Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Groceries

Fourth of July, late morning. I’m standing on a long line waiting to be let into the supermarket. Plague year restrictions are in effect. There’s a limit on how many people are allowed into the store at one time. Everybody is wearing a mask. The line is slow. The fellow in front of me has a flask in his back pocket. Every few minutes he pulls it out and takes a nip. Behind me is a woman holding hands with a little girl. Through her tiny mask, the girl asks: “Mommy, does it cost money to have me?” Her mother replies: “Every day, honey, every day.” At last I reach the door of the supermarket. They let me in.

I head for the produce section. Standing between me and the avocados is a stocky woman and a gaggle of boisterous brats. All of them are wearing red bandanas. The kids look like a bunch of aspiring train-robbers. One of the boys grabs a tomato and throws it at his little sister. It misses its mark. A store employee restocking the bananas exclaims—“Hey!”—and turns around to see what hit him. The family’s cart is spilling over with hot dogs and chicken and hamburger meat and beer—lots and lots of beer.

“Where’s the whiskey?” asks the smallest of the children. “Shut up,” says the woman. “We have to go to the liquor store to get that.” She turns to another boy—apparently the oldest—and says: “Mason, go to that bakery counter over there and pick out a cake for grandma.” Mason frowns. He is none too happy about being ordered around, even though he looks like he enjoys cake. “I wanna get the whiskey,” he says. “Shut up!” says his mother. “Like I told your stupid brother, there’s no whiskey in here! Now go get that damn cake!” Mason stomps off to get the cake.

The woman sees me taking in the scene. She glares and says: “Grandma’s in a home.” As if that explains anything. I nod as if it does. We go our separate ways.

I dash through the aisles as quickly as I can. I make good progress. Now I’m in the condiment aisle, looking for hot sauce, the last item on my list. Along comes a middle-aged woman—huffing through her mask—bearing down on me at high speed with her overloaded cart. Her bulging purse is in the flip-up child seat, secured with a red safety belt. She makes an abrupt stop right in front of me. She pulls her mask up onto her forehead and takes a deep breath. Then she tilts her head up toward the ceiling and bellows: “Richie! Richie! Get the cheese! Get the damn cheese!”

From a couple aisles over, 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 myself. The hot sauce can wait for another day. I make an unscheduled dash for the beer aisle. Nobody’s here. It’s a Fourth of July miracle! I feel safe. I begin to relax. I reach for a big box of beer labeled “Survival Pack.” But then from the other side of the store, the dread voice comes booming: “Richie! Richie! Don’t forget the Coors! The Coors! None of that damn Miller! You hear me, Richie?! You hear me?!” No time to waste, I pitch my Survival Pack into the cart and flee for the front of the store

Only one checkstand is open. I get on line, directly behind Mason, his mother, and the rest of the gang. Their cart is crammed with enough food for the next ten Fourth of Julys. Mason’s mother is taking her time unloading the cart onto the conveyor. Mason stands next to her, holding a plastic cakebox. He almost looks cute in that red bandana. The other kids are making a beeline for a display of balloons near the front door. The balloons are tied to a tall, slender tank of helium. The kids are grabbing for them. One boy is fiddling with the valve on the tank. The store manager spots what’s going on and yells: “Hey!” The masked kids ignore him. Their mother pays no mind to any of this. She’s still unloading the cart, very slowly. Mason stands idly by, holding the cake.

To occupy myself, I start browsing the tabloids at the head of the lane. One of the headlines declares: “Proof it was Murder!” Below that is a photograph of somebody I don’t recognize. I suppose they’re dead, but what do I know? I don’t need any proof. I’ll never understand murder. No more tabloids for me. Instead I watch Mason’s mother filling up the conveyor with the provisions for a lavish summer holiday. None of these items interests me, not even the beer. I don’t understand Michelob Ultra.

Finally the cart is emptied. Mason’s mother turns to him and says: “Gimme that cake.” He thrusts the box at her. She looks at it and scowls. “What the hell kind of cake is that to be giving to your grandma on the Fourth of July?!” Mason shrugs. His mother shoves the cake at the checkout clerk and says: “I don’t want this.” She pays for the rest of the groceries. Then she rounds up her miscreants and they head out the door into their Fourth of July.

My turn. I start placing items on the conveyor belt. I look up and see the store manager standing next to the tank of helium. He’s staring up at the ceiling. A cluster of red, white, and blue balloons is bobbing around up there among the rafters. He makes a half-hearted attempt to jump and snag a string but fails. He tries and fails again. Then walks away.

The checkout clerk finishes ringing up my groceries. From behind his plastic face shield, he asks: “Do you want a free cake? We’re just gonna have to throw this one away.” He holds up the plastic cakebox relinquished by Mason. The words on top of the cake say: “Get Well Soon.”

“No thanks,” I say.

I’m ready to head out that door into my own Fourth of July. I almost make it too, but then it happens: the dread, familiar voice comes pealing across the aisles from the far back of the store. “Richie?! Richie?! Where the hell are you?!”

©John P. O’Grady
Originally appeared in The Mountain Eagle on September 25, 2020