People were pushing their carts 1/10th of a mile an hour, blocking the aisles as they always do, or standing exactly where I wanted something on a shelf. Getting just a couple of items took five minutes, and along the way there were two ‘moments’ —

First, a smiling little blonde girl with silly decals on her forehead was sitting in a shopping cart’s kiddie seat, smiling and waving at people. “Dang, she’s a cute one!” I said, not to the kid but to her mom.

This was intended as a nice, neighborly thing to say, but soon as I’d said it, suspicions were running through that mother’s mind, and I saw all the stereotypes that fit my appearance. Hollywood would hire me to play a pervert or pedophile — I’m an old, fat, disheveled-looking, grey-bearded white man.

Offended by such unflattering, unfair characterizations of plump sloppy gents everywhere, but also unwilling to explain all this in the store, I what-the-helled it, and wiggled my eyebrows at the kid’s mother. She was furious and/or frightened, and hurried away.

Yeah, I probably ruined that woman’s afternoon, and arguably she didn’t deserve it, but I claim the right to say that a cute kid is cute. If that’s worrisome to a kid’s mom, well, enjoy my wagging eyebrows, lady.

After grabbing my groceries, the “express line” was my next stop, and I was third in line. A white dude at the register needed some smokes, and the cashier was away, fetching them, because for whatever reason, tobacco products are stored in a locked-off, employees-only area behind the cash registers.

When she returned, the cashier had the fancy imported brand he’d asked for, but not the exact esoteric flavor. The man said something like, “No, not the apple-mint clove, the apple-grape clove,” and she turned around and went back into the cigarette room to look again. When she was out of earshot, he added, “Why do they hire damned Mexicans?”

I’d been in a pretty good mood until then, so I thought it over for a second, but decided I’d be angry with myself if I didn’t say something. What I said was, “Have you always been an asshole?”

He looked at me and, “Yeah,” is all he said. That’s the whole story. There were no witty retorts or fisticuffs.

It was an honest question, answered honestly. He said he’d always been an asshole, and I believe him, but some of us, me for example, become assholes more and more as we get older and crankier.

In younger years, I would’ve walked away from that kid’s mother without a word, and let her think whatever she thought. Or even apologized to her, but it wouldn’t have mattered — she’d instantly decided I’m a pervert, and nobody could talk her out of it.

Younger Me might’ve said nothing to the racist at the register, because I would’ve been afraid of getting slugged. And I was — afraid, that is, not slugged.

I’ve only seen punches thrown a few times in my entire adult life, though. Good odds, so I spoke up, and survived unslugged.

That’s me, evolving into an asshole. I’m too old for this shit, but I’ve decided it’s OK to say something kind about a child, and it’s simply good citizenship to tell an asshole he’s an asshole.