What People Won't Suffer

It was the nicest grocery store I had ever shopped in. It was a working class grocery store, and I appreciated that. I didn't feel judged for buying regular McCormick paprika instead of free-range, organic, pesticide-free, hand-gathered saffron. Shit, I think I even bought the store's private label garlic powder. So much less pressure than the fancy store. Measurably less soy products the organic/vegan store. Less shaming than the kosher grocery. Orders of magnitude less “I could give a fuck about your shopping experience” than the grocery around the corner from me, which is run mostly by teenaged Mexicans and funded mostly by upper middle class moms.

I was overwhelmed by the neatness of everything. Neat, neat, neat.

It was late. People were tired. It was dark outside. Cold, too. It was well-lit and clean. But it was the tidiness that got my attention.

All of the products were pulled forward on the shelf.

All of the products were arranged in equally-spaced, mind-pleasing symmetrical rows.

All of the products were clearly marked and priced.

It could've been better laid out, to more efficiently direct the flow of the consumers, but given the particulars of my circumstance, my lack of navigational skills was not especially surprising.

I was spending some time in the produce section, feeling up tomatoes. Somehow, I knew it was coming, but I was a little startled by the cold rush of air from the double doors swinging open, out towards me.

There!

Now, there is a man who is walking with purpose!

There was a Quasimodo following him and he had that sort of face that you couldn't tell if he was pissed or if he was suffering from some sort of retardation and was not completely aware of what was going on. Kind of like the gorillas at the zoo. They always look brooding, even when they are sitting in the shade, picking at the thick skin around their fingernails.

So Man With A Purpose says to our hero, “Are you sure you waxed all of them?” I've never worked in a grocery store and I don't know much about science, so I'm just making inferences here, but I think he was talking about the mirrors that slant downward towards the produce. He wanted to know did the Gorilla wax them. I think the humidity and the water that is used to preserve the prettiness of the vegetables must necessitate the mirrors being treated with some sort of a wax. Maybe there's an issue with fingerprints. I really couldn't say.

The Gorilla grunted something like a yes. Yes, he did wax them. All of them? Yes, all of them, if I correctly interpreted the grunt. Naturally, I looked at the mirrors to see if he was lying. I couldn't tell if they had, in fact, all been waxed. I did see a few smeared fingerprints. All of the sudden, I felt very embarrassed to be witnessing this. I could tell the big, burly black man who, only moments before, had been also looking at tomatoes and who had been making me a tiny bit nervous and made me clutch my purse a little tighter, was also feeling a little embarrassed by it. Maybe it goes back to our youth, this embarrassment of seeing someone else get punished. Some people like that sort of a thing, get a kick out of it, out of seeing other people get in trouble. I suspect it goes back to their youths, too.

I walked away, to look at the Hostess cakes or the clearance bread at the bakery or the end cap with the tortillas. Fuck! I'd look at anything to not have to see Quasimodo take a verbal beating that I wasn't even sure he was aware of receiving. I think some time must have passed because I really needed to get those tomatoes, so I walked back over. I was lost in thought when the manager or assistant manager or night manager or whoever he was came striding back with the Gorilla-Donkey following behind him. He was making big gestures with his arms, in a way that seemed kind of silly, like he was talking about the produce section as a kingdom, or maybe as just as a nation-state or something. He was talking about the importance of waxing and cleanliness. I'm not even sure I heard distinct words from him, but then again, there were the particulars of my circumstance. And I'm sure the Gorilla-Donkey only heard his tone, too. I picked a fucking tomato already! and immediately left to find something else on my list. I don't remember what it was.

Then, there came the time where I needed to find tortillas. I looked everywhere. The store was mocking me with its neatness: “What do you mean you can't find tortillas? Look how well-kept I am! Look how organized my shelves are! How is it even possible that you can't find them? It is so bright in here!” I walked every aisle. Every aisle. Other people were finding their things. I saw them. Looking quietly on a shelf. Plucking something. Carelessly or carefully putting it in their buggy, depending on the product. There was a black man and a black woman. They were interesting to look at. They were shopping in a way that I can only describe as erotic. They were both attractive, for hoodrats. He stood behind her, with his arms around her waist. Who shops like that? That is what men do when they stand in line for a concert or movie tickets. They were not teenagers but they weren't old, either. They were somewhere in the middle. They did not look like they were under the influence but I won't claim to know the particulars of their circumstance. I stopped to look at the shelves about six or seven feet from them. Trying to eavesdrop. I knew the tortillas were not here. They didn't move or stop talking. They continued carrying on as if I wasn't there. I grew braver. I stepped in front of them to pull something off a shelf. I said, “Excuse me. Sorry!” They laughed the way lovers do and said, “No problem.” I made like I had found my product, put something in my basket and started to move away. But I still stayed kind of close. I stayed on that aisle. I acted engrossed in the shelves in front of me. My patience paid off. They started to push their buggy past me. She said to him, “Well, yeah, but what did I tell you?” And he said, “That I have to be a good boy.” I beamed with a little kink solidarity and felt that I really must find those fucking tortillas.

I went back to the only place where I knew an employee was working. He appeared to be changing out the white onions, but I couldn't tell if he was putting out fresh ones or pulling out bad ones. Maybe both. It just looked like he was making even trades to me. I hated to bug him. I knew he had already had a bad night. It went like this:

“Hey, sorry to bug you, but can you tell me where tortillas are?”

“Aisle three. I'll show you.”

“Oh, that's okay, I can find it. Is it thatta way?”

“Yes. Aisle three. I'll show you.”

“Oh, okay. Is it on an endcap? I looked down there.”

“Aisle three. I'll show you.”

He started walking and I followed. He walked slowly. He did not walk like his boss.

He walked me about halfway down to the frozen section and then pointed:

“mumble mumble lady there. There's tortillas.”

“The tortillas are by that lady there?”

“mumble mumble lady there. There's tortillas.”

“Okay, so right by where that lady is standing?”

“mumble mumble lady there. There's tortillas.”

“Okay. Thanks so much for your help. I really appreciate it.”

“Okay then.”

I had to muster the only restraint I had to keep from asking him if he wanted to talk about what had happened. I at least wanted to make some crack about how his boss was a dick. But I didn't. Maybe he really didn't wax all of the mirrors. I'd hate to root for the wrong team.

I save the meat for last. That is because the butcher is my favorite person in a grocery store and I think butchers like me, too. And I like the meat to stay cold for as long as possible. Something about those silken, white packages. They feel like offerings to some kind of Depression-era ghost in my machine. I prefer brown or white butcher paper. I'm a purist. I hate when they used branded paper. The meat department at any given grocery store is my ideogram of a basic marketplace. We have to negotiate; we have to make concessions. Out of boneless short ribs? Can you cut the bone-in ribs longer? How about pork shoulder? Do you have a three and a half pound chuck roast? And can you trim it? I don't remember how long this went on, but eventually, I had all the meat I needed.

I made my way back to the checkout lanes. I made my way to the shortest one. I don't remember the name of the lady who checked me out, but her name tag said Assistant Service Supervisor. She looked like she had led a difficult life. But, like the store, she was clean and well-kept. The glasses she wore told me she was mostly poor and had been that way for some time. This was not a temporary job for her. Assistant Service Supervisor was her career. She asked me if I found everything that I needed and it was in that moment, in that question, that the dam busted.

“Yes, I did. This is … this is probably the nicest grocery store I have ever been in. It is so clean and tidy. I can't imagine shopping anywhere else.”

She raised an eyebrow at me as I plopped my purse that cost as much as her week's salary on the counter.

“Well, thank you. Do you have a reward card?”

“You bet I do! How else are your corporate people going to leverage my shopping proclivities?"

She looked stunned.

“I think if you buy one more 12 pack of Dr. Pepper, you will get a better deal.”

“No, it was $3/each for four or MORE.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure.”

“Let me double check...

..

Yeah, you're right. Four or more.”

“Thanks, I appreciate you checking anyway.”

“Sure, no problem. Would you like help out to your car?”

I should stop right now to tell you that I have this game I like to play in this scenario. I do it every time, at every grocery store that offers help out to the car. I always say to the designated grocery-helper, “Well, do you want to help me out? It's okay if you don't; don't feel obliged. But if you want to get outside, you're welcome to help me out. Whichever is fine with me.” I always say that to them and they always decide to come outside. Then I always say to them, privately on our way out the door, “I'm sorry about that, I just never know whether people in your position want to come outside to get break or if it is just a pain in the ass.” Up to this point, they have all indicated a strong preference for coming outside. Even if the weather is shit. Incredible to me.

I glanced longways at the helper-out-to-the-car who had been, heretofore, bagging my stuff. By the way, they did not ask me if I wanted paper or plastic. They just gave me plastic. I can't tell you what a relief that was, not to have to make that call. I'm being sincere.

“Nah, I can get them.”

He let out a sigh that thirteen year old children let out when they don't get their way, but he was probably in his early twenties. Actually, he looked like an overgrown thirteen year old. He was kind of goofy looking, like he probably played a lot of video games and was still a virgin. He looked kind of scared of me. So the social experiment began again. “Unless you want to help me to my car? It's okay if you don't. Don't feel obliged.” “It is up to you,” he said. But I could tell he really, really wanted to help me out. Or he really wanted to go outside. So I said sure.

On the way out I said, “Sorry about that, I never know whether people in your position want to come outside to get a break or if it is just a pain in the ass.” He said, in perfectly-practiced Corporatese,

“It is always the customer's call. If they want help, we are happy to do it. If they don't need or want help, they can just carry it themselves.”

I don't think he understood what I was saying. I am not at all interested in what the customer wants in that situation. I am interested to know which choice the bagger would make of his own accord. I already know what the customer wants.

So, I said, “Yeah, but I never know, you know, from your perspective. I think if I worked in a grocery store, I would want to get out a get from under the lights and away from the sounds of cash registers once in awhile.”

He said, “Indeed.” I thought he was well-spoken for a bagger.

Then he said what they all always say, “If I come outside to help you, I get to do the carts.”

Maybe it is because of my significant lack of experience working in a grocery store, but I do not see the benefits of rounding up the carts, except for the getting to be outside part. I imagine it would be lousy in the cold or rain.

He said, “Morning is the best time for doing carts.”

I was silent for a moment while I tried to figure out why morning was the cart-getting sweet spot. Less traffic? Less people? Less carts?

“There is no coffee in the world that wakes you up like morning air.”

I said, “Indeed.”

I cringed at my use of his word.

I smiled.

I didn't tip him.

I drove away.