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Cerebral Contents: Update for 05.13.08: Backsliding by Cynthia Ruth Lewis 05.05.08: Five Feet and Building by Joel Van Noord Grocery Aisle by Richard Lighthouse Cross the Road by Ashok Niyogi 04.29.08: The Modern Covenant by Daniel E. Wilcox Death by Onions by Michael Frissore 04.21.08: Future's Children by Kimberly Raiser Identity Theft by George Anderson A Great Deal of Money by Justin Hyde 04.14.08: Mr. Papaya and Dale by Eric Suhem California by Caroline Imreibe Aftermath of Vehement Argument #1,068 by Cynthia Ruth Lewis Trip-Hammer Vitality by Lisa Nickerson 04.07.08: The Florence of Basel, or Why Readers of Nietzsche Need to Read Burckhardt by Jeff Crouch Friends of the Poet by Sean C. Bowen Picture Perfect by Leah Baldwin 03.24.08: Staring Down a White-Tailed Doe by Aleathia Drehmer 03.17.08: The Hairbrush by Vernard Kennedy Dog Days of Winter by Niall Berkeley Poem From My Grave by Michael Lee Johnson Mashed Potatoes and Hamburgers by Matt Finney 03.10.08: Hard Work by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Jetty Cake Pigs by J.D. Nelson |
Safeway by Matthew Flaming To some people, Safeway is just another supermarket. They come in, grab a few groceries, and go without a second thought. Maybe they're blind to what this place has to offer, or maybe they just don't need Safeway in their lives. Whatever the reason, these people are doomed to live as perpetual outsiders: mothers who wheel their children up and down the aisles like automatons, middle-aged men with lost looks on their faces staring at the fifteen kinds of mayonnaise that Safeway offers, trying to make the right choice. I pity them, in a way: they don't know what they're missing. They'll never be part of the family. They don't have the Card. Having the Card is what changes everything. It's the simplest thing in the world to get: all it takes is a tiny effort of good faith. Ask any Safeway cashier — sometimes, they'll even ask you. They asked me to join years ago. "Would you like a Safeway Club Card, sir?" my cashier said. "Even if America doesn't want the huddled masses, Safeway does." His name was Dennis. "Welcome to the Safeway family," I still remember Dennis telling me. Before Safeway, I hadn't had a family in years. Now I have one that includes more than 1,650 stores throughout the United States. I will be welcomed as part of the family at Safeway stores in Denver, in Seattle, in Honolulu, at sixty-one locations in the Greater Los Angeles area alone. My Safeway family watches over me through the Card and the purchases that I make. I like to imagine a team of kindly experts, like guardian angels with long beards and lab coats, poring over my shopping lists back at the Safeway HQ. Through my shopping lists, they read the story of my life and by now, I'm sure, they know me better than I know myself. Just last week, for example, they sent me a coupon for Choc-O-Holic cookies, twenty percent off. I'd never heard of Choc-O-Holic before, but now I can't live without. Safeway understands me and my tastes, what I'm looking for and what I crave. That's the reason why Safeway is where I come when I'm feeling lonely, when the human touch is what I need. June 24: I arrive at Safeway at 7:15 p.m., hungry after work. I don't buy my meals in advance; that would mean missing my favorite part of the day. Instead, I make time to come here as often as I can. Walking through the aisles, looking at all the possibilities, always makes me feel a little thrill. It makes me feel like I'm in control, master of my fate. I like to carry my groceries in one of the red plastic baskets that Safeway provides, even though a shopping cart is easier, because I like to feel their heft. Like each item that I add to my basket is an extension of my body. Where other shoppers rush through the aisles, I slow down and take time to enjoy the scenery. I stop to admire the sheen of the linoleum beneath the fluorescent lights, and to examine the coupons that Safeway places on the shelves like whispered intimate suggestions. As I approach the register in the checkout line my heart starts to pound and my palms sweat. My conversations with the cashiers can be the best part of my visit to Safeway, but they're also the scariest. I check my wallet to make sure that the Card is still there, in its protective plastic sheathe — it is, of course. And them I'm at the front of the line. "Did you find everything you need?" my Safeway cashier asks. Tonight my cashier is Melissa, a small mousy woman who, I know, has three children and a cat named Francis. "Yes, thank you," I smile back. This is our little joke, of course; of course I found everything that I need, I buy the same meal almost every Friday. As I carefully swipe the Card through the machine, I feel a little surge of warmth from Melissa. It always gives me a little shiver to see my name flash on the register screen. "Have a good evening Mr. Feisinger," Melissa says. July 3: The display of condoms is located in the pharmacy section at the end of aisle fourteen, and I glance over both shoulders before slipping a three-pack of Trojans into my basket. I cover the evidence with frozen food and start nervously towards the register. Even though I know that my Safeway family would never embarrass me, I pause for a moment trying to decide which cashier's line to stand in. In the end I pick Quentin, a black man with an ex-wife and a sad smile, for his gentleness and tact. The truth is that I'm not a popular man. I've never been popular, especially with the ladies. The biggest thing that keeps people away, I think, is my skin: even though it's not contagious, it doesn't look pretty. But I try to think positive, and tonight I'm thinking positively because tomorrow is the Fourth of July, a special day when special things might happen. Who knows, I might even meet someone special myself. "Can you believe it? That baby was born with antlers!" The jangling blond woman standing next to me in line says this loudly to no one in particular, pointing at a photograph on the front of one of the tabloids. Trapped between the racks of candy bars and the moving conveyor belt, I look away from her, avoiding eye contact. The Antler Baby stares back at me in black and white, his eyes sad, his round, bald head seeming too small to support the rack of antlers that sprouts from each temple. I wonder if he'll be able to get the antlers surgically removed, maybe when he's the Antler Teenager. I hope so, for his sake. The world has no room in it for Antler People. When I finally reach the front of the line, I unload my basket as quickly as possible and wordlessly Quentin understands my distress. He scans the condoms first and drops them into a brown paper grocery bag, out of sight. "How's it going?" he asks, pretending not to have noticed them, and I feel a surge of gratitude towards him. "Fine, thanks," I manage to stammer. "Have a good evening, Mr. Fraysinger," Quentin says. July 5: Walking down the frozen food aisle, I try to keep smiling even though my heart feels like something curdled in my chest. I smile because I read in a magazine that if you keep smiling for long enough, you'll start to feel better. So far though, it's not working. I spent last night sitting at a back table at Banana Joe's Island Party, a Caribbean-themed bar that was putting on a big bash for the Fourth of July. Stranded between fake potted palm-trees, I played with the paper umbrella in my drink, and nodded my head in time to the thumping music, and ignored the superior stares of muscle-bound young men from around the room. I tried to have a good time, and looked for someone to talk to. Finally, I worked up the courage to approach an overweight redheaded woman who was also sitting alone at a back table. "Did you know," I told her, "that before thermometers were invented, brewers would dip their thumb into the beer to test if it was the right temperature for adding yeast? That's where the phrase 'rule of thumb' comes from!" I try to remember interesting facts like this to use in conversation, since the magazines say that trivia is a good icebreaker. Pick a fact that relates to the situation, they say, make eye contact, and smile. Last night I tried to do all of these things, ignoring the knot in my stomach and the nervous sweat around my collar. "Really?" the woman said. "I think I see my friend over there." And she picked up her drink and disappeared into the crowd. Picking my way back to my table, I told myself that these things happen. Of course they do. But sometimes it's hard to keep trying. It took two more hours and four more drinks before I could convince myself to talk to another woman. She was standing by herself at the bar, looking out of place. Looking like me, I thought — that's why I chose her. Since she was drinking a martini, I explained to her how olives are made. "That's interesting," she said. "Hey, give me your number. Maybe we can hang out sometime." I would have been happy to hang out then, but she sidled away as soon as I scribbled my information on a napkin. For all of today though, I tried to feel hopeful about what she said and tried to forget how many times I've heard that line before. I try to take people at their word. Without trust, I know, I would be stuck in my skin forever. It's only trust that makes a line outward possible. But thirty-seven women have said that they'll call me, and only one ever has. And she thought that she was calling someone else. So tonight I'm indulging, to make myself feel better. The doctor says that eating like this is bad for my heart, but that's only because it's not in his chest. At times like this, eating is the only thing that helps. Well, eating and knowing that my Safeway family cares. Tonight I pick Doris as my cashier. She's a motherly woman who wears a hairnet, and there's always been a special bond between us. Swiping my purchases over the scanner, she smiles at me. "Got a sweet tooth, huh?" she asks. I nod. "I got a sweet tooth too. Sometimes when I'm feeling bad, I'll just eat and eat this stuff." She laughs and I feel like I might cry, touched by her love and sympathy. "I guess I just need a little comforting tonight," I say. Doris stares at me for an odd moment, and then smiles again. "Well, I hope you enjoy it," she says, glancing at my receipt, "Mr. Frisinjer." July 7: Walking through the aisles tonight I have a spring in my step and a silly smile on my face. I can't help it; I give the thumbs-up to grocery clerks and when I find items out of place on the shelves — bottles of motor oil among the Evian, cat chow mixed up with the baby food — I return them to their proper homes. I just want the entire world, and my Safeway family in particular, to share the joy that I feel at this moment. An hour ago, the impossible happened. The woman who said that she'd call me actually did. Holding the receiver, listening to her voice, I felt like I was dreaming. Like some kind of cosmic mistake must've been made: these things don't happen to me. She is small and pretty, with black hair and a smile like maple syrup. Her name is Veronica, and tomorrow night we're meeting at a restaurant downtown. At the register, I want to give Quentin a bone-crunching hug. I grin at him and he grins back at me. "All right, my man!" he says. "That's it! You have a good evening!" "I will," I tell him, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. July 15: I'm pretending that it's a Friday night like any other, but my Safeway family and I both know that this is a lie. I am a traitor: it's been more than a week since I've been to Safeway, and now I'm here to beg forgiveness. My confession: for the last week, I've been going to the Vons on 48th, two blocks from my apartment. I only meant my visit to another market to be a one-time thing: just a spur-of-the-moment decision after Veronica never showed up at the restaurant where we were supposed to meet. For three hours I sat there alone, eating breadsticks and tugging at my napkin, until the restaurant closed. And afterwards, I was so depressed that I went to the supermarket closest to my apartment on the drive home. I still don't know what went wrong. On the phone with her I tried to be interesting and friendly, I told her about the invention of the telephone and how glad I was that she called. Sometimes I feel like there is a set of rules, too obvious to mention, that everyone except me was born knowing. I think of the time that Christina Frederick told the police that I tried to rape her: I was sixteen years old and she was the first girl who ever let me kiss her, in the school parking lot after a dance. But I never tried to rape her, I still don't know what happened, what I did wrong. But the police didn't believe me and now, after three years of Behavior Modification Therapy, I'm not so sure myself anymore. Maybe I did try to rape her. Maybe I'm a monster. Walking through the aisles of Vons, I felt out of place and disoriented. The clerks and cashiers stared at me strangely, and all the products were in the wrong places. The store smelled of a piney soap that made my eyes water, instead of the comforting bleach-and-Wonderbread smell of Safeway. But even though I didn't like Vons, after that first visit I felt so guilty about my betrayal that I couldn't face coming back to my Safeway family. That's why I kept going back, until I finally got up the courage to come here tonight. Thinking of all this, I want to run over to the nearest grocery clerk and take him in my arms and whisper: "It's not you, it's me. I never meant to stay away and I'm back now and I'll never shop anywhere else." But one thing I've learned about my Safeway family is that they don't like fusses. So instead I approach the cash register with my head bowed, wearing an expression of humble apology. I'm not afraid to beg, if that's what it takes. I only need some reassurance that Safeway still cares about me. Because right now, Safeway is all I have left. Swiping my groceries over the scanner, Melissa doesn't even look at me tonight. Instead, she pops her gum and gossips with the cashier at the next register. I stare at the floor until finally I can't take the silence anymore. "Hi," I start tentatively, "how are you doing?" "Oh, hey," she says. "I haven't seen you in a while. Where you been?" "Vons," I mumble. "Vons, huh?" She snaps her gum at me. "They got some good deals at Vons. Some nice produce." Her words drip sarcasm. "I—I like Safeway much better," I say. "Here's your change. Have a good evening." I start to offer another apology, but Melissa has already turned away and is talking to the next customer. This is much, much worse than I imagined. Numbly, I heft my groceries and stumble out of the store into the parking lot. Car horns blare at me, but I hardly notice. Even Safeway has turned its back on me. Now I'm completely alone. I reach my little car and press my cheek against the cool metal of its roof, squeezing my eyes shut. Think positive, I tell myself, but all I can think, all I can feel, is that the parking lot is a desert and I am the only living thing left on earth. I don't know how long I stay that way — eyes closed, leaning against my car — before I feel a hand on my shoulder. An acne-freckled grocery clerk, one I haven't seen before, is standing behind me with a worried look on his face. I turn around and read his nametag: Jonathan, it says. "Hey mister," Jonathan asks, "Are you okay?" I stare at him blankly for a moment, not really understanding the question. "Are you okay?" he repeats. "Do you need help?" And then suddenly the meaning of his words hits me, and I feel such a wave of relief that I almost fall over. "Yes," I say. "Yes." I understand that Safeway has
forgiven me, and that I never should have doubted: in the end, when I
need them most, my Safeway family will always be there for me. ______________________________________ posted 07.11.05 |
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