Over the weekend, I ran out to the supermarket to stock up on assorted necessities like Vitamin Water and Oreos. Husband and I have reached the stage in life where we take various medications and supplements we never imagined we’d be taking, and we like some garbage snacks to wash them down.
We’re also starting to avoid dinner companions who babble on about their surgeries and afflictions. I really have no problem with the concept of the Golden Years as long as I don’t become one of the Golden Girls. To that end, I’m halfway through schooling to begin a new career, and after that my plan is to ride off into the sunset on the back of Husband’s motorcycle humming Me and Bobby McGee while the kids rifle our belongings for bank statements.
At the supermarket, I hit the 15 item express lane and piled my goodies on the belt. It was quickly apparent that the young checkout guy was no speed demon as he s-l-o-w-l-y rotated each item under the scanner to find the barcode. I watched him move the jar of Jif back and forth like it was getting an MRI. The guy behind me rolled his eyes and shifted his weight in dread of what was to come.
To move things along and keep the line friendly, I started packing my order, which I usually do anyway. I asked the cashier to turn the belt on so the items would reach me at the end of the counter. It took more than one “Huh?” on his part but we did achieve motion. As I was packing, and he was performing his CAT scan on my produce, another cashier passed by and Johnny Rocket stopped what he was doing and said to him, “This day is so frigging long. It feels like I’ll never get out of here.”
I could tell the customer behind me was thisclose to expressing the same sentiment, and in fact he kept looking out the front window to where he had left his car running or his friends waiting or his wife in labor. Hopefully it wasn’t the latter because the way time was standing still in the express lane, he’d be lucky to be out for the christening.
The Rocketman finally scanned my last item which was a rotisserie chicken. People have passed kidney stones faster than he moved that chicken. As I pulled the payment from my wallet, he stood motionless, slumped against the counter with the chicken between us. Every other item was packed and sitting in my cart. We just looked at each other until I said, “May I have a bag for the chicken please?”
“Sure,” he said laconically, and tossed a bag on the counter. I always wrestle with the fear I may overreact in situations like this, but before I could consider my options, my mouth opened and out came, “PUT THE CHICKEN IN THE BAG,” and the Rocket leapt to action out of total surprise. I gave him the money and exited the store.
As Husband helped me unpack the groceries at home, I recounted my adventure for him and he looked around quizzically. Was the chicken still in the car? I ran out and popped open the trunk. My mistake. I forgot to add, “GIVE ME THE CHICKEN.”
Daughter’s Featured Fotos ask the question How Deep is the Water Downtown?
attention swimmers of west broadway
are you wearing your swimmies?
dude! what is this thing doing here?