Let's Go, Jane!

The parking lot was full, as always. Jane backed her Subaru into a spot in the far corner and set off on foot. “No bags today,” she thought, “I’m just getting a few things.” She entered the store through the produce department and was greeted with a tower of dragonfruit, their fuchsia orbs and chartreuse leaves looking like something from another planet. A woman passed by with a cart loaded high with daikon radish. “I wish I knew what to make with those,” she thought.

She made her way back toward the fish department, grabbing a 4-pack of toilet paper and a bottle of white vinegar on the way. There were two customers in front of her, a middle aged Hispanic woman who was buying several pounds of salmon fillets, and a young Black man who had not yet placed his order.

There were two men working behind the fish counter. One was wrapping the salmon, the other was sweeping the floor and avoiding eye contact. Jane waited, looking around to see if there was a system for determining customer order. Numbered tickets, a flow. Nothing. The Black man got tired of waiting, grabbed a pre-packaged fish, and stomped off.

“I’m next,” she thought. The second employee continued sweeping, and continued ignoring her. She waited, trying not to look impatient. Her therapist had told her once that white women were raised to expect eye contact. She tried not to expect anything.

Two elderly Asian women with a shopping cart pulled up to the fish counter next to her. The sweeping man set aside his broom and asked them what they wanted. He brought their selections to the back and started cleaning them. “Unfair,” she thought. She noticed a tank of huge ghostly fish swimming behind the counter. They stared at her with their big eyes, their red lips moving silently. She looked away.

A young Asian man stepped up next to the Hispanic woman, who was putting her salmon into her cart. The fishmonger asked him what he wanted. “I’m quite sure I was next,” she said quietly to herself. There was now an older white couple waiting, surely she’d be helped before them. The fishmonger handed the young man his package and turned to the older couple. Jane swallowed her indignation. “You’re not in a hurry,” she thought. 

Finally, the fishmonger turned to her and asked for her order. “Two pounds of tilapia, please.” He put a few fillets in a tray, wrapped them in plastic, and handed them to her. “Thank you,” she said, turning away. 

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye. The huge white fish were following her toward one end of the tank, all lined up and staring angrily at her. Her eyes drifted to the sign above the tank. There, in large black letters, it read, “Live Tilapia $5.99 lb.” As she walked toward the registers at the front of the store, she felt their judgement follow her. The men hadn’t seen her. But the fish certainly had.