Acquiesce to Tranquility

I remember going to the store, years ago. I thought it was just going to be a routine trip. You know, get some milk, some eggs, maybe some peanut butter, some bread; the usual. So, I pull into the parking lot to try and find a spot. I look around. I drive slowly through the lanes until I see an open spot. I see a spot about six cars from the front. Instead of pulling in I hesitate. I think to myself, is this the best available or do I continue searching to see if there is a better spot. I decide to continue searching. Slowly driving through the lot. Slowly driving. Driving to what? Driving for a spot. Why? A spot so I can shop for groceries.

In hindsight, taking a spot six cars back is not a bad spot at all. By the time I found my next spot, I could have easily parked, opened my door, walked out, and walked into the store. Instead I drove around for a couple of minutes until I found a spot two cars away from the front, a few rows down. Although I wasted time to find this spot, it felt like a win. In the grocery shopping season, you take any wins you can get.

So, I park my car. I open my door. I lock my car. I walk. I walk some more. I continue to walk. I get to the doors of the store and do what anyone does. I pretend to use the force to open the automatic doors. I laugh to myself. I find myself funny. I am not vain, just amused. I enter the store.

Entering the store is a cerebral experience. Immediately upon entering, I notice a change in the air. It was cold outside. Not cold cold, but kind of cold. Inside they are blasting the heater. It is now more hot than it was outside. I am now processing this change of temperature as I grab a shopping cart. Before I have time to process the change in temperature, I am greeted by the greeter who says “Welcome to (REMOVED BY EDITOR).”

I try to think of a clever response, so I say “Thanks, you too.”

Shoot and a miss.

I walk faster to avoid any more human interaction. I find myself immediately in the produce department, or the department of produce. Or the produce aisle (which is misleading, as the produce section tends to be multiple aisles and usually breaks away from the aisle format). 

While in the produce corridor, I do what most people do, I put produce in my cart. Pears are a manly man’s fruit, I tell myself as I get cold feet and put the pears back. I settle instead for oranges, the most lazily named of the fruit family.

I grab a produce bag to put the oranges in. I never know which side is the top. After trying for some time to open the bottom, I realize, hmmmm maybe I should try the other side. I try the other side. And it works. I open the bag. I put the oranges in the bag. I put the bag of oranges into my cart. I continue shopping.

My time in the produce aisle is not complete without carrots, avocados, mushrooms, (I decide on whole rather than sliced) blackberries (the fruit, not the phone ((good one James)) (((Thanks James))))

After finishing my produce selections I venture into the bakery. Now, you see, the bakery is where the bread is. Not where the (COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT) brand or the (DITTO) brand loaves are found. Rather, this is where the fresh bread is. Fresh bread is like morning dew on a spring day in the Appalachian Mountains. It is the feeling when you stop to pick up a penny and find a dime right next to it. It is going to a buffet and not stopping until your body is actively pushing back against you, which you ignore initially, but are eventually induced into a food coma so unpleasant in its conclusion that you think back and cherish the time you were eating and not the time spent paying for it. I intake the smells of the freshly baked French bread. The smell tickles my nostrils and I giggle ever so gently, like the (COPYRIGHT) dough boy. This is what paradise is. This is important. This is destiny. I decide I don’t really need any bread and move on.

I push my cart along to the meat counter. I don’t need any fresh cut meat but the man working in that department thought I was looking and asks “Can I help you find something?”

I ponder this question for a brief moment. He is putting his credibility on the line. He did not say may I help you, he said can. Perhaps he was questioning himself as a human. Was he able to assist another human? Was his purpose on this Earth to help others or himself? Was he asking if I needed help or was he asking me to help him? Can I. Can I. Can I what? Can I be who I am destined to be? Can I help? Can you help? Find something? What thing? Some thing. Vague. Yet decisive. Decisive yet insecure. After pondering these thoughts briefly I begin to think of a response. How does one respond to such a question?

There are a few ways to go about a response in this situation. One thread would be responding back with a question. This perhaps would find out if his question went deeper than the surface question would indicate. The risk with responding with a question is to get a question back. If he questions my question, which was a response to his initial question, than I would be left with no other choice but to answer. Another thread would be to answer immediately, yet vaguely. Perhaps with “You could, but we will have to see.” This puts the impetus back on the meat man. The risk of this strategy is if he: 1. Responds with more vagueness, such as “We shall see soon enough,” or 2. Double winks (often confused with a blink, but is much more meaningful and impactful in its resonance) along with a smirk and a feeble “OK,”

As I quickly ponder these available options I decide on “No thanks, just browsing” and walk away.

I need milk. So I walk up to the dairy section and get milk. What percent do I get? 1%. Why? Because I am an American man.

After milk I just need one more thing. I need justification. People go to the store all the time. But every time they go there is one thing they need to get to justify the trip. Sometimes people go for just one thing, such as eggs. Or sometimes they drop hundreds of dollars, on things such as eggs, milk, cereal, bacon, yogurt, waffle mix, paper towels, juice, mayo, mixed nuts, syrup, asparagus, lentil soup, turkey broth, menudo, pretzels, grapefruit, onions, ice cream, can of mixed vegetables, spicy brown mustard, spinach, anchovies, sharp cheddar cheese, 90% lean beef, cream cheese, rhubarb, pumpkin spice seasoning, spam, and green olives. Either way, there is that one thing that makes it all meaningful. One thing to ride home about. The one thing when you get home, tired from your trip, you think, well at least I got that. The one thing that makes you wake up in the morning right as your alarm rings. The one thing that makes you write a strongly worded letter to a friend from your childhood that you haven’t talked to in years and that you are saddened in thinking that while your letter is passionate you have no idea where your friend lives so you just put your own address as the address and put it in a public mail box so at least you can be excited when you get it in the mail the next day. We all have that thing. That thing, that day, for that me, was unsalted peanuts, the store brand.

Now my journey is nearing its end. My cart is full of oranges, milk, and unsalted store brand peanuts. I walk to the checkout line. I check out. But was I checking out my items? Or was I checking out in a way that freed me from who I was before I entered the store? I was checking out of my old life and into a brand new world. I put the items on the belt, and watched them slowly approach the cashier. The cashier (it pains me to forget her name) put the items in the plastic bags. I put the plastic bags into my cart. I paid for my groceries with my card. I took the receipt straight out of the cashier’s hand. She said “Have a good one,” and I looked her straight in the eye and said profoundly “You too,” and walked away. I walked out of the store. 

I got in my car. 

I drove off.