When I entered the parking, there was a problem. A BMW SUV with a Connecticut license plate was parked right in the middle, blocking access to the specialty food store. I was angry. Why the fuck couldn’t that dumb bastard park in one of the nearby spaces, instead of in the middle of the lot?

I entered the fish store to get a sandwich. When I finished, I walked over to the specialty food store.

Perhaps someone had a problem. The temperature outside was below zero, so I thought — having cooled down while eating my fried chicken sandwich in the fish store. Perhaps some poor slob had a car issue and might need assistance — like a tow truck.

On entering the store I saw an aging, grey-haired man in a Brooks Brothers overcoat and tyrolean hat who was pawing the lettuce.

“Yeah, that’s my car; what of it,” he said, checking each head carefully as if he might find gold under one of them.

“Does your car have a problem?” I asked, noting not to buy lettuce.

“Not that I am aware of,” he replied, continuing to pick amongst the lettuces, probably to find the largest head.

“Well, it’s blocking the entrance to this store,” I told him, now getting a little annoyed.

“So what?” he said, finally choosing a head and putting it in his basket.

“Well, it’s inconsiderate,” I told him, following him as he walked over to the cashier.

“Says who?” he said.

“Listen, mister, you’re blocking the entrance to this store. Why don’t you move your car?” I asked, politely.

“I don’t give a shit, sonny, let me handle this first.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole?”

“Listen, sister,” the man said, “don’t play games with me.”

“Are you going to move your fuckin’ car? Why don’t you just move your fuckin’ car, asshole,” I said as politely as any Cuban could, gesticulating with my arms in his face — for emphasis.

“Listen bitch,” he said to me as he turned around, “why don’t you mind your business and let me mind mine.”

“Who’re you calling a bitch, fuckin’ asshole?”

“Bitch, go suck tit. Can’t you see I’m fuckin’ busy?” the asshole said.

I wasn’t going to let anyone — especially someone from the city — mess with me.

“Asshole, just because you come from the city you think you own the place; you’re our guest, so fuck off and move your fuckin’ car.” I had become so mad, and when a Cuban becomes mad his arms move so that the other person knows what he’s talking about.

“Bitch, as soon as I’m finished ….”

At this moment Jesse, the store manager, appeared from the back room.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Oh, José’s been talking to himself, —you know, just being himself,” Mariah told the store manager.

 

E.P. Lande

E.P. Lande was born in Montreal but has lived most of his life in the south of France and Vermont, where he now lives with his partner, writing and caring for more than 100 animals, many of which are rescues. Previously, he taught at l’Université d’Ottawa, where he served as Vice-Dean of his faculty, and he has owned and managed country inns and free-standing restaurants. Since submitting two years ago, his stories have been accepted by publications in countries on five continents. His story “Expecting” has been nominated for Best of the Net.