I was starving. The mall harbored a Chinese fast food stand, and I was waiting in line with Emily and several other hungry, cranky, tired and broke shoppers to get some re-heated fried rice and rubbery orange chicken. It was 7 in the morning on Black Friday, the aptly named day after Thanksgiving when all the dedicated deal makers wait for hours in lines outside the Kohl’s stores and Targets, the Wal-marts and Best Buys to get 75 inch television sets for $150 and 6-slice toaster ovens for $10. My aunts, cousins, their friends and I had been out since 3 a.m., standing in lines waiting for stores to open, waiting to pay for things, now waiting to get something to eat. Lines, lines, lines. My buzz from the “special punch” in our Big Gulp cups had dissipated hours ago, the 5 Hour Energy shot Amber made me buy at the gas station in their town had me crashing hard, and my feet were tenderized and swollen. My public politeness had been stored away somewhere with my good judgment, which explained why I had let that saleslady straighten only half of my hair at a mall kiosk.
After waiting in line, mostly patiently, for my moo goo gai pan, I took a step towards the cash register and was interrupted by two fellow deal hunters. These ladies, brunette ninjas, slipped in front of me with not so much as a sheepish smile in my direction. Until this moment, my first Black Friday experience had been filled with story-making memories like the conversation with the self-described “smart sister” and the “pretty sister,” twins with clangy Arkansas accents in front of Kohl’s who just couldn’t get boyfriends and their mom didn’t understand why, or the unexpected joy of finding an outside electrical outlet where we could plug in a warming blanket for Erica and me to huddle under while we waited for the Target store to open. Not the least of these memories was the very public parking lot dance Emily did to the latest hip hop song blaring from our mini-van. I genuinely laughed while she twerked in an empty parking space—a real, healthy belly laugh. The early morning hours had been filled with friendly encounters with southern strangers and good times.
Some of the Arkansans’ southern drawl must have seeped into my subconscious because I spoke to these women, these linecutters, these testers of my charm and pleasant disposition with a full-on southern sass. “I just want YOU to know that I know you cut in front of me. I DO see you cutting in front of me,” I twanged.
“I’m sorry…what did you say?” One of them drawled.
I felt empowered as I twanged right back, “It’s important that you know, I see you standing in front of me in line when you weren’t there before.”
“I jist waunted to git a draaank,” she began to reason why it was acceptable for a grown woman to cut in line like a kindergarten kid who didn’t know any better.
“Say what you need to say, lady, I just need you to know that I see what you’re doing, and it’s not okay,” my gaze was direct, but I was surprised at the steadiness of my voice. After almost a year of becoming smaller as my marriage broke, shrinking under the unloving words and gestures of someone I trusted, it felt good to vocalize to this stranger woman that I knew what she was doing. I knew why she was justifying her disregard for me and for my feelings, and her lack of consideration for how I might feel to be cheated in this way. It was a rebuilding moment, even if she did think I was crazy. If I could find that woman again today, I would thank her by buying her a mall eggroll.