I have discovered that I like
to make several trips to the market, buying one or two items each time.
Before I started ‘treatment’ Eric did all
the shopping. Sometimes I’d go along so
that he could push me in the cart, but mostly I stayed at home or waited in the
car to surprise people who got too close to the windows by screaming and waving
my hammer.
Dr. Yahtzee has suggested that I do more
for myself. He suggested that I start with getting him some more of those
cookies shaped like cat heads and mail men coated with a thin coating of beef
gravy.
Shopping for ‘groceries,’ as it turns out,
is an almost pleasant diversion in my day.
I like the samples, and I enjoy the opportunity to point out ways the
store employees could improve my shopping experience.
“I think if you suspended cages from the
ceiling in the meat department and had scantily clad attractive young men and
women dancing in them, licking choice cuts and shouting out the specials, you
would sell more of your diseased meat.” I suggested this morning to the
butcher.
“It’s all in the marketing!” I advised for
free.
There is, however, a dark lumpy
cloud on my shopping for groceries horizon.
His name is ‘Dumont’. He is an oddly shaped boy with milky white
skin, red lips, and hair greased into a perfect side part. He is shaped like, weighs, and transports
himself identical to 25 bags of lumbering tattletale Idaho Russet Potatoes. He
buttons the very top button of his graying white polo shirt.
He is a ‘bagger’ of
groceries. I have seen that this job
also includes ‘helping’ the customer out with their bags.
I require this help.
Dumont does not agree.
“You only have one bag of dog bisquits and
a bottle of wine.”
“I am not made for packing heavy loads, Dumont.”
“That is not a heavy load,” he argued, his
pudgy cheeks pinkening.
“The customer,” I reminded him, pointing
to the big round button pinned sloppily to his flappy chest, “Is Always Right
At Albertoson’s Food Market.”
He just stood there defying me
and his button.
I started to unpack my groceries, saying
that if Dumont couldn’t handle the load, I’d be forced to take them out one by
one myself. Each single cat head cookie it's own burden on our day. The cashier was getting
miffed. His line of customers was a long and angry one.
“Just take her groceries out, Dumont, and
be done with it!”
“Fine!” he slumped.
Then he wanted to actually
carry my bag, which was unacceptable because he might drop it and then Dr.
Yahtzee’s cookies would break or my wine would shatter, worse still. I made him put it into the cart. I climbed in behind my bag and gave him
directions to my car, which was parked 1 mile away in my driveway where I’d
left it.
Dumont sulked the entire way. Sometimes
he’d stop and look back in the direction of the store and I’d have to remind
him that we were not to my car yet, but almost.
His cheeks got pinker and the wrinkled cheap fabric of his shirt began
to sop up his sweat in a very unattractive way.
He would not look me in the eye or acknowledge my attempts to converse
or offer suggestions.
“Do you enjoy walking?”
“Don’t ever watch reality television, Dumont,
it will only make you want the wrong impossible things. I think if you must
watch television, stick to the sci-fi channel.”
“Stay away from the meat department when
they install the cages, Dumont; they will only make you pine.”
“Thanks!” I called as he pushed the empty
shopping cart back down our hill.
He didn’t look back or say
‘You’re Welcome’, which is something we’ll have to discuss later when I go back
for more items.
Sooner or later Dumont will see
that I am right.
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