You are making dinner. Your husband will be home soon and you are making a sirloin roast. Your husband has mentioned that he feels that roasts are hit or miss, so you want to really sway him to the Pro-Roast camp. You decide to use a red wine & garlic sauce recipe but you have neither red wine nor garlic so you go to the grocery store. It’s about that time anyway, since you’ve been out of skim milk for days, having been pissed at yourself for accidentally dropping a new gallon of skim milk on the driveway and watching it explode, draining away and freezing into a kind of white Rorschach splatter print.
You drive to the upscale grocery store that is near your house. There are plenty of other grocery stores near enough to your house, but you prefer this one, as you know where things are and you know that you have one of those invasive little savings card things which are undoubtedly plotting all of your grocery purchases and slotting you neatly into a perfect demographic. You wonder how you fall, hoping that it is into a good category, Upwardly Mobile Double Incomes Without Children, perhaps, but you suspect that they might even be more pronounced categories. Maybe you are a Professional Who Is Not Utilizing Their College Degree And Is Slightly Depressed And Doesn’t Balance Their Checkbook Nearly Enough. Maybe you shouldn’t use that Big Brother card, but then it just pisses you off to know that you’re not even getting the sale price on their overly inflated trendy stuff. You always smirk at their slogan ‘Low Prices are the Law!’ because certainly gross crimes are being committed. But you like this store. You don’t feel threatened in the parking lot. You don’t worry as much about your car getting dinged. People don’t scurry out in front of moving vehicles. It’s as though people who have more disposable income are smarter. You hate having that thought because you are a bleeding heart liberal, but it does seem true.
You close your car door and lock it with your little remote door lock. You could have easily hit the power door lock before you close the door, but the remote door lock is one of those things that makes you happy, much like going to the European bakery to buy a loaf of bread for $5. Your grandmother would die to know that you were that extravagant and call you ‘Donald Trump’ but it is one of those small luxuries that you enjoy.
You hear screaming. Harsh barking screaming, the sound of someone incredibly angry at someone else. You are not certain if the voice even belongs to a male or a female because it is so angry, so full of fury. You look to see a small woman, very small, identifiable as female only by her long peroxided hair, screaming at an even smaller little girl. You hear the phrase ‘Put that back, it is a schoolbook!’ and you determine that the child had been trying to bring a library book into the store, perhaps to read it as her mother shopped. You do not see the child’s face; her head is bent, blonde hair falling forward to shield her.
The woman storms into the store, fifteen paces ahead of you and you see her up close. Her face is worn, drawn. Up close, she looks almost like a small man, her nose more beak-like than anything. She has long drawn furrows in her cheeks and her lips are surrounded by an aura of wrinkles from undoubtedly twenty plus years of heavy cigarette smoking. She reminds you very much of Granny on the Beverly Hillbillies, small, used, and oxidized, skin like leather. Her eyes are bright, like a cornered animal and even though you are easily a foot taller than her, she frightens you. Her voice is ten times larger than her body.
You take your time getting a cart. You want her to get ahead of you in the store, but when you walk in, she’s there waiting with another child. This one is the same height as the woman. She is probably eleven years old and is very plump, unlike her mother. She has just asked what they were waiting for and the woman replied, in a voice which makes your spine tingle, ‘We gots to wait for that little psycho’ Christ.’ The oldest daughter smiles a tight smile and you can tell that she is eager to take her mother’s side, eager to have any chance to not be in the blame.
You walk quickly to the produce department, selecting some fresh guacamole and blue corn chips (to munch on while dinner is cooking because you are starving for fresh tasting stuff), some baby red potatoes, which are expensive but well worth it. You will steam them and toss with butter, garlic and parsley and it will go well with the roast. You also select three garlic bulbs and fresh parsley then move to the bakery department where you pick up an angel food cake for dessert. You decide that you will serve strawberry shortcake for dessert, as it is one of the few desserts you both enjoy which is also not especially unhealthy. You also pick up some ready made mashed potatoes, as you are not certain if the steamer is accessible with the kitchen being torn apart the way it is. You continue shopping. You select a lovely bottle of merlot, or at least what you think is a lovely bottle. You have no idea. You’re not a wine drinker but you’re judging by price. On a whim, however, you also pick up a bottle of Asti, as you do enjoy sparkling wine. You feel very grown up, with your bottles of expensive wine. You see the woman once more in the meat aisle, and she has gained a rather large, stupid looking man wearing a stained t-shirt with small holes across the stomach, worn away from undoubtedly bellying up to many a cheap roadside bar. Even though he is twice the size and weight of the small woman, she is barking orders to him, sniping angry responses to his questions, and he cows to her demands.
You finally get in line to check out, quickly, ignoring most of the store, as you just want to get home and get the garlic sauce thing started. It has to reduce and you haven’t a clue how long that will take. Your husband will be home soon and you would like to get everything started before he arrives.
The woman and her family get in line behind you. Their cart contains a 24 pack of Busch beer, several loaves of the store’s cheapest bread, a family-size pack of low-grade hamburger, a large jar of generic grape jelly, and a pack of pork rinds. You quickly place all of your items onto the conveyor belt and try not to listen to them. She is still upset with the youngest daughter, picking on her for being stupid. The oldest daughter is smugly looking at the youngest, although you now are certain that the oldest daughter has an eating disorder due to the emotional abuse she undoubtedly withstands on a daily basis. The husband looks blankly ahead, ignoring the vitriol spewing from the woman’s mouth. The youngest daughter slouches, her eyes dull with self-loathing.
You look at the magazine rack and take down a magazine promising to help you lose 25 pounds by Memorial Day and organize your home in twelve easy steps as well as provide solutions for fatigue. You have fatigue and your home is a mess. You don’t believe the bit about the 25 pounds by Memorial Day, though. There is a Young Miss magazine on the same magazine rack flanking the checkout aisle and you have a fantasy about buying the magazine and presenting it to the youngest daughter, in hopes that it will make her feel better. You think about how parents can just drop such horrible comments the way a dying tree drops leaves upon the ground. They bury their children in them, until they can no longer move. You know this because your mother had rather spectacular bad taste in men. You know this because when they would drink, such things were commonplace. You know the immobility that comes with knowing that you are inferior, that you are not worthwhile. You feel like china that has been broken and then glued back together, showing tiny veins of damage to anyone who took a close look.
‘Excuse me, Ma’am?’ A voice barks from behind you. You start and look up. The woman has fixed you in her gaze, her eyes staring at you accusatorily.
‘Yes?’ You whisper, trying to exude refinement and middle class ethics that you know intimidates people from the working class. You know this because you grew up poor and were intimidated by people who lived in the suburbs. You know that if you can maintain your aura of superiority to the woman and her family, you won’t be sucked into their world.
‘Are them any good?’ She points to the frozen mashed potatoes on the belt.
Your mind grows blank.
‘I-I- I don’t know. I’ve not tried them.’ You lie. You have tried them, but you want to use as few words possible. You don’t want to converse with her. You don’t want be nice. You don’t want to think about her children eating cheap bread with grape jelly for dinner because their mother is passed out drunk. You don’t want to think about that big stupid man touching one of those two daughters in ways that are improper. You don’t want to get trapped by her. You just want to run.
‘Oh, I was jest wonderin’ because I’m always lookin’ for a shortcut, ya know?’
You nod instead, tight-lipped and then turn your head back to the blissfully ignorant cashier, who gives you your total.
‘$72.84’ She says and you see the woman look at your two grocery bags and then watch as you pull a credit card from your purse. You become aware of how it must look to her, how it must look as though you don’t care about the total for so few groceries. You cultivate this carefully, signing the receipt with boredom. Out of the corner of your eye, you see her narrow her eyes and look down once more at her own cart. You hope that this wall between you and her is enough. Enough to keep her from you, from feeling that she is on your level.
You thank the girl who bags your groceries. As you leave the store, you hear the woman snap at her youngest daughter once more. You turn back and see the oldest one mocking the youngest’s tears. You think about that Young Miss magazine and wonder what, if anything, it would have accomplished. It was probably a little too old for her anyway. Perhaps the woman would have taken it from her, perhaps given it to the oldest. Maybe she would have been embarrassed and taken it out upon them.
You think about regret. You think about times in your life when you could have made a difference. You think about that compulsion, that strong hint that you should have acted, given something to the girl, a smile perhaps, told her she was a very pretty girl. Anything. Something so that she would have known that there are happy people in the world.
Something to give her hope.
Instead, you put your groceries into your car quickly and drive back to the safety of your home.
