A Trip to Market

As I lounge on the couch, I enjoy the sweet serenity of my only day off this week. I watch sunlight pour through the blinds onto the living room carpet in lines of white and listen to the steady oscillations of the ceiling fan rattle softly. The cool breeze it produces tickles my bare feet as I prepare for that perfect moment of oblivion when I drift into sleep.

Suddenly, the front door opens and bright light assaults me. Just as I register who and where I am, the loud slam of the door closing brings me to attention. My girlfriend stands above me, hands on her hips and a deadly scowl on her otherwise pretty face.

Why did I give her a key? I ask myself. I immediately realize that I had agreed to go to the grocery store for her before she got off work. She wanted to cook dinner for her parents and had a busy schedule. I don’t remember volunteering but I know she expected that I would help. Of course, I had forgotten, so now I eyed the front door and calculated just how fast I could make my escape.

“What have you been doing all day?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say, but as I look at the clock on the wall I see my salvation. “You’re early. I have plenty of time to run to the store.”

This doesn’t soften her mood. “Hurry and go then,” she commands. “Meet me at my apartment as soon as possible.”

I rush to the door and put on my flip-flops – no time for shoes and socks. My girlfriend has already exited the apartment and I follow. I lock up and run to my car. I hope you notice that nowhere did you see a kiss goodbye.

Soon I’m at HEB, my senses heightened by the anxiety of completing my task. Usually I try to go to the store in the evening to avoid crowds. I hate crowds. That’s why I put off coming all day.

But I need groceries, right? So I get my cart, careful to pick one that has four working wheels. I wouldn’t even need the cart if not for the four bottles of Dasani I have to buy – my girlfriend’s mother only drinks bottled water. Unfortunately, the only good cart with good wheels has a thin layer of viscous fluid on its handle bar. Don’t think about it. I steer by the complimentary coffee counter and grab a handful of napkins, wiping down my shopping cart as well as the residue off my fingertips. I know what you’re thinking, but a working cart outweighs the disgust.

I would normally head to the bakery first, but quick detour down the soap aisle provides a free sample of waterless antibacterial hand cleanser. Now that my hands have been cleansed and refreshed, I look across the myriad of soaps and detergents in blues, greens, and lemony yellows. Just as varied, the fragrances waft around me, the cleanser on my hands stronger than the rest. What’s that scent? “Spring Rain.” Oh, so that’s what a spring rain smells like. Right. Now I can move on.

The store seems empty for this time of night. The game must be on. I do see a few shoppers headed towards me. A pretty young woman helps a middle-aged man put dishwashing soap in his basket. Near fifty and graying at the temples, he wears an affectionate smile on his lined face as he gazes at the woman’s waves of golden hair falling over her tanned shoulders. She sets the soap in the basket in a single, easy movement –Yes, I’m checking her out. They look like father and daughter – until they start making out. Never mind. That’s what I get for assuming. I pass by the May-December couple, determined to put at least one item in my cart.

Without further incident I navigate the maze of shelves and speckled linoleum to collect chicken, wine, and water. I turn to the south wall to pickup eggs. The faint chill of the refrigeration unit prickles my arms as I pull the carton from the shelf. I open it and confirm that each lay unharmed and white within its protective packaging. I only have to switch out one. Next bread, then the vegetables. After that, I leave.

Had I come to the bakery this morning I would have been able to enjoy the aromas of cakes, pies, and pastries. Now, the stale perfume of day-old bread hovers in the air. I take a loaf of French bread, set it atop the eggs, and look to the produce section adjacent to the bakery.

Any smells of baked goods vanish as I enter the veritable garden of citrus, greens, and the distinctive intrusion of garlic and onions. I push my basket past each of these, gathering fresh green beans, red peppers, and carrots. I also have a craving for apples, so I easily succumb to the apple display’s advertising of 35 cents a pound. Is that good? I inspect each for bruises, noting other “experts” doing the same.

Each makes a show of it. One elderly woman sniffs a cantaloupe and squeezes it suspiciously with a withered hand. She seems to know her stuff, but the gawky guy by the bananas is clearly faking it. He crinkles his long nose self-importantly, bring a bunch to his too-thin face. Who smells bananas? Green – too ripe. Brown spots – too old. Whatever. I leave this man to his fruit drama, my mission almost complete.

I pull around to the checkout line, sure that nothing else will impede me. To my horror, I find that the HEB management, I imagine in an attempt to save on payroll, have left only three lines open. I move in fifth in one line, too far back to ritualistically read the tabloids but close enough to see the full baskets of the three housewives as well as an impatient teen gazing longingly at the selection of cigarettes behind the cashier. Ah, the joys of adolescence.

Suddenly, I notice a manager begin to open another register. Before he even opens the aisle, the teen races with youthful agility to head of the line while one of the housewives cuts me off at the pass despite her full cart and own considerable girth. She looks back at me, winded and red-faced from the effort. I reluctantly move to the new line, hopeful that it will prove the shorter.

I choose poorly, of course. The teen doesn’t have I.D. and haggles defiantly with the towering cross-armed manager. Give up kid. Managers don’t bend the rules. He learns as much in time from the manager’s icy stare, consequently adding several agonizingly infinite seconds to my already delayed checkout.

Housewife number one in the other line checks out, but I decide to stay put. Besides, now I can read the front pages of the tabloids. In brilliant red and blue printed on low-quality paper I read of the marvels of UFO’s in trailer parks and the naughty alleged bedroom habits of movie stars. Keep in mind I can’t actually appear to read these headlines, so I glance disinterestedly at the magazine rack, wary of anyone noticing my secret shame.

Caught in my façade, I almost miss the clear path ahead. I hastily unload my cart onto the buzzing black conveyer belt before me. The manger totals the items and awaits payment…I mumble my response.

“I’m sorry. I left my wallet in the car.” Damn.

I get to my girlfriend’s apartment thirty minutes late and drop off the groceries.

I thank God that I’m not invited to her little dinner party, and by the look on her face I would probably been uninvited if I had. Apparently, I got the wrong wine and the bread had been crushed. I nod under her rebukes until I have the overwhelming urge to leave. So I do, in spite of my girlfriend’s yelling and cursing. I just walk out of the kitchen and out the front door. I don’t even close the door behind me.

Back at my place, I sit on the couch and recount the day’s events as I can remember them. While I vivid pictures in my head, I feel a step removed from them. And as I realize that my girlfriend has most likely become my ex-girlfriend, I decide that taking those pills from my roommate’s medicine cabinet was probably poor judgment. But when it comes down to it, none of it seems to matter.

As I lie once again on the couch, I doze to the sounds of my beloved ceiling fan and relish the dimly lit room as dusk falls outside. Closing my eyes, I feel that long awaited sense of peace envelope me as I slip into unconsciousness.

Sleep retreats though, as one thought comes to mind. I better change the locks.