The Hate We Carry by Aliseo Bentu Novo
The young man with the yellow hoodie patiently waits his turn at the cash register. In his hands only a package of Prosciutto San Daniele. At home, his husband asked for a special meal while coughing between words.
“I know exactly what you are craving. I think we save enough this month of a little treat.” “Oh, really, no, don’t go.”
“I will be careful. Two masks and keeping distance. In and out, I promise.”
He could have chosen the next line, but Elisha usually works this shift. They often exchange some quick banter. Today she does not seem to be in a good mood.
In front of her there is a client with a full cart who carefully monitors Elisha, dictating how to pack each item in brown paper bags. Beep, beep, beep.
"No, no, do that first," the client says, her tone demanding. “Why is taking you so long to do it?” She turns towards the man behind her and continues: “You’d think she’d be faster— aren’t they all runners in Africa or something?”
She is a white woman in her fifties, baseball cap, greasy hair pulled into a rigid ponytail, wearing yoga pants a couple of sizes too small, and a petrified heavy expression given by numerous butchered attempts to stop the flux of time. Time that everyone in line is now wasting on her demands. Then, the man notices white wording on the red cap. A grip tightens his stomach. Don’t get involved.
"Ma’am, I’m doing my best. If you could help me, there are other clients waiting," Elisha’s voice is kind but firm.
The woman rolls her eyes and sets a chunky leather wallet on the counter. "Honey, dear, I’m not sure what you want me to do," she starts. "Do you want me to do your job? Is that what you’re asking? Maybe you need to calm down and get help from your supervisor. Call.Him.”
Elisha looks down, silent, knowing these people all too well—encounters like this have become more frequent since the store manager put up a sign: PRESIDENTIAL EXECUTIVE ORDER ON THE MAGA FREEDOM OF SPEECH ACT: This guarantees absolute freedom of speech for all MAGA citizens, prohibits any legal repercussions, and mandates compliance with these principles.
Elisha picks up the intercom: "Julio, desk 2. I need help.”
The woman gets louder, her face getting flustered, and the breathing irregular. Drips of sweat fall down her ghastly forehead, despite the AC store’s cold air: "You don’t know who I am! This is A-M-R-I-C.” She stops for a moment to think, before shouting: “America!”
Julio approaches fast. He is tall, broad, his tattoos covering his arms till his neck. The face is calm but hard. His smile is long gone.
“You know what? You lost a client!” The woman was not expected to see the manager. She pays with the touch of her watch; the face matches the hat while she leaves.
The young man glances out the store’s window, tracking the MAGA woman as she stumbles toward her car. She drops a bag and continues towards her Cybertruck. Then he loses her sight. He thanks Elisha and walks out of the store.
The monstrous car nearly obscures the view of its owner whose legs are shaking, lying on the pavement. For a moment, he hesitates, wondering if anyone else could see that.
Should I help? The young man with the yellow hoodie asks himself. Hell no. I am only here for prosciutto.