When I first moved to Baltimore in 1981 and began working in a city food market there were two very interesting characters among the customers: Gypsy Mare and Snotzi Nazi. Gypsy Mare was a retired exotic dancer of about seventy years who seduced us 18-20 year old stock boys. She was the very friendly character.

Snotzi Nazi was the store nickname for the severely unfriendly character. He was not mean, just quietly, aristocratically, rude. He was middle-aged, about five foot eight inches and 180 pounds, with a stocky build and broad shoulders. He had a big square Nordic head and thick brown hair. This made him somewhat less than perfect according to his racist criteria I suppose. That at least was my theory as to why he dressed in a WWII German Mountain Infantry uniform and drove a BMW motorcycle with sidecar. That vehicle and his vintage Waffen SS staff car were authentically painted. His dog rode in the sidecar, beneath the MG 34 machine gun, which we all supposed was a disabled collector’s prop. The BMW was painted in Desert Corp colors and was his favorite vehicle to tool around in. He saved the staff car for hauling his wife around.

In 2006 I returned to this store, where I had once bagged groceries and cleaned up hookers’ panties off the parking lot with my broom and dustpan, as the general manager. By 2009 I had become friends with Snotzi Nazi, whose name I never did learn. You see customers rarely introduce themselves by name, seeming to like that anonymous attachment, an uncommitted casual association. The old Neo-Nazi had mellowed in his old age and only broke out the WWII duds for Memorial Day and Crystal Night.

By the time 2010 rolled around he was in his eighties, and confiding in me how glad he was to still be alive, and to have such a beautiful young girlfriend, and his health. This fine Nordic breeder was a mere 27 years old! He confessed to all manner of pleasures and literally beamed as he bought her groceries on his way home to her. She was a "good girl" he said, and did not mind all of his vintage memorabilia around the house after she moved in. He claimed to have a half million dollars worth of WWII collectables, including one of the world’s first assault rifles.

The last time I saw Snotzi he was looking up at the ceiling fan, grinning the grin of an old man about to imitate Hugh Hefner. He patted me on the back and said, “I’m really glad you and I got to know each other. It is nice to have a man to speak with that isn’t so old he is complaining about everything. I have my aches and pains, but I’m in good health—and I’ve got my girl!”

I gave the standard manager’s “good night, sir,” and watched him go, thinking how much nicer this little corner of the world was with him saddling something less troubling than the BMW. I wish I would have said more, because he was found murdered in his house later in the week. I heard no details about the case. But there is no doubt in my mind that his "good girl" somehow had something to do with the crime. I often wonder if some skinhead showed up at a gun show with some of Snotzi’s stuff later that year, with a "good girl" on his arm.

A Fighter’s View of Predatory Aggression: The Forever Autumn Press Edition