Further Adventures in the Supermarket
I am in the condiments section looking for hot sauce. It’s the last item on my grocery list, then I’m out of here.
Along comes a large, middle-aged woman huffing down the aisle pushing a cart. It’s brimming with comestibles. In the flip-out child seat of the cart is her overstuffed purse secured with a red safety belt. She stops close by to where I am standing. Her glasses are on crooked. I wonder what’s going to happen next. I don’t have long to wait.
She tilts her head up toward the heavens and bellows: “Richie! Richie! Get the cheese! Get the damn cheese!”
From a couple aisles away, Richie (I assume it’s Richie) hollers back: “What cheese?! What cheese?! The mozzarel?”
“No, damn it!” the woman yells, “Get the shaky cheese! The shaky cheese for the spaghetti!”
I’m a bit shaken now myself. The hot sauce can wait for another day. I head for the checkout, but not before a spontaneous side-trip down the beer aisle.
I am alone here. I feel safe. I begin to relax. But as I reach for a box of beer labeled “Survival Pack”, the dread voice comes booming from the other side of the store: “Richie! Richie! Don’t forget the Coors! The Coors! None of that damn Miller! You hear me, Richie?! You hear me?!”
What I hear is trouble, or maybe the shuffling gait of time. I won’t stay to find out. I stick the beer into my cart and go.