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That Man

Richard Sensenbrenner

    He wore an expensive suit and expensive smelling cologne. Dark brown eyes took her in, took in her shopping cart. He didn’t have a cart. A bouquet of white daisies cradled themselves in his left arm near a handful of Bicycle playing card packages. Johnnie Walker Scotch hung from his right hand. He stood still and looked comfortable in his own skin, even though he was so out of place in a Walmart checkout line.
    “When did I last get flowers?” Sarah thought.
    Late forties or early fifties, not handsome but groomed to best advantage, he looked at her longer than comfortable. Was he thinking of coming on to her, ponytail, no makeup, jeans she’d been wearing all weekend? He was probably as old as her father.
    “Sir, would you like to go ahead?” she asked, motioning at the items he was holding. That was probably what he was signaling.
    “A teacher,” he said. Those eyes inventoried the contents of her cart: coloring books, packages of crayons, a digital alarm clock, ladybug rain boots, single serve boxes of cereal.
    “Yes,” she said and felt silly for feeling silly. His eyes moved over her, unreadable camera lenses, a good card player.
    “Alarm clock?”
    “One of my students has a problem getting to school on time.” She wasn’t going to explain herself anymore.
    “This all coming out of your pocket?”
    Sarah nodded, greeted the cashier and put her items on the conveyer belt. He put the cards, scotch and flowers right next to her items, nothing dividing it.
    “Would you mind if I got this one for the kids?”
    She --well-- she really needed new nylons and tights for work. If she said yes, she could buy them and wear them with her brown and red skirts, have money left over and not have to worry about paying ransom to the drycleaners until next Saturday. It would help a lot.
    “Thank you,” she said.
    He nodded to the cashier to continue scanning, beep, beep.
    “For the kids?” she wondered. This was not a man familiar with children. “Does he think he bought me?” The thought shot her left eyebrow up.
    “$142.50,” said the cashier.
    He slid two hundred-dollar bills off the top of a wad of even more and gave them to the cashier. There was a deep scar on the back of his hand, disappearing under his shirt cuff. He collected his flowers and things and turned to her.
    “Thank you,” she said nervously, “I wish there was something I could do in return.” Her face blushed.
    “There is,” he said. “You know that kid, that kid who comes along every few years? All the teachers are afraid of him, what he might do?”
    The question took her by surprise. She nodded.
    “Please, don’t give up on that kid,” he said, eyes still betraying nothing. Then, he gave her a slight smile and nod. He casually walked toward the exit, her agreement assumed, or left for her consideration.

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