Mr. Cut-In-Line — "Just Asking a Question"

Lyrics

Wednesday. Five-seventeen in the evening. The express lane is a study in patience. Five deep. The air conditioning is trying its best. It smells like tired people and overripe peaches. And here he comes. Not to the back of the line, of course not. He walks right to the front, a little sideways, like a crab. Holding a single carton of oat milk like a passport. He has the kind of smile that says, "I won't be a moment." A smile that knows you won't say a thing. He's just asking a question. A quick one. About the barcode. The line goes stiff. A quiet, collective intake of breath. This is the transaction. The real one. The one where he buys the next two minutes with our silence. The cashier, bless her, looks trapped. She scans the oat milk. It's fine. But his debit card is already in the machine. A tap. A beep. Three customers back, a foot starts tapping a rhythm of pure rage against the linoleum. He puts the carton in his canvas bag. Doesn't make eye contact with any of us. He was just asking a question. A quick one. About the barcode. The line goes stiff. A quiet, collective intake of breath. This is the transaction. The real one. The one where he buys the next two minutes with our silence. And we all let him. Because who is going to be the one? Who's going to spend their last bit of social grace on a man with oat milk and no shame? We just stand here. Boiling quietly. A perfect, unspoken agreement to be angrier later. A perfect little hum of disregard. He leaves. The automatic door sighs open for him. The tapping foot stops. The line shuffles forward one place. Next.