The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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The yahoo with the MAGA hat who put a hand on the front grill of Recon Ron’s grocery cart in the organic food aisle probably didn’t know Ron was a Green Beret in Viet Nam from ’66 to ’69, not with that belly sticking out of the Grateful Dead T-shirt and the gray ponytail poking out in back under his Boston Red Sox cap. Ron’s gone a bit native down here on the South End, hangs out with Two Toke Tom most evenings and plays a mean hand of poker with our Wednesday night crowd, mean because he bets without caution and we never know his bluffs from an inside straight. No, the guy who put the brakes on Ron’s half full cart would’ve thought here was some lardass gone-to-seed retiree, not a Marine with a bronze star.

‘Wuzzup, Dog?” the smirking fellow without a plague mask asked. “You one of those people afraid of viruses?”

Ron was wearing a white bandana. Apparently his interrogator interpreted this as a flag of surrender. To the germs. “Minding my own business here, dog. Being careful. Something bothering you?”

“Oh yeah, man, something’s bothering me. All you people wearing your stupid masks, closing down the stores , the bars, everything, yeah, that bothers me. “

Now Ron is not a mellow fellow. I’ve seen him go rogue and it’s not something I want to see ever again. But this was, after all, a grocery store, not a tavern. He asked the guy, “You don’t believe there’s a contagion out here?” to which the guy said, “Hell no! Just a flu, man, just a boogie man. I don’t buy it, not one bit of it.”

Ron said, “100,000 people have already died from it, you thank that’s a cold? Lemme ask YOU something — how many Americans died in Viet Nam? You heard of that war, haven’t you?”

“People die, man, that’s why it’s called war.”

Ron pulled his bandana down, sighed and said, “100,000 in four months, friend. That’s nearly a thousand a day — if you believe in math.”

“Like I said, man, people die, the way it goes, ya know?”

“Oh, I know … man. Believe me, I know. It wouldn’t kill you, though, to put a mask on. Hide that ugly face a little. But if you don’t let go of this cart …” Ron let that threat hang, gave him a steely stare and pulled his mask back up.

“Oh, okay, tough guy. Buy your little fruits, hide out in the cereal aisle, why don’tcha?”

Ron shoved the cart slightly with a quick hard push. The kid let go of the grill. “Live in fear, man.”

“Morons like you, what choice do I have? Beer cooler’s on the other aisle — in case you get lost with your head up your ass.”

Some other time, some other place, this might’ve gone bad. The kid seemed to consider that route, maybe thought about consequences, but in that moment of hesitation Ron turned his cart and walked away. Like I said, we could never tell if he was bluffing.

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