I’m standing in line at my usual Ohio-owned grocery. There are so many people in each register line that we’ve threaded ourselves into the aisles, people saying “I’m behind you” as they jockey their carts into place, with everyone leaving the center lane clear for shoppers still trying to finish shopping. Among people who don’t have their phones out, brief conversations pop up here and there over little things like the weather or an interesting item found in the clearance section. And then That Guy enters the line. Actually, cuts in the line until it’s pointed out to him that the line starts (hands waving) back there.

He’s an older man, maybe early 70s, hearty-sized in body and voice. He says a small aside to the woman he finds himself waiting behind, something about the long lines, and she briefly commiserates. That’s all it takes to get him started.

“Looks like nobody wants to work anymore,” he announces to everyone in the front of the store. “Bunch of losers these days,” he says, then looks around with pride as if his opinion sparkles.

I’m nearly to the register. The person waiting in front of me is a 20-something guy I’d insisted go ahead because he had only two items – a bouquet of flowers and a package of hot dog buns. He turned around at the commotion and we rolled our eyes at each other.

“Maybe he should apply to work here,” the younger guy says quietly.

I say, “Maybe the store needs to pay more.”

He nods. I add, “And maybe the millions of people with long covid can’t work.”

While we two are snarking, I realize the people now in line behind him as well as the woman in front of him are not snarking. “I worked 35 years. I earned my retirement,” he says. “I shouldn’t have to stand here like this.”

“The lines are moving pretty fast,” says the woman who had previously commiserated.

“What the hell is taking so long?” His voice goes up in volume. “Pardon my French, but all we’re trying to do is give this store our hard-earned money.” I think about all the checkout clerks whose difficult jobs are made worse by loud-mouths like him. About record-setting corporate profits driving inflation. About divisiveness stoked by pundits.

“I’m old,” he says. “I could die right here in line.”

A woman, probably about his age, is trying to get her cart past his to head down the cereal aisle.  “I’m a retired EMT, one of the first females to qualify in the state,” she says. “You won’t die as long as I’m here.”

I want to cheer at her take-no-crap kindness.

A couple sporting Cleveland Guardians hats are blocked as they try to pass. They stop for a moment, their round generous faces giving him the attention he so clearly needs. “I’m going to be retiring in a few years,” says the man. “Any advice?”

Asking advice, in so many circumstances, is one of the most respectful thing we humans can do for one another. I’m blown away by the wisdom of this question.

That Guy pauses in his general announcement-style monologue to give it a thought. “Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Don’t let your wife die before you do.”

Everyone seems to be listening now. The baseball fan woman rattles a jar in her cart. “Vitamins. I plan to stick around for a while.”

That Guy wishes them luck as they move on. His sadness briefly revealed, he gets back to his protective covering of bluster.

I just witnessed a lot more kindness than the zero kindness my thoughts showed this man. I know kindness is contagious. I know simply reflecting on our own gratitude can help others through the magic of heartbeat entrainment. It’s just not easy.

As I leave I see he is parked one car over from me. He shoves his cart over to the side, as if he isn’t planning to push it over to the cart carrel. “Want me to take that back for you?” I ask, fully expecting a snarl for an answer. “Naw, I got it, he says. “Here, let me take yours.”

“Thanks,” I tell him. “That’s really nice of you.”

He smiles, actually smiles back at me.

I’m going to try harder to see beyond behavior that rankles. And I’m going to keep fighting against every single thing his hateful bumper stickers proclaim.