Take A Stand On Taking A Seat

I, an able-bodied forty-something, am climbing into a motorized cart at the entrance to a supermarket. There are three more carts fully powered up and ready to use next to the one I’m taking. As I turn it on and start to scoot away, an angry-looking man in his sixties–who seems extremely steady on his feet–comes up to me.

Old Man: “Get out of that.”

Me: “Get out of my way.”

I start driving the cart out the front door of the store.

Old Man: “I said GET OUT. I need it.”

Me: *Pointing over my shoulder without stopping or looking at him.* “There are three more back there.”

Old Man: “You can’t have that. It’s for us, not you.”

Me: “It’s not for me.”

Old Man: *Ignoring me.* “Your ungrateful generation wouldn’t even exist if WE hadn’t served this country and gotten rid of the [1940s German army]! None of you f****** millennials have ever done a f****** thing for this f****** country!”

Me: *Thinking this guy doesn’t look old enough to have fought the [1940s German army].* “Go away.”

The man follows me into the parking lot, ranting about his time in the Army and how every generation that followed his is dog poop crossed with Satan, until I pull the motorcart up to my car, stop, and get off.

Old Man: “About time, now get out of my way!”

I stand between him and the cart, arms crossed, silent, and with a deadpan expression. His face gets even redder and he grabs a handful of my shirt.

Old Man: “I said OUT OF MY WAY!”

Dad: “Get your f****** hands off my son.”

My elderly, cane-holding father has stepped out of the passenger seat of my car and is giving the old man a look of pure death. I stand there staring at the old man as his face falls and he lets go of me.

Dad: *Gets into the cart and waves his cane at the old man.* “You’re lucky my son is a more forgiving person than I am. If you’d done that to me when I was his age, I’d have laid you out, Private Dumba**.”