I was in the supermarket yesterday when I heard a voice I recognized. It wasn’t recognized in the way a friend or loved one’s voice is recognized, eliciting warmth or happiness. It was more the type of, “Hey, I’ve heard that voice before, but where?”
I looked around and saw that the number of people on the aisle with me was relatively low. I looked at the girl standing by the chicken. She had her cart parked on one half of the aisle and was standing in the other half, ensuring that no one could get by. Surprisingly, this wasn’t the owner of the voice—I didn’t recognize her at all.
I say surprisingly because the type of person who blocks the entire aisle while hunting meticulously through chicken legs seems like exactly the sort of dipshit that would haunt my life. I said excuse me, and she glanced over at me, glanced at her cart, and then slowly walked around to the end, making a show of how much I was inconveniencing her.
Normally, I would have taken the time to think up something to say to her that would make her life a little more miserable, but I had better things to do—I was on a hunt.
The next person I came across was an old lady. I didn’t think this was the owner of the voice, but you can never tell with old people. They get to looking a certain way, and they’re hard to tell apart, you know? I smiled and nodded, hoping to elicit a response with my charm. Sure enough, she smiled back and said hello. Not the owner of the voice.
You might be wondering why it was so important for me to find out whose voice I had heard. I’ll be honest with you—it wasn’t. I was a little bored, and the only thing left on my shopping list was cheese, so I figured I might as well do something trivial with my time.
I had almost given up, thinking that my mind was just inventing fun games for me to play. You know—neurotically search out the mysterious voice. It’s a big hit with the kids. And then I saw her.
I didn’t recognize her at first, because the environment in which I had last seen her was so very different. She was wearing a red apron, and a black hairnet, and she was messing around with a gob of raw meat.
The last time I saw her, she was behind me, and I was the one in the apron. I was sitting down, and she had a pair of scissors. The last time I saw her, she was cutting my hair.
Now she’s a butcher.
“Figures,” I muttered, and went to get my cheese.