A Short Memoir Immortalizing his Crimes Against a Beloved, Innocent Fruit
“Are you coming in or do you want to wait in the truck?”
My dad asked before running into the store with his s/o at the time.
“I’ll wait in the truck,” I replied. My brother and her son also stayed back with me.
We were on a family summer vacation in a rural, small town in Ontario. My dad had rented us a lakeside cottage he found on Kijiji, the place we’d call home for the next two weeks. On the way there, we stopped at the local grocery store to pick up a few things for our stay.
It was a small cherry pink brick & mortar store, with faded yellow graffiti on one side of the building. The roof was awfully worn down. Presumably from having lived through many harsh Canadian winters. The store’s facade was complete with roof-to-sidewalk-length clear windows. Nothing like the well-maintained big box grocers you’d find in the heart of a bustling city or suburbia.
The parking lot was quite empty too, typical for a small town like this one. Which was great for us, since we got a spot right in front of the store. The perfect place for people-watching while we patiently waited for them to finish their shopping.
It was rather uneventful, aside from the occasional car pulling in and out of the lot. That was until a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard, fading hairline, baggy pants & a graphic tee showed up. He walked up to the doors of the store as if to go in. He doubled-back, as if remembering he forgot his wallet. That wasn’t the case. He walked in long strides over to the right-side exterior of the store. He relieved himself on the store’s wall, next to the industrial-sized dumpsters. I looked away in disgust once I realized what was happening.
“Some people have no respect or class,” I thought to myself. There are bushes and woodlands all around us. He could have relieved himself there or in the store’s bathroom. They must have one. He was clearly past the age to display *coolness* by committing such asinine acts, like a hormone-raging teenager skipping class with his troublesome friends. I would know, I was 14. I guess he was trying to relive his glory days. His clothes certainly screamed it.