I have, on occasion, impetuous bowels. Sometimes when I’m minding my own business, nature calls. Urgently. Nature doesn’t care if I’m stuck in traffic on I-95 or in IHOP.

The younger me never used public restrooms. I don’t think I even knew where the men’s room in my high school was. But the adult me, the older me, knows where almost-clean restrooms are in convenience stores and fast food restaurants along major thoroughfares across two counties.

So it was no shock when the call came while I was in the produce section of Genuardi’s, a local supermarket chain. But just because I occasionally have to use public facilities doesn’t mean I like it. Most people have the decorum to wait until they get home. To my great regret, I have very little decorum. I left my half-full shopping cart next to the tomatoes.

Worse than having to use a public facility is someone else using that facility in the stall next to you. I was there first, but he had no decorum at all, wasn’t shy. His black apron hitting the floor told me he was an employee. White material showed at the bottom of his frayed black pants. The top of his black sneakers were coming apart. He had the thinnest ankles I’d ever seen, his calves all bone. He finished, was up, dressed, impossibly skinny legs covered, out the stall, and the men’s room door closed behind him. I was alone.

My cart waited, with the red pepper, zucchini, and corn I’d picked with my own two hands.

Hands.

He hadn’t washed his. After he’d finished, he’d just pulled his pants and apron up and walked out the door. I’d listened. No soap, no water, no paper towel. Just the door. I was certain.

Maybe he worked in Produce. He could be the guy unpacking and placing all of the vegetables. I couldn’t go on with my shopping, couldn’t go home and chance serving defiled red pepper to my family. And I couldn’t just leave and go to the supermarket across the street. Not with my fellow poor, unsuspecting shoppers, picking out fruit without a care in the world. I had a responsibility to society. I knew too much.

I finished and washed with care, precious seconds slipping away. In bold print, the soap dispenser advised that clean hands prevented the spread of disease, salmonella, bacteria, and extended the shelf life of foods in the supermarket. Shelf life? This was a puzzle for another time.

I had to find him.

In Produce a man was unpacking grapes. Black apron, red shoes.

Not him.

I was relieved. If I’d found him there, fondling the tomatoes, pawing salmonella onto the bananas, what would I do? It would be easiest to simply abandon my cart, leave, avoid confrontation, swear off this supermarket for all time, and shop across the street.

Responsibility to society was no small matter. I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t know what I knew. I did know. I was the only one who did. What kind of coward would leave his fellow man to eat bacteria-infested cantaloupe? Was that the person I wanted to be, that I was?

No. But how far was I willing to take this? I’d have to go to the manager. Just calling him out on not washing wouldn’t do. He’d certainly deny it. It would be his word against mine. If only I had proof.

Next to Produce was Cakes, where a black-aproned woman helped customers personalize for birthdays.

Not him.

Where was he? My half-full cart would have to wait.

All I’d wanted was to get my groceries and go home. Now I had a mission. I hadn’t asked for it. But I accepted it with a certain glee, a sense of purpose pushing me forward as I moved through the aisles. I was almost robotic, scanning, assessing. Nothing escaped my gaze.

I would find him. I was the only one who could.

Bread. A skinny kid, red apron, pants not fraying.

Not him.

Soda. Black apron. Thick legs, arms. Brown shoes.

Not him.

I was nearly frantic, not yet running, but walking with force up and down the aisles, weaving around carts pushed by shoppers — civilians all — who couldn’t have guessed that my swift strides and lateral cuts were for their protection. Where could he be?

Dairy. Another woman.

Not him.

This was crazy. I should just leave. Forget the whole thing.

No. No!

I would see this through. But where was he? I’d been through every aisle.

Activity at the front of the supermarket drew me. A worker with a squeegee cleaned interior plate-glass windows. I honed in. He was a young man in a black apron wearing fraying pants and decrepit black sneakers, and was so thin, with the fingers on one of your hands, you could almost encircle his bicep. It was him! It was definitely him.

There was no celebration. No joy.

He was retarded.

The food was safe — this kid cleaned windows, maybe mopped floors. He wasn’t touching food. Maybe I should have called for the manager and demanded that he fire the kid for not washing his hands. He was retarded, yes, but why should that matter? This was a supermarket. They sold food here. I knew what I knew. I was the only one who did. Call it cowardice if you like. Or apathy. Or rationalization. Thoughts of my obligation to my fellow citizens, the demands of civilized society, disappeared. I wasn’t going to get the retarded kid fired. Let him clean the windows.

I didn’t find the manager or confront the kid. Instead, I reclaimed my cart — the food was safe — grabbed milk, paid, and headed to the car. I pulled out of the parking lot, still wondering if I did the right thing.

About Scott Stein

Tags: reflections & recollections by Scott Stein //