Beamish And Bhaji

Chapter 2

I sneezed in my new N95 mask.

My nose and chin were splattered with my own juices. Reeling from the recoil of the shotgun-like sneeze, I walked into the supermarket. Glasses fogged up instantly. Blind and snot faced. Talk about making a suave entrance.

Saoirse and her two delinquent grandkids followed suit. Saoirse is, to use the Irish colloquialism — “sound”. Which, to me, means she’s alright. Or a closet serial-killer. “Sound” covers a wide spectrum of personalities. Second only to the equally wide-ranging gamut that “grand” can relate to. A born-and-bred Dubliner currently holed out in my spare bedroom in Drogheda. Pushing 75, part time nanny to her grandkids, vehement anti-vaxxer and lifelong complainer. More “where’s the bleeding glass!” than “glass half empty”. Her being pessimistic would mean she’s having a great day.

The delinquents take turns to repeatedly kick the rabbit-shaped dustbin in the shins at the entrance.

Chips off the old block.

I take off my mask and glasses to give them a wipe. Immediately confronted by an enormous security guard armoured like Robocop. His sense of humour isn’t much better either.

“Sir, please keep your mask on in store.”

“Sorry — I just had to clean up a bit…”

“Sir, please put it on right now or I will have to get you to leave.”

“Can you gimme a second? I am literally just wiping my face…”

“Sir — this is your final warning. Wear the mask right now or leave.”

I was barely able to wipe the mucus off my cheeks. I could feel it on my face like a nasal skid mark.

“You know, I accidently sneezed in my mask and…”, my muffled voice through the mask.

“Thanks for complying Sir. You can carry on now.”

Bit rude.

“What if I wanted to drink some water? Can I take my mask off then?”

“You are not allowed to be in this store without a mask on.”

“Yeah, but like, surely there are some extenuating circumstances? Like, if I had to give someone CPR?”

“Are you a doctor, Sir?”

“No, it’s just a hypothetical…”

“Sir — it’s a simple rule. Masks on in store always. My job is to make sure everyone conforms.”

This guy loved enforcing rules. What is it about powerful men and wanting to lay down the law? Maybe knowing that he could break me like a twig gave him the morality to protect? I try again.

“When did you last take off your mask?”

“I never do when I am in store, Sir.”

“Never? Even when you go to the bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“You take a shit with your mask on?”

“Sir — this is inappropriate….”

“I am just curious…”

The delinquents have kicked over the rabbit bin. Mr Righteous throws a menacing look at them.

“Are these your kids, Sir?”

They were seven year old twins. Freckled. Blonde. Blue-eyed. I have a thick curly afro brown eyes and dollops of melanin in my skin. As much chance of these being mine as Megan being a royal.

“No. They are my friends’.”

“Can you please ask them to stop? Or I’ll have to get you to leave.”

Saoirse was blissfully unaware. Or at least pretending to be. She looked to be immersed in reading the contents of a carton of oat milk. She didn’t appear to me to be a careful shopper. Or a careful anything really.

“Look, she’s their guardian.” I say pointing towards Saoirse who had now graduated to sniffing the carton. Her nose peeking out from over her mask like the tip of the world’s oldest iceberg. This was a grave breach of protocol for Mr Righteous and he immediately stormed towards her, shaking his head furiously.

“Right you two — stop that.” I say exasperatedly to the kids. Lucky sods don’t need to wear a mask and can literally do whatever they please all day.

They completely ignore me as they are engrossed in tearing bits of the latest issue of “Vogue”. How are magazines still in business, I wonder. When did I last buy one? 2002? Anyway.

“Guys, stop! You need to behave.”

And what can I do if they don’t? What an utterly futile sentence. They didn’t even hear me.

I grab both by their Leinster jerseys and start walking them toward their granny. Saoirse has survived the wrath of the Righteous.

“What’s that fella’s problem?”, she asks. Whipping her mask off instantly.

“He’s just a bit eager is all.”

“Damn right he is. Bloody Poles.”

“Are you done with whatever you needed? I have a work call soon so need to be getting back…”

“Yeah, alright…I’ll meet you at the car park.”

I turn to leave. One of the delinquents though is pointing at me and yelling “Darkie!”. Then the other one joins in. Both pointing and screeching now.

I was used to racist abuse — I was a brown guy in a white country, it’s practically a disability. I should get to use the parking spots. But I wasn’t expecting to confront two seven year olds. I wonder where they heard that word from? Fortnite? Netflix? Their granny?

I had to say something though, right?

I question Saoirse, “Where did they learn that?”

“Learn what?”

“That word? Darkie?”

“They are pointing at the chocolate bar, you dipstick.”

Oops. They were. I turn around to see a shelf-full of Darkies. Sugary, caramel filled, chocolate bars. 2 for 1. Darkies. Whew.

“Ah yeah. Okay. Anyway, let’s get this billed and go.”

We walk up to the cashier. Mr Righteous is fixing me with the death stare from the entrance. I feel his gaze boring into my soul. I silently wish the delinquents would kick him instead. No such luck. They are terrified little shits.

Checkout done. I pay extra for the plastic bags that I swear I won’t ever buy again. Cursory glance at the bill tells me the chocolate bars weren’t discounted.

“Looks like the chocolates were 2 for 1?” I passive-aggressively enquire the dishevelled cashier lady.

“Oh yeah? Let me have a look.” Rescans them.

“I’ll hardly pay full price for a Darkie”, I say.

The master of wit.

She looks quizzically at me.

Can’t believe I didn’t get the laugh. I try again.

“Darkies are normally so cheap, aren’t they?”

Nothing.

I feel a giant breathing down my neck.

“Sir, you cannot use racist slurs in store.”

“I was just joking. Look — those are the Darkie chocolate bars.”

“Sir, your language was disrespectful, and you have to leave now.”

“But I was joking? I am not a racist!”

“Sir, please leave right now.”

“Can I take my Darkies at least?”

“Sir, I have to usher you out.”

So, he physically starts moving me towards the exit. My turn to be hauled off, like the delinquents, but in the opposite direction. The delinquents have already eaten the chocolates. The Darkie wrappers on the floor, being stamped on by blind customers. Something ironic about that I wonder, as Robocop throws me into the carpark with frightening ease.

Saoirse is lighting her second fag. And I’ve been kicked out of my corner-shop store for being a racist.

Chapter 1 is here.