Harmless Read Online Free PDF Page A

merely an observation, not a statement of fact.
    I walked up beside
him—“sidled” is a better word, since our shoulders were touching—and took a
peek at the wine varietal he’d chosen.  A merlot.  Classic, but uninitiated. 
(I’ve often wondered if the merlot industry suffered after Paul Giamatti’s
outburst in Sideways .  His character was wrong—you can find some
incredible merlots if you know what to look for.)
    Clarence picked up an
aged Chevrot, examining it with a befuddled expression, like he’d rubbed two
pieces of flint together and set his hut on fire.
    Casually, just a random
guy making conversation, I said, “Probably not the best choice for that
merlot.  They don’t go well with goat’s milk cheeses.  Your best bet is
something made from sheep’s milk.  Try that one right there, the one with the
blue label—the Roncal.”
    It took a second for
the realization to envelop his lone brain cell.  “Oh, hey, you’re Jan’s
neighbor.  I didn’t know you worked here.”
    First, note that he
didn’t call her Kerry, which was bad enough, because he didn’t know her like I
knew her.  The surreptitious, clueless infiltrator.  Also begging the question
of, why had she lied to him, too?
    Second… “I didn’t know
you worked here.”
    What.  The.  Hell.
    I don’t know why I took
such offense.  I have nothing against grocery store employees.  They work
hard.  Eight, ten, twelve hours on your feet all day, bending over, picking up
heavy things, dealing with picky customer demands such as making sure each
vegetable type is individually bagged. 
    That one’s on me. 
Guilty.  I have this thing with vegetables.  None of them should ever, ever touch.  It makes shopping cumbersome because I have to carry at least fifteen
bags with me, but I’ve gotten used to it.  The baggers that are familiar with
my minor quirk have made a game out of it.  They’ll try to slip a squash in
with a head of broccoli and laugh when I protest.  Joke’s on them, though,
since I laugh, too.  I know it’s ridiculous, and I’m okay with it.  Shayna
hated this about me.  Hated, hated, hated.  I believe the word she used was
“psychotic,” which, again, is a matter of observation, not a statement of fact.
    Most likely, it was
simply in the way Clarence said it.  “I didn’t know you worked here ,” as
if it were some sort of punishment or comment on my character.
    “You know what,” I
said, “maybe you should go with the goat cheese.”  If screwing up his palate
was my only recourse, then so be it.
    “Yeah, that’s what I
was thinking.  My wife loves goat cheese.”
    Did you get that?  His wife .
    Let me repeat it: his wife ,
said without a hint of shame. 
    Without a hint of,
“Hey, don’t say anything, okay?  One wretch to another, let’s keep this between
you and me.”
    I tried not to sound
offended.  Or shocked.  I’m not sure it worked.  “You’re married? ”
    “Long story, but yeah,
thirty-five years today.”
    You want to know how
many times in my life I’ve been struck speechless?
    Twice.
    The first time was in
response to the following:  “Steve, would you like to tell me about the thong I
found in the backseat of your car?”
    The second: 
“Thirty-five years today.”
    The nerve of that guy. 
On a minor note, what kind of last-minute, procrastinating dirtball picks up a
pizza and a bottle of wine for his thirty-five-year anniversary?
    But more importantly
you have to understand his tone.  There was nothing, and I mean absolutely
nothing, no hint of remorse whatsoever.  Nothing that said, I know you
know.  I know you see me every Thursday .
    It was absolutely
baffling.
    The only thing I could
come up with, the only thing that seemed like a rational, adequate response
was, “You’re a dick.” 
    I walked away.  I hoped
he took the goat cheese.
    And later, when I
learned the truth, guess who felt like a dick?
    ***
    Here’s what happened in
Kerry’s