Getting it

After high school, I decided to major in the thing I was best at.  Something involving language and words.  My first impulse was journalism, so I chose that although I didn't really understand what I was getting into.  I was 18 and didn't know what the hell I was doing in many aspects of life.  After a few months of being told by my professors from the mass communications department how bleak the future of print media is (they predicted the demise of print as if to jinx its arrival) I decided to pursue the writing track in the English program.  The BFA in creative and professional writing.  I had never done any fiction writing in high school; just a lot of reading.  Since my freshman year, I've started to get it.  And in a typically writerly sort of way, I've gotten it on my own.

The biggest thing I've learned is that most fiction springs from reality, at least mine does.  Thinking back on something that I've witnessed and fictionalizing it -- adding a person here, changing an action there, taking myself out of the picture and throwing a character into the fire -- has become a great springboard for me.  If something bizarre happens, I'll be sure to remember it so I can write it.  And that has changed my way of thinking as well.  Over the past few years I have started to write scenes in my head while observing people.  This happens most often at work, which is a great place for it to happen, since I work with the public.  I work at a grocery store in the summer.  Is the following snippet fiction or non-fiction?

***

I noticed the man walk into the store and I knew right away that something about him was off.  He had an unsettled look on his face, as if he could break into loud shrieks at any moment, or burst into flames. Maybe both.  He pulled a cart from one of the four rows that stuffed the cart room and staggered past the produce section.  I watched him from a secluded area near the potatoes.

He continued past the produce -- I didn't have him pinned as a fruit-and-vegetable guy.  No, this man likes his frozen dinners.  His greasy black baseball cap and loose blue Dickies seemed to pull him toward aisle three and the rest of the obese members of this corner of society.  One dollar meals in a microwavable plastic container were this guy's only source of calories.

Near the deli, not 10 feet in front of me, he let out a yell.  A yell that you would expect to hear from the monkeys at the zoo, while you're watching the sleeping lions.  Is this guy for real?  I half expected a camera crew to come through the door, some stoner punks that are still obsessed with Jackass.  But there was no camera crew, and this man didn't seem to want -- or expect -- any fanfare.

After the animalistic yell, his pants fell down.  He had a white knuckle grip on his shopping cart with both hands, whereas one hand should have been holding up his Dickies.  He took a few steps before bending down to pull them up, re-concealing his yellow briefs that had once been white.

Store management was on him like ants on sugar.  Like police, their walkie talkies became their most useful tool in their apprehension of this mumbling, shrieking lunatic.  Two men followed him, keeping their distance in anticipation of his next wild move.  Two more small groups of employees gathered on the fringes of the situation.  I remained alone, watching and listening, hoping for something drastic.

I decided to get my buddy involved.  In the back room, he was stoned and oblivious to the situation -- the free show that was unfolding before our eyes.  He joined me by the potatoes.  All I had to tell him was, "Dude, this dude's pants just fell down!  Come check this out."

He looked at the savage man through squinted eyes and said, "Oh, that guy?  I love it when he comes in.  You've never seen him before?"