I Fought Ratchet Woman in Walmart

Hidden by masks, some people think they are invisible.

I’ll bet that’s what Ratchet Woman thought when we came across each other in Walmart.

She was a short thing with a mean face, hair pulled back tight, early-thirties.

Her buggy moved so fast that the two small boys worked hard to keep up. The third kid was female, probably 11 or 12 years old.

The girl’s face hung close to her mother’s shoulder as they turned the corner toward me. She had to skip to keep up with Ratchet Woman.

I could see that the girl had just said something to upset her mother.

The daughter nervously pushed her glasses up on her nose, never failing to keep her face fastened to her mother’s ear.

With skill and precision, Ratchet Woman deftly turned her head and, lips pressed together, stung the girl with these words: “Fuck you.” They were filled with disgust, and it felt like a bullet hit me in the chest. The tone was brutal.

Ratchet Woman had forgotten herself, and her eyes darted about with the fear that her words could have floated somewhere other than her daughter’s ears.

As for the daughter, her eyes grew huge as melons, and she began a diplomatic, fast-talking campaign to appease Ratchet Woman. I passed them like a zombie minding my own business, listening to the girl struggle to erase whatever transgression she had committed that inspired such treatment.

A man turned his head and looked at them momentarily because he had heard her, too.

He kept walking. I kept walking.

On to the Cream of Wheat. I reach up high to tap down a box and catch it in mid-air. My hands are shaking. My mind can’t erase the image of the young girl pushing up her glasses, face full of worry.

Suddenly, one of my all-time favorite songs blasts over the Walmart speakers — “R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A.” by John Mellencamp.

It’s a sign.

I fling the box into my buggy and whirl ‘round to traverse the store. I end up in the garden center. Nothing.

I think: “I’ll run by the registers, and if they’re not there, then they’ve probably left.” I tell myself that, if the song ends without me finding them, then it isn’t meant to be.

I’m practically war-dancing to Mellencamp as I march across the aisle between the cash registers and the women’s clothes.

Ah. There they are. In the clothing department.

With the refrain “Rockin’ in the U.S.A. Hey!” on my heels, I approach the family. I point to the girl with the glasses and ask, “Is she your daughter?” Smiling under the mask, in anticipation of some compliment, the woman replies, “Yes!”

“I heard what you said to her.”

Ratchet Woman’s eyes tell me that she knows exactly what I mean. Five other people are shopping in the clothing section. None of them ever turns to look our way.

“I heard you tell your daughter to FUCK YOU.”

Immediately, the woman wags her finger at me, raises her voice, demands her daughter verify that she did no such thing, and yells at me that I’d better turn around and mind my own business.

She is just what I thought — RATCHET — Exactly what I expected.

With mask still on, I set my eyeglasses atop my head and turn to meet her defiant gaze. I interrupt her ravings with words that are bursting with rage:

“You remember this day — the day that a stranger told you that what you put out comes back to you. Hard.”

Her denials follow me as I exit clothing and enter self-checkout. When I leave the building, I still hear her from the clothing department, prattling on with her defense.

I make it to my car, load my groceries, climb in, and sit there.

I’m satisfied. At least the daughter knows that when you say things like what her mother said, you’d better say them quietly, because it’s WRONG. And the RIGHT person just might overhear.

Mother, Teacher, Protector of Children. That’s me.

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