LEONARD KRIEGEL
575
I suffered, 1 was there.
A heavy black woman in her forties argues with a young Puerto
Rican assistant manager in my local supermarket. They stand face-to-face
outside the manager's office. The woman's hands grip the rim of a small
two-wheeled shopping cart she holds in front of her as if she wanted to
lift it and then smash it down like a club on the man's head. Anger visi–
ble, growing, face enveloped by a rage for justice.
Justice, Justice, shalt t!tou pursue.
In the shopping cart, an explosion of what looks like strands of
spaghetti bursts through a torn brown paper wrapping. I bend low in
my wheelchair, pretend to search for a flyer listing the weekly specials. In
this New York, one trains oneself to eavesdrop on the conversations of
strangers - mind plumbing for the significance of nuance, trying to deci–
pher the twists and cuts that lie like booby traps behind shifts in tone or
narrowing eyes. These two are not discussing unemployment or crime or
teenage suicide or the prospects of the Mets and Yankees. Any supermar–
ket in New York in May of 1993 is going to be a gallery of accusation
and counter-accusation.
The black woman wants to return a mop she purchased six weeks
earlier but has not used. The Puerto Rican assistant manager refuses to
take it back. The woman's anger grows more visible. The assistant man–
ager's demeanor grows more obdurate, his face grim, determined. The
woman threatens to
~ring
the supermarket to small claims court if he
refuses to give her back the money. Lips pressed together, the assistant
manager shrugs. Visibly straining for control, he stands there, determined
not to be bullied by this woman.
Suddenly, he raises his hand, as if to strike her. Then he blurts out
contemptuously, "You bought it six weeks ago and have no receipt!" As
if voicing the objection affords him the relief of a painful boil surgically
lanced, he repeats, "You bought it six weeks ago and you have no re–
ceipt!
Now
you want me to take it back."
The woman's eyes level him. Iflooks could kill, he is dead. Then she
cries out, voice one decibel short of a scream, "It's 'cause I'm black! It's
'cause I'm black!"
Customers turn in the aisles. Just as quickly, they turn away. My own
interest, which had begun to flag, is renewed. Race is the New York
dimension, life in black and white. My eyes shift from woman to man.
And brown.
He frowns. "It has nothing
to
do with your being black, lady," he
