By Randy Reynolds
I
grabbed an energy drink from the cooler and got in line behind a man holding a
fifty pound sack of Ol’ Roy on his shoulder.
He
turned toward me and said, “This may take a while. She’s got two baskets piled
high and you and me are paying for it.” With a nod of his head he
indicated the overweight elderly woman in front of him wearing workout pants, baggy
sweatshirt, and bedroom slippers. She had two buggies piled high with
groceries.
“I bet
you anything she’ll try to pay with food stamps,” he said. “People like
that get my goat.”
He
looked at me intently, as if expecting an answer, but I don’t talk food stamps
with white guys in line at a Walmart in the South. Like the coward that I was,
I shrugged and said, “I know what you mean.”
Not even
trying to keep his voice down, he said, “Laying around in bed all day, too lazy
to work, sponging off the government, living large on my tax money.”
The
old woman, still unloading her second buggy, looked up and said, “They’re not
called food stamps anymore. It’s SNAP—the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance
Program.”
“Well,
it’s food stamps to me,” said the man with the dog food. “And you’re paying for
it with my tax money.”
I
wanted to look away, but the rheumy eyes of the old woman held my attention.
“It’s
not your business, sir, but just so you know, we’re not getting rich on food
stamps. I have eight kids and two adults besides me under my roof and we
get four dollars a day per person. That’s a dollar thirty-three per meal
per person.” She pointed to his bag of dog food. “You can’t
hardly even feed a dog for that.”
“Well,
there’s plenty of jobs out there. You should go get one, and try working
for a living for a change.”
“I
have a job, sir. I work at a nursing home, Lexington House. I worked
eleven to seven last night and I’ll be there again tonight.”
“What
about the other adults in your house? Why don’t they have jobs?”
“Because
one of ‘em has A.L.S., Lou Gehrig’s disease, and barely gets around any more
and the other is nine months pregnant. Not that it’s any of your
business.”
The
dog food man turned to me and rolled his eyes.
I
said, “What kind’a dog you got?”
“Black
lab,” he said.
“Labs
have a sweet disposition,” I said.
“Oh,
yes. Smart, too.” He dropped the dog food onto the conveyer.
Ahead
of us, the cashier gave the old woman a receipt and helped place bags of food
in the two buggies. I heard the old woman say, “M’am, will you watch this
basket while I take the other one to the car?”
The
cashier said, “Sure.”
“Just
get it out of my way,” said the dog food man, pushing the closest buggy forward
with his foot.
The
buggy hit the old woman in the thigh. “I intend to, sir, just give me a
moment.”
“This
is ridiculous!” said the man. “Can’t we get this line going?”
“I
don’t want this drink anyway,” I said, setting the energy drink on the conveyer
belt behind the dog food. “Excuse me, sir.” I squeezed past him and
said, “Ma’m, I’ll take one of those baskets for you.”
The
old woman said, “God bless you, sir. I hate to be such a nuisance, but…”
“No
problem,” I said. “We all need a little help now and then.”
As I
placed her groceries into a van with a wheelchair rack on back, she tried to
give me a dollar. “No, ma’m, that’s not necessary. Put it away.”
“Well,
I don’t know how to thank you.”
“No
thanks necessary.”
“What
did you say your name was?”
“Randy.”
“Well,
Randy, I’m Jeanelle,” she said. “I hope God will bless you for helping
out an old woman.”
I
smiled. “I’m sure He will, ma'm.”
The
man with the bag of Ol’ Roy came down our lane in the parking lot. I
half-expected him to stop and inspect Miz Jeannelle’s grocery bags to make sure
that her purchases were in line with what he thought a SNAP recipient should
eat. I nodded and gave a little half-wave to acknowledge him, the kind of
thing Southerners do even if they’ve only met a person once, casually, in the
check-out line at Walmart. But he looked right through me, scowling, and walked
on by.
