There was this guy…

Last Sunday. Memorial Day was going to render local goods and services unpredictable, so I wanted to stock up on precooked meat.
 
Gelson’s is an upscale supermarket that charges about 25% more than their competitors. I take it for granted now, but I remember being impressed by the way their shelved goods were always arranged into tight, tidy, phalanxes with admirable professional obsession. Their fish is the freshest in town and there’s always enough grocers so that you rarely have more than one person in line ahead of you.
 
But their shining jewel is their hot deli. Their freshly prepared dishes are fantastic, you just need the intestinal fortitude to not care that you’re paying around 6 bucks for a single beef rib.
 
There wasn’t many people there, but I grabbed a number anyway, keeping with protocol. Number 91…
 
I waved the clerk over to the rosemary chicken, my grin stretching with greed. I usually aim for the bottom, a half chicken slathered in its own juices, and I always ask for a few extra cloves of garlic.
 
I needed a little something extra, so I went for the turkey. They have a carving station and they sell the thighs, wings and drumsticks separately. It’s great to have that little taste of homestyle comfort without having to cook the entire mutant-bird myself.
 
There was this guy that was leaning on the glass, his head bent over my quarry with something approaching concentration. I wanted a better look at the wings, so I put my hand on the guy’s shoulder and said, "Pardon me, buddy."
 
The guy moved. "Thanks," I said, turning back to the clerk. "Yeah, that wing closest to you."
 
"You touched me?"
 
It was the guy. A short, stocky, mustachioed Latino was looking at me with the same intensity he previously reserved for cooked food.
 
I was at a complete loss as to how to react. It was obviously a rhetorical question, because the only other person in the vicinity was the clerk, and nothing going on was worth reaching through solid glass to accomplish.
 
"Yeah, I…"
 
"You don’t have to touch me, man. You just tell me to move and I’ll move."
 
Aphephobia, haphephbia, hophophobia, hapnophobia, haptephobia, haptophobia, thixophobia…
 
Touch freak.
 
I never saw one for reals. In fact, the only concept I ever had of them was from movies. And the only thing I knew about them was that they were dangerous.
 
Ironically… or fittingly… explaining my position to him, letting him know everything that was on my mind regarding our impasse would have required far more intimacy than the actual touch…
 
"Have a seat."
 
Removing all trappings of time and location, I have stolen this man–I believe he was wearing a white sweat shirt–into the confines of my imagination. It is dark there, and not necessarily in an ominous way, just my way of blocking out the inessential. So, imagine with me, a horizon of darkness on all sides. A cafe table and two chairs. A single red rose in a thin, elegant white vase. All lit with tasteful studio lighting from undisclosed fixtures.
 
"Please. You look tired."
 
He sits, mistrust in his eyes, only because he knows, instinctively, that he has to cooperate in order leave the confines of my head.
 
"Paco."
 
He sniffs, "It could be ‘Henry,’ for all you know, you racist bastard."
 
"You’re probably from Mexico…"
 
"You don’t know that either."
 
"Hey, man. I got a little Latino in me. Grandparents were Puerto Rican." I flash the east side hand sign, which, because I’m using my left hand, looks to him like a backwards E.
 
"Pffft."
 
"How ’bout a nice, cool, refreshing glass of water."
 
"Sure."
 
From literally nowhere, I produce a pitcher and pour us both a tall glass of water, savoring the hollow cadence as the liquid rises towards the rim. I take a seat.
 
"There is nothing quite as satisfying as a cool, refreshing glass of water when you’re just a little bit thirsty. Opens the mind."
 
We sip briefly in silence. I place my glass on the table and get to business.
 
"Paco…"
 
"Fine."
 
"…It disturbs me that our first impression had to be such a negative one. Especially considering that we came into this as strangers, and we’ll leave as strangers, never knowing the true details of each other’s life."
 
"I don’t like to be touched."
 
"I understand that. But it already happened… And it was only once. And it was obviously innocuous… Believe me… You’d know if I was being unsavory."
 
"I’d send you to the hospital."
 
"You might…"
 
"I shouldn’t have to be touched if I don’t want to."
 
"And I have to accept that, even if I think it stems from some kind of macho, homophobic bullshit."
 
"Fuck you."
 
"But the reason you don’t like being touched is of little concern to me, because it’s something I could never know for sure. All I want to do, really, is make it abundantly clear why I did touch you, and why I will–in spite of this particular, unpleasant instance–continue to touch perfect strangers in much the same manner."
 
"Okay…"
 
"First of all, as you can see by the way I’m dressed that I’m sort of in the medical field. I blur that area between medicine and the service industry."
 
He’s just waiting for me to shut up now.
 
"Point is, in the trappings of respectability and legitimacy, I have done things in the course of the average workday so intimate and raw that they’d have to be cut out of your average Jackass movie."
 
I take a few sips of water for dramatic effect.
 
"I never see this as a discredit to my own masculinity. It’s stuff that needs to be done by somebody, and for whatever reason, at that particular moment in time, that person is me. Touching people is part of my job. It allows the people I work with to know that they are not alone–that I’m not just there because I have to be, or because I’m getting paid–but because I consider them a friend… I have since allowed my comfort with humanity to expand enough that I can anticipate friendship in my day to day interactions, even amongst perfect strangers… I didn’t mean anything by it. And you know that… You do absolutely nothing for me sexually. I’ve had pets that were more attractive." 
 
"You’re such an asshole."
 
"But I feel better. Don’t you feel better?"
 
"I will when I can get back to my life."
 
"Go, Paco. With my blessing."
 
In real life, I apologized, and he accepted my apology and we both went on with our merry lives. Of the two, I’m guessing I was the only person that ended up writing about it.
 
I left the market feeling disturbed, tainted. At my best, it might have turned into a Teachable Moment, but even that would have been taking a chance.
 
Today, I finally mailed my last check to pay off my drinking and driving fine. It is a very good feeling to be free of it. I walked to the post office in victory. Going by foot, I had every legal right in the world to drive but didn’t, because I wanted to take in the sun and the shimmering fresh air. Hopefully Smart Eric will be in control for a little while. Hopefully Smart Eric will have it together enough to deal with any uncertainties that all those unpredictable personalities out there can hatch. Hopefully, Smart Eric will be ready for the next time Dumbass Eric strikes.
 
I feel good.
 
It is, in fact, a beautiful day.