MISUNDERSTANDING ON AISLE FOUR

This happened ten years ago, and it still bugs me.

I was shopping at the original Central Market in Austin, pushing a sparsely loaded cart toward what was then the condiment aisle. Abruptly, a young and anxious Central Market employee darted blindly from another aisle, directly in front of me, forcing me to jerk the cart backward to avoid collision.

This kid never stopped. He never looked at me. He did not even notice the collision he nearly caused.

And, this was mostly amusing. His actions were a bit irritating, but certainly nothing to get upset about. I laughed and shook my head and resumed my quest for consumables. But, not before another Central Market employee approached and spoke to me. This was a woman in her forties with short, spiky hair and a sympathetic gleam in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, sir. That should not have happened.”

I was still a bit off-kilter, but I appreciated her unsolicited comment.

And, I said, “Well, I just can’t believe I didn’t hit him.”

To clarify: I was expressing surprise that the shopping cart I was pushing had not hit the young man who wasn’t looking where he was going…

…is what I meant.

But, she looked puzzled, and appeared to choose her next few words carefully. “Oh. Well. Thankfully there would have been a non-confrontational female present to defuse the situation.” A tight, cursory smile squelched the gleam and ended our conversation.

At that point, I’m sure I looked puzzled, as I pondered this peculiar non sequitur. Not completely understanding the reference, I nodded, and wheeled my cart toward the bulk section.

Ten minutes later I was scooping chili powder into a small plastic bag when I finally understood her meaning. Oh. She thought I was saying something completely different -- that I was actually talking about self-control. She believed the surprise I was expressing came as the result of my failure to raise a fist and strike someone.

She thought I was lamenting inaction when I said, “I just can’t believe I didn’t hit him.”

You know, hit him. Because I’m a man, and that’s what men do.

Suddenly, I was very angry. The recklessness of the callow youth had not elicited this response. But, the misinterpretation that followed certainly did. Not surprisingly, I’m frustrated when my words are misinterpreted. This is generally a one-way street with no exit. And most people stop listening once they start talking.

And, I resent gender-based clichés and all those easy t-shirt-ready stereotypes that burn no intellectual calories when perpetuated. Race and gender are the first and second refuge of the mediocre mind, and I despise the ease with which people simply go there.

But, mostly, I hate the assumption. I really hate the assumption. How much? I hate the assumption more than I hate that insipid “never assume…” cliché that was almost amusing between 1985 and about three days later in 1985.

That’s how much.

I considered retracing my steps, locating this woman, and offering a full explanation. But, I was just too angry and too disgusted. So, I checked out and fumed all the way home.

And now, ten years later, it all comes back to me when I walk past that spot in Central Market. I remember the assumption, and the assumption still makes me angry – even though I’m now assuming as much as I assume she was assuming.

I can’t help it. I just get mad.

You know. The way men do.