Thursday, February 25, 2016

the grocery store

I was at Woodman's this past Sunday, doing a little grocery shopping - lunches for the week, a few dinners, and some other stuff. Totally nailed the curry quinoa and potato dish I would make later in the evening BTW. Anyway, while waiting in line to check out, two (2) carts up, a husband and wife were watching the cashier scan the items from their full cart. They looked weary from the soul crushing disposable day to day they live. Their faces told a story, one likely not memorable at all.

When the cashier got to the last item in the cart, it was clear she couldn't reach it: a massive jug of crappy apple cider. I don't remember the brand, probably Dole or SugarloadedShit or something. The husband, dressed slovenly in ill-fitting jeans and a one-size-too-large dirty black fleece, went ahead and reached for it. He grubbily grabbed it, lifted it maybe a foot in the air, and then he dropped it. It hit the floor, hard, and the cap immediately and forcefully popped off, and I was lucky to see this. It landed right side up on the floor, but the impact pushed a small yellow fountain of cider straight into the air, a couple inches high. Which then spilled back all over the side of the jug, as it bounced a bit and then flipped onto its side. A nice way to punctuate the jug's calamitous action. Anyway, split seconds later, a good two thirds (2/3) of the jug was spilled all over. I watched it in real time; it was surreal, almost in slow motion. The older gentleman ahead of me, just behind the couple in question here, looking unaffected, nudged himself and his cart out of the way of the approaching apple cider. Seconds later, he departed the checkout line altogether, not able to handle the crushing weight of the events that just transpired. He would later return.

His departure meant that I was next in line, as the couple had paid and were just about to exit the bagging area. I could hear the cashier on the phone, likely calling in a cleaning crew of what would eventually consist of a single middle aged, unhappy looking gentleman. I was prepared to advance forward, to step up, to have my goods scanned and bagged. Hell, if running my cart through a little apple cider is the worst thing that would happen that day (it was), then I will gladly dance around the crow's feet pattern of spilled cider on the floor, while my cart full of dudefuel powered through the yellow puddle. The cashier acknowledged that I was up, and she was ready to get me on with my day. She emerged from behind the rack of candy bars and garbage reading for garbage people, and sheepishly smiled before she spoke to me. She said

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