A Lunchtime Jerk

Outside the shop, my heart thumps in my chest like it wants to explode. I already know the feeling of humiliation I feel will stay with me for a long time and leave me in a cold sweat, haunting me in quiet, self-sabotaging moments for years to come. I Will have to avoid this shop from now on, scratch it out of existence in my brain. It was my favourite lunchtime spot, but no more. I can never go back.

Friday Lunchtime. 12pm. There is a jerk chicken shop on the road next to where I work. It has changed hands and names a few times, but the food has always been exceptional. Jerk Chicken, rice, and peas for £ 9. It’s not somewhere I visit every day, but as an occasional Friday lunchtime treat, it’s perfect.

The shop is, as always, filled with twenty-something trendy people. When I step inside, I feel immediately self-conscious. I want to fit in, to feel good enough to belong, but I know I’m not, and I don’t. I stand in my grey suit in the doorway, feeling like a relic from working days now past.

The man who works behind the counter is exceptionally cool; he may also be the owner. He is wearing a full black Adidas tracksuit. Run DMC style. He has long dreadlocks hanging down. His sunglasses are always on; I don’t think I’ve ever seen his eyes, in fact. This man would make Samuel L. Jackson, Lenny Kravitz, and Bob Marley look like nerds. If you look up cool in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of this man looking away from you nonchalantly. Let’s call him Mr Cool.

I wait patiently in the queue while, in the background, an R&B song plays that is far too modern for me to recognise. The 20-something woman in the queue in front of me is singing along quietly under her breath. The bass thuds, thud, thuds along with my increasing heartbeat, as my anxiety increases by the second. I don’t feel like I belong here.

My turn comes, and I step up to the counter, shyly ordering my jerk chicken with rice and peas. I hand Mr. Cool a ten-pound note and stand by the counter.

Although I can not feel any eyes on me, I feel judged by the younger clientele as they eat their lunch. I feel both invisible and inconspicuous at the same time, so I quietly stare at my shoes and wait.

I was nudged out of my nervous daydreams by my lunch being placed on the counter in front of me. I look up, and Mr. Cool is standing there. Fist held out towards me.

It was a shock. I felt like the room had fallen silent, although I’m sure I was imagining it. I knew, though, that his stance meant I had been accepted. Somehow, I had gained his respect.

 I slowly put my hand into a fist and hesitantly raised it, pressing it gently against his. This must be how contestants on Bake Off feel when they receive a Paul Hollywood handshake. I fist-bump Mr. Cool.

But something isn’t right. He looks angry, his face screwed up in disgust. He even lowers his sunglasses for the first time, the first time I have seen his eyes, and they look at me in anger, leaving me in no doubt that I have caused his reaction. What have I done? Have I done the fist bump wrong?

“No, mate, it’s your fucking change!” he opens his fist to show me a pound coin inside; he then slaps it down on the counter angrily.

I feel my face flushing and the low murmurings of laughter building behind me.

“I um, I um.” I splutter. My brain searches for words to ease this situation, but none come to mind. My brain has shut down in panic.

The laughter builds all around me, and all I can think to do is to turn and run. Flight rather than fight.

Outside on the pavement, I realise that my lunch and change are still sitting on the shop counter, but I was not going back in to get it. Never again.