Cookie refuses to take the bait.

So, Cookie was in the grocery store today - and you know by my previous rantings that going to the grocery store in Baltimore is enough to make me want to pull my eyebrows out - and I encountered another one of Baltimore's least charming persons.

The grocery store was Eddie's of Roland Park, a market that caters to those who have enough money to avoid the Giant Foods stores.  Boutiqueish, its produce varies between expensive and rotting.  I have found green peppers in the produce rack with skins so soft it is like holding your grandmother's hand.

But Cookie was hot and tired and needed a head of leaf lettuce, one pound of ground round, and a loaf of bread for the house.

I was dressed neatly: in fresh out of the dryer shorts, an Eddie Bauer tee shirt and Naot's on my feet.  On my head was ball cap - a Boston Red Sox cap.  Cookie loves baseball, but I love the game.  I do not have favorite teams.

So as I was going down the bread aisle, looking for a wheat bread that doesn't use "cellulose"  as as an ingredient, that was when Mr. Charm decided to brighten my day.

Mr. Charm was dressed in Teva's, with black socks (thought of Miss Rhiannon's rant about men in Tevas and socks IMMEDIATLY), sweat pants (who wears sweatpants on an 85 degree day?) and a wind suit jacket. 

And Mr. Charm looks at me and says: "You've got some nerve wearing that cap in here today!" 

And this gets a "Huh?" from me. 

"DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU ARE?" he yells. 

I reply that I'm at the store.

"SOMEONE IS GOING TO KNOCK YOUR BLOCK OFF FOR WEARING THAT CAP!"

I reply, "it's a hat, can you please move."

"DON'T YOU KNOW ANYTHING?"

I respond "Why do you care what cap I'm wearing." Not as a question, but a statement of fact. 

Mr. Charm then launches into a this whole "The Red Sox's are bums," spiel.   I am not amused.  This happens a lot in Baltimore.  I am just not wearing a hat, I am wearing the sports world equivalent of a "Kick Me" sign to Oriole's fans.  

I am annoyed - it is, after all, just a hat.  

I keep my calm.  This isn't what I needed from the store.

A woman looking at the imported Irish butters behind the old man turns around.  She drops her readers, looking over the rim, taps him on the shoulder and speaks:

"Two months ago, everyone in this town as all "Boston Strong" after the marathon bombings," she says. "What has changed?  So he's wearing a hat."

She looks at me for a second and reminds me of a shorter version of Lucille Bluth.  She looks back  at the old man again and says.  "Hon, save it for Camden Yard, OK?"

The man looks at her and then at me, and says resentfully to me "I was only kidding, you need to grow some thicker skin," he huffs.  He thinks the woman and I are together. 

To some, this would be an admonishment.  I've been around long enough to know that when an adult says "you need to grow some thicker skin" in a situation like this they are at a loss to say anything else because you have refused their bait and will not play their game.  A game that they think is nothing but good natured fun. 

He wheels his cart towards his wife about 15 feet away and says something to her.  She looks at me, turns and walks down the aisle, her purse is as big as a newsboy's paper route sack, and he trudges along behind her.

The woman has already turned her back to me, and resumed her fascination with the big blocks of overpriced butter made from cows that only eat clover and blarney as only the Emerald Isle can produce it.

As I work my way to the cashier I think that maybe I should have played along.  

Maybe I should throw out the cap.  

Maybe that asshole should have kept his yap shut. 

Maybe I am the asshole in this encounter.  I spoiled the man's fun.  

Or maybe I am something else, like a guy who just wanted to run into the store to get a few things but didn't expect to get blamed with ruining someone else's fun.