspect my next decade will see me doing something new. I’m not sure what that will be but I’m starting to spend more and more time thinking about it. I do know that I don’t want to wear a tie or comb my hair. I know that closes some doors, but a guy’s got to set some limits.
As Lloyd Dobler once said, “I don’t really know. I can’t figure it all out tonight, sir, so I’m just gonna hang with your daughter.”
Today though, one of the things I’m going to do is cure some bacon. I’d gone to the supermarket to get the pork belly. I turned down the aisle, heading toward the registers, and there’s Bud and his Patient Wife. He’s got his hands in his pockets, and he’s chewing on something. I presume it’s something stolen. His wife picks up a box of raisins and places them in her cart.
“Raisins?” asked Bud. “Why’d you get those?”
“They’re for the soup,” she replied.
“The soup?” he asked, a hint of incredulity in his voice.
“The soup.” she said, with a hint of well-practiced patience.
“But you don’t put raisins in soup.” he pleaded, sounding like a 5 year old.
“But you do put raisins in this soup Bud.” she explained, looking at Bud for the first time.
“Raisins don’t belong in soup,” Bud said petulantly. “They belong in hell.”
She turned back to the aisle and tenderly, affectionately said, “then you’ll be able to eat them later.”
Forget what I said earlier. I want to be Bud when I grow up.
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