Lost in the Supermaret

Hi, my name is Mark. I am a dirty old man.

I just am.

I am one of those creepy dudes with grayish white hair who stare at girls half his age. I don't do anything more than stare, but stare I do. I never thought I would be that guy but—you know what? When your dick doesn't really work anymore but the damn sperm is still in your balls, the pressure builds up just like it always has. The problem is you can't hardly get it up anymore to relieve that pressure. That, my friends, is

not

a pleasant feeling. Not at all.

The pressure is there but I can't do much about it. Jerk off maybe once every other week, if I'm lucky. Sucks to be an old man with an enlarged prostate, I guess.

So, I look at girls half my age.

I look.

I'm sure I would come off as being creepy, if I wasn't so subtle about my staring. The goal is to not get caught, and I'm good at not getting caught. Also, I stare but I

never

do anything more than that. I just look, and fantasize. I fantasize about what I could do if I were a man half my age, or maybe a third of my age.

I'm 61 years old. Once upon a time, I was a Unites States Marine—a Non-Commissioned Officer. I saw some action before I got out. Too much, actually. The Gulf War: Operation Desert Storm. Honorable Discharge after three tours of duty. I got married when I was in the Corps. That marriage lasted another 14 years after I got out, but we should have ended it the moment the honeymoon was over. That marriage was like thirty tours of combat duty all wrapped into one. So now I'm divorced, with an "Other than Honorable" discharge from my wife. No kids, thank God.

After I got out, I started a nice real estate development and property management business. We did everything from buying the land and building apartments and condos on it, to selling the final products then managing the property. The business started small but grew quickly. It was my baby, but I lost it. 2008 was a shit year, let me tell you. First the divorce, then the "great financial crisis." Not a great time to be in real estate construction. Even if I hadn't already been reeling from the cratering of my marriage, the real estate crash would have done it for me. My marriage and my business: they both crashed and burned within about six months of each other.

I have some retirement savings but not as much as I should have, as my wife took half of everything we had accumulated together in the divorce settlement. What can I say? I live in California.

After the divorce and the cratering of my business, I found a job in a local supermarket. At first, it was something to do—something to put food in my mouth as I waited for the real estate construction business to return to "normal." Years passed. One thing led to another and I got promoted to Assistant Manager, then to Manager. We have three Managers, but I'm the most senior one, I guess. I'm the one the other Managers come to for advice.

I've been in the grocery business for more than a decade now, all at the same place. It's called Freeman's Food Market but I just call it Freeman's. I've been at Freeman's so long that it's become a part of me.

Working at Freeman's is not all I do. I work out pretty much every day, just to keep in some kind of shape. But I work out for myself, not because I'm looking to impress some girl.

I used to date some—especially after the damn divorce—but eventually the need for feminine companionship kind of faded away. First I lost the burning desire—

the need

—for sex; then I lost the ability. It was a gradual thing: one day I realized my ability to have sexual intercourse had faded away. It had just gone. I guess it was a "use it or lose it" thing. I lost it.

So, now I just look but I don't do anything other than look because I can't. But I do look at women. I look and I fantasize about being a young man again. I try really hard not to be creepy. I think I'm pretty good at the looking, if I do say so myself.

All of you are so beautiful!

Why would I say that? It's not because I want to screw you; that's not the reason. I don't screw anybody anymore. Since I have no reason to lie to you, just believe me when I tell you that you—

all of you

—are beautiful. You are more beautiful than you would believe.

You are beautiful because you are young and you glow with youth. That's it—but that's also

everything.

You glow. I'm dull and gray. I still work out, just to stay in shape. I can still punch a bag with decent power and speed. I'm old, but I'm not decrepit. I know I'm nothing now compared to what I used to be, but that's to be expected. When I came out of the Corps, I was 30 years old; I was full of fire and ready to take on the goddamn world. Now, after a failed marriage and a failed business, I am definitely not the man I used to be. Faded. Dull and gray-haired. Nothing like you women who glow.

I'm done with women now, so I am free to tell you the truth.

You are beautiful

and, when I look at you, I can barely breathe when I see that glow surrounding you—the glow of youth. You are so vibrant my heart beats faster when I'm near you.

Looking at you the way I do keeps me alive.

That's why I look. Even though chances are you won't notice my stares and you won't ever see my fantasies.

And that's why I never do anything other than look at you.

Except this one time. One time I did more than just look.

May I tell you about it?

*****

Paula's story

You can get lost in LA. According to Google, there are 12.6 million people living in this place, and it's easy to hide among them. That was a good thing for Mary and me. We wanted to get lost. In fact, we came to LA on a bus just so we could lose ourselves in this huge, gray city.

The first few months were tough. We didn't have a place to stay and the only clothes we had were the ones on our backs. Thank God for the homeless shelters and the victims of domestic violence programs! And thank God for the people who helped me find a job so that I could start to feed us both without relying on charity.

Though it took us a few months, eventually we got our act together. We found a cheap apartment I could afford with my job as a cashier in one of those medium-sized, off-brand, grocery stores that seem to populate every other strip mall. I had some decent basic math skills and a burning desire to work my ass off, and that was good enough for the store manager, Mark. Somebody missed a shift? No problem—just give Paula a call. Need help for the holidays? Call Paula in. I had a neighbor—a widow who lived alone—who didn't mind watching Mary for next to nothing in pay. I think my neighbor just wanted some company.

And I think Mark really appreciated me—not just as an employee, but also as a person. His warm blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at me. Just a smile; nothing more than that. But it was something! Although Mary and I were alone in LA, at least we had a couple of people who smiled at us. Life wasn't too bad.

I worked every shift I could get, trying as hard as I could to build some kind of financial cushion for Mary and me. And I was good at being a cashier! Who knew? I mean, cleaning and cooking and farm chores—those were my skills before LA. Now I had more skills: marketable skills I could put on a resume if I ever needed a new job. But I hoped that would never happen, because I liked Freeman's Food Market a lot.

I worked hard and I did everything pretty well, if I can be permitted a moment of pride here. But it wasn't good enough. We got a new manager when Mark quit. His name was Gary. Gary had blue eyes, but they were not warm the way Mark's eyes had been. Gary's eyes were the opposite of warm when he told me I could do my job better.

"Look, Paula," he told me one day, sitting across the desk from me in his little office, looking across the piles of paperwork that threatened to fall over at any moment, "you need to smile more. We want to create a customer-friendly experience here. So, be a bit happier, will you please? I mean, you never smile. You're like a robot."

His eyes kept straying down as he spoke. I knew what he was looking at. Mark had never looked at me like that—like my breasts were on display.

"So, smile more?" I said, hoping to end the conversation as quickly as possible and get out of Gary's office.

"Yeah, but it's more than that. That robot comparison isn't too far off the mark, you know what I mean? You are super-efficient and super-accurate, but that's all you are. No chit-chat with the customers. No 'how are you doing?'. And no smiles. We could replace you with a robot and nobody would be able to tell the difference, you know?"

I took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. Then I nodded. "All right," I said. "I'll try."

He smiled. "That's my girl!"

I got up and walked out of his messy office. When I turned to leave, I felt his eyes on my butt. I tried not to let the pressure of his stare bother me, but it did.

I really missed Mark.

*****

Mark's story

I was sad to leave Freeman's Food. I had been there a hell of a long time—almost as long as I was in the Corps. I would miss the place and the people working there. Most of them were really nice people, doing the best they could with the situation God handed them. I hated to leave, but it was time for me to go.

New owners; a new management philosophy. They wanted to compete with the big chains and that meant cutting senior staff so that they could replace those who left with younger—cheaper—managers. I got it. That's how the world worked.

I found a new job. It didn't pay as much but my needs were pretty simple. My car had been paid off for years; I had zero credit card debt. I still could make my ends meet, even on the lower salary, without the need to tap into savings. I dove into my new job at Carson's Co-op with all the gusto I had in me. It was like starting at a new Command.

The staff were friendly, if a bit distant. I understood where they were coming from, of course. Who was this new Manager of theirs? Was he nice? Was he so nice they could take advantage of him? Maybe he was an asshole.

Maybe he was a dirty old man.

Unlike Freeman's, most of the staff at Carson's was just like me: well past the prime of life, in the midst of passing their own "sell by" date. We got along, mostly. I kept my distance until they had time to get to know me better, to understand where the lines were drawn. There weren't too many opportunities for dirty old man ogling at Carson's Co-op.

In addition to its lack of young female employees, Carson's also didn't pay as much as Freeman's. On the positive side, the store also didn't take as much of my time. I guess expectations were lower. I used my newfound free time to get back into shape at the gym. I started to go six times a week. I signed up for aerobics classes. I signed up for boxing and kickboxing classes. I even tried Brazilian Ju-Jitsu because it looked interesting. I was the oldest guy in everything. When we grappled, I always got my ass kicked by the younger guys in class. I tried not to care. I was never going to get into my Marine Corps shape, but I could at least get back into decent shape for a man my age. Slowly, day by day, I was getting there.

In the meantime, the gym had a

lot

of young women to look at. It made up for the lack at Carson's.

No matter how I tried to fill up my life, the truth was I missed Freeman's. I missed the younger staff, many of whom were still filled with the optimism of youth, still looking forward to tomorrow.

I missed Paula.

Paula and I had gotten along just fine. I think we understood each other—where our lines were drawn, where our personal boundaries were. She was quiet and distant; her smiles were as rare as a Blue Moon. She was beautiful, of course, as all young women are. She might say she was overweight for her height, but

I

would never say that because I knew better. She filled out her uniform fully; any negative perceptions simply came from advertising trying to create body issues in order to sell some stupid product to women who should have known better.

Her hair was interesting. I guess it was blonde but it was a very dirty blonde. Almost two-toned. It looked curly but, since Paula always wore it up with bobby pins or whatever they're called, I wasn't really sure. I always wondered how she got her hair to look that color. I know some women could have it dyed, or bleached, or streaked—or some color process—but I didn't think Paula would do that. For one thing, I don't think she had a lot of spare money. She didn't have a car and she took "public transportation"—

i.e.

, a city bus—to get to work each day. I didn't see her spending a lot of money on her hair. That wasn't who she was. Still, her hair had me wondering. I kind of obsessed about her hair, to be honest.

I would say she was somewhere between 25 and 30 when we first met. I knew she had a daughter—Mary—but I didn't know anything else about her personal life. She never discussed it. I never pushed it. I guessed she was divorced. We had a lot of divorcées working for us at Freeman's—both men and women, but mostly women. Many of them had hard eyes and hard faces, having been burned by those they had opened themselves up to, been vulnerable with. Their love had turned to ashes; they had the burns and scars to show for the experience. The pain of it dulled them before their time.

Not so much Paula, from what I saw. I guessed she was divorced because she didn't wear a ring—but she wasn't as hard-eyed as some of the other divorcées. Her eyes weren't hard but her face was ... stoic, I guess is the best word to use. Not hard, but fixed in place, like she was wearing a mask. She did her job and she did it well, but there was no joy to be found there at Freeman's. Not for her. The only joy in her life seemed to be her little girl. Divorce will do that to a person.

I should know.

I stared at Paula like I stared at the other young women but, like I said, I was

good

at staring and not getting caught. I don't think Paula ever caught me staring at her lush backside or full breasts, or at her two-toned curls. Whenever we talked, I kept my eyes up where they belonged—staring into her eyes.

Her eyes!

Paula had eyes that would send men to war.

I wish I could describe them to you. I can say that they were deep. They were deep pools that seemed to go on forever, right into ... her soul, I guess. Their depths called to me.

What color were they?

I knew you were going to ask me that.

Paula had eyes like the Pacific Ocean on a cloudy day. Green, mostly, But also blue and gray, with flecks of gold. Her eyes were unique; they were her own. When I left Freeman's, I missed Paula more than anybody else. I missed her full body and her rounded butt, and her plump breasts that pushed against her bra under her uniform. I missed her hair.

But most of all, I missed her eyes.

*****

Paula's story

Things between me and Gary didn't improve. I tried; I really did. I stuck a smile on my face and I tried to make chit-chat with the customers—or "guests" as they were now called.

Guests.

Sure; whatever. Call 'em whatever you want to call 'em—just make sure my paycheck keeps clearing.

Gary kept calling me into his office. He always closed the door so that we could have "private" conversations. After a while, he began to hint that maybe my performance would improve if we worked on it

together.

"A little one-on-one coaching," he said. "A little role-play. What do you think? You and I, working on your customer service—

together.

"

I knew

exactly

what he wanted from me. I didn't say "no" but I didn't say "yes" either. I needed this job. It was the only thing keeping a roof over our heads. I used every delaying tactic I could think of.

Gary wasn't stupid. He didn't come right out and say what was on his mind. He never touched me in an inappropriate manner. But we both knew what he wanted. He was subtle but he was also persistent.

Either I gave him something more, or else my job was in jeopardy.

This situation went on for several months. He ogled me and made no secret that he was doing so. He hinted, over and over, at a "closer" relationship, a "more personal" relationship. I kept telling him that I needed to think about it. I knew my days were numbered when Gary casually mentioned that the owners were planning to install self-checkout machines "to improve efficiency and the guest experience."

Sure.

And if they saved on labor costs, that would just be an unexpected happy consequence.

Right.

The next week I called in. I took a sick day—which I had never done in the nearly three years I'd been working at Freeman's Food Market. I took a day off and I went to visit Mark.

I was going to ask him for a job.

I knew he managed a competing market near us. We had always gotten along pretty well. He smiled at me and his smile warmed my heart. He had beautiful blue eyes but I had always thought they held a lot of sadness in them. He smiled and told jokes from time to time, but the humor rarely reached his eyes. Except when he smiled at me—I thought he enjoyed seeing me and chatting with me, even though we never dug into each other's personal lives. When he smiled at me it felt real, like we had a connection.

I didn't have much of a connection with anyone else at Freeman's.

Mark was maybe about 55 or 60 years old. He wasn't fat, not at all. He was lean and trim and had broad shoulders, with surprisingly big hands that didn't seem to fit his arms. White hair, cut super short. Clean-shaven. Face surprisingly pale for someone who had lived in LA for a long time. A nice old guy—somebody who'd seen in me the drive to earn enough money to take care of Mary. He'd given me a chance. I was pretty sure I never let him down, that he was happy with my performance.

Unlike Gary.

*****

Mark's story

I almost didn't recognize Paula when she came into Carson's. She had on dark glasses, hiding those unforgettable eyes of hers. She was wearing a tad more makeup than was usually the case for her. She wasn't wearing her Freeman's cashier uniform. Instead, she was dressed in tight-fitting jeans that showed off her legs and butt, and a burgundy T-Shirt with some logo on it that I didn't know. Her hair was down below her neck, not wrapped up in a bun or in a ponytail. She had really tight curls; I think they're called ringlets. The ringlets framed her face beautifully.

Even though she wasn't dressed as I'd ever seen her before, some things were the same. Her nails, as always, were neatly manicured. She never went for those styles where women stick two-inch-long plastic nails in weird colors on their fingers. Even if she wanted to do such a thing, it just wouldn't be practical given what she did for a living. She also wore her usual sneakers; Paula wasn't one for fancy shoes with heels.

Paula walked up to me and said "Hi." It wasn't until I heard her voice that I fully realized who she was.

It took me a second to find my voice. "Uh, hi there! How are you doing, Paula? Long time no see!" I found myself wanting to take off her sunglasses so I could stare into her eyes.

She moved her head from side to side. I picked up on her meaning: "so-so." Not great; not terrible.

Just like most of us.

I escorted her into my office and closed the door, leaving it open just a crack. Some young HR guy had told me never to be alone with a woman in my office if the door was closed all the way. So, I never did. Paula sat down in front of me and took off her dark glasses. I made sure to look her right in the eyes.