The Smile

It was the pockmarks and well-healed track marks that first caught my attention as she began ringing up my items at the cash register. I knew exactly what they meant. For a brief second, I was back in Brooklyn as a teen, witnessing the heroin epidemic.

I remember stepping over, nodding addicts who sat on the steps of our building. The constant scratching of the arms. Slurred speech that stopped in mid-sentence as their heads lowered almost to the ground.

You couldn’t escape it even if you wanted to because it was always in your face. Arrests, incarcerations, drug overdoses, or an occasional murder because of a drug deal gone bad. Oh yeah. I recognized those track marks and the life that they represented.

Thin, cropped-dyed blonde hair and a weathered, weary face, she appeared anxious.

When I asked her to remove one item and place it in another bag, she snapped at me, saying, “We’re only allowed to put eight items in the bag.” She then grabbed the microphone and requested a box.

I had been down this road before. She thought I would judge her and immediately went into defensive mode, armed with potential verbal insults that would land like bricks.

I quietly said, “That’s okay and gently put my item into another bag she held.” My kindness confused her, and she became even more agitated.