Never Go To The Grocery Store Hungry
©2006 Michael Mort
I came home from the office late again last night, lamenting that getting a startup company going saps you of everything you’ve got. But, trying to be positive, I forced myself to imagine what it will be like to have a social life again when I finally get this baby off the ground. I had skipped lunch for the tenth time this week—well you know what I mean—so I was starving. Nothing in the fridge except some moldy item I didn’t even recognize. Back out to a restaurant? I glanced at my watch. 10:30. Uff. You know what Washington is like. Can’t get a meal after 10:00. Fortunately I live just two blocks from an all night grocery store. My mouth started to salivate. I’d pick up some sushi, maybe a can or two of sardines, the kind with mustard. And maybe some macaroni, and hamburger. Oh, and I needed some milk, and bread of course. And … Okay. I figured I’d just go and pick up a whatever looked good.
I threw my coat back on and raced out. Even though it’s only two blocks, I drove; it’s faster. When I pulled into the parking lot, I was surprised at how many other cars were there. I felt my tummy growl, so I picked up the pace and fairly ran into the store, hoping none of the other late shoppers would get in my way. I grabbed myself a tiny cart, basically one of those basket things sitting atop a chrome wheelie. I figured I wouldn’t try to pick up too much if I used a small cart. See, I was planning ahead. I didn’t want to spend too much time putting things away once I got home.
I rushed over to sushi, since the case is right next to the entrance. Empty. The little Asian woman behind the case had just pulled the last of it. I had never really looked at her before, always focused on the sushi packages rather than the chef. She was downright cute in her little chef’s hat. She looked back at me with those big brown cow eyes and smiled. Then she smiled broader and said, in the sweetest accent, “Can I do you something special?”
My mouth dropped open. In a couple of seconds I composed myself somewhat, and said, “Yes, thank you. Would you do me—I mean make me—I mean could you prepare some eel and yellowtail for me?”
She smiled some more and pulled the fish back out of the refrigerator. I waited and watched her slender fingers slice and roll and spread and pinch. My mouth was watering when she handed the little package to me. Her eyes twinkled. I noticed she had taped a business card to the top of the package. Her name was Kiki. I stammered some kind of arigato, that is “thank you” in Japanese, just about the only word I know. She bowed slightly and said, “Please come back soon,” so sweetly it felt like sugar. I turned to walk away, shaking my whole body.
Then there, directly in front of me was the produce section. Fruit! The perfect snack! I wheeled my tiny cart around the corner of the first stand, and suddenly I was beside this tall slender woman whose golden blond hair cascaded down over the fur collar of her floor-length black coat. I must have startled her, for she turned abruptly to face me. I noticed several things during what seemed like an eternal several seconds. First, the force of her turning had flung open her coat, revealing her awesome figure clad in a tight black sweater dress. I pulled my eyes from that vision and saw the corners of her mouth turn upwards in the most devilish grin, which I tried meekly to return. Then she lifted her hands, which held these two large cantaloupes, in front of her. My eyes widened and I tilted my head just as she said in some cute guttural accent, “Do you know how to tell if these are ripe?”
The breath went out of me. I coughed and said, “I think . . . Um, I think you’re supposed to give them a slight squeeze and, um, sniff them.”
Without taking her eyes off of me or losing her devilish smile, she lifted first one then the other cantaloupe to her nose and sniffed. “Ah. This one’s good, but the other one isn’t. You’re so smart. Will you help me find another ripe one?” It was a Russian accent I thought.
I did just as she had asked, and in the process I found a couple of ripe ones for myself, cantaloupes that is. When we were obviously through with the cantaloupes, I felt kind of awkward. I said, “Well, have a nice evening.”
“Oh,” she said as she dug into her diminutive purse. “Here’s my card. I’d like to hear some more produce-buying tips sometime, if you don’t mind sharing.”
I took the card. Her name was Olga. “Sure. I’d love to help.”
I turned to walk away, my whole body shaking again.
I felt my stomach growl once more. This shopping was taking a lot longer than I had anticipated. I figured I could get by tonight eating just what I had already picked up. I’d just get some bread and milk for tomorrow morning and I’d be fine. I turned the corner to head down the bread aisle and my little cart bumped directly into another tiny cart like mine.
“Oh, I’m so—” I started, but couldn’t finish.
There, on the other side of the tiny cart I had just hit, were a short red leather jacket and a pair of jeans, both of which were wrapped very tightly around a woman whose raven hair seemed to splash everywhere. I gulped as she stared directly at me. She took a deep breath and I prepared myself for a torrent of anger. Instead, she pursed her ruby lips and said, “Why is it everything I touch is so hard? Is it supposed to get so hard so quickly?”
My eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
Then she showed me the loaf of bread she held in her hands. “Look at the date on the package. Today.” Her accent sounded Spanish.
“I, uh,” I stammered and tried to collect my senses. “Oh, look. That’s French crust. Their bread always seems stale to me, just like their attitude.”
She broke into a smile and chuckled. “So can you recommend something that’s fresher?”
“Uh, well, yes I can.” I walked past her to the middle of the aisle. She followed and stopped right next to me as I reached up and grabbed two loaves of my favorite soft bread. I handed her one.
She squeezed it and took a deep satisfying whiff of it. “Ah. That’s better. Say can I give you my card, you know, just in case I need more grocery shopping help?” She reached into the hip pocket of her jeans, which were so snug I couldn’t imagine that anything could possibly fit in there, and managed to produce a card.
I took it. Her name was Maria. I left her in the middle of the aisle as she lightly squeezed her bread loaf and took a whiff, all while her smiling brown eyes remained focused on me.
Whew! I was starting to feel a little light headed. But I had to get that jug of milk. I jogged my little cart in the direction of the dairy case, but just before I reached it I heard a loud Plop! Then a scream, “Aye!”
I rounded the corner and there was an angel in red hair. At second glance I realized it was a woman in a mid-length white fur coat and white linen trousers with a mop of red hair flowing in giant banana curls all about her porcelain white face. She looked at me with a grimace that barely marred that vision of beauty and said, “I’m so wet here!”
“Uh . . .” I started, wide-eyed, then I saw she was standing in a small puddle of milk that was spilling from a carton which she must have just dropped. Her strappy little high heels were indeed splattered with milk. I grabbed a package of paper towels from a display at the end of a nearby aisle, then ripped the wrapping off of it, which I threw into my cart, and unrolled a dozen towels to hand to her and another dozen to throw on the floor to soak up the liquid.
“I’m so clumsy,” she kept repeating, but her grimace had been replaced by a cute little self-deprecating smile. Her accent sounded Irish.
Once I was fairly satisfied the spill was contained, I picked another carton of milk out of the dairy case for her and one for me. She thanked me then said, “Say, here’s my card. Call me and I’ll buy you a drink, something a little stronger than milk.” She winked at me and I noticed her eyes were the greenest I’d ever seen.
I smiled back and took her card. Her name was Caroline. I watched her frame for a second as she walked away, a second during which she flipped her flaming red hair aside and glanced over her shoulder back at me with a broad grin. I shook myself and scurried to find a store employee to tell about the spill.
A minute later, back at my cart, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the four cards I had received that night. Nodding approvingly at myself I started imagining how my social life was about to pick up. I strolled slowly behind my cart, my head buried in those cards and my mind absorbed in the study of the names. Without looking I eased my cart into the first checkout lane, which, I knew from habit, was the express lane.
Only when the cashier greeted me did I lift myself out of that fog of delight I was in. I looked up. What I saw chilled me.
There in the next three checkout lanes, one right after the other, were Olga, Maria, and Caroline, and standing at the door was Kiki. And all four of them were turned around to face me, all four of them smiling directly at me. My mouth dropped open. Then all four of them lifted a hand and waved to me, simultaneously. I forced my mouth shut, gulped, and sheepishly raised my own hand in the air.
Olga was closest to me. Her face turned from smile to confusion as she turned to look behind her, and in another few seconds all four women were looking at each other. Then, as if in a badly choreographed dance bit, all four women put their hands on their hips, gave me a menacing stare and brusquely turned their backs on me.
“That’ll be twenty-one-seventy-two,” my cashier informed me.
I reluctantly drew my eyes away from the four women I had just met, the women who I had just been counting on to transform my social life, and scanned my puny little shopping cart. Suddenly I remembered my hunger and that little cart just didn’t seem full enough. I needed lots more food.
“Uh, you know, I think I forgot a few things. Yeah. Would you mind pointing me in the direction of the international foods aisle?”