Austin 0:05

My car is way too small to be hitting this many curbs, yet I'm jolting up and down, up and down as I pop that curb turning into my local grocery store. The best grocer in town apparently voted on by the 500 cars slammed into this parking lot. Parking lot feels generous. It's more of a circling arena, a place where patience and pride die slow deaths. Reverse lights hit like hot and ready signs at Krispy Kreme. Heads snap back. Corollas fly around corners. Minivans, burn rubber. It's the Daytona of 500 for middle aged shoppers and someone's gonna win. I spot a little car backing out and dumbly pull in behind it like a baby duck. The second I take the space horns blare like victory trumpets and middle fingers fly for a split second. I am number one. I stumbled towards the entrance. Passing yet another lemon tree for sale. No, not another. The same one still sitting out front. Minimal water, minimal care, that resilient little booger. The last one I bought wil to the second. It met my care. Carts are scattered like driftwood. After a storm in the parking lot, a high school kid in a neon vest is pushing a 30 cart train across the blazing concrete. It looks like he's fighting for his life. The idea of helping him crosses my mind for a half second possibly, uh, or I could at least grab one from a return bin and prevent him from pushing yet another up there. But I'm already sweating and I'm just watching, and I still have grocery shopping to do. So I head inside. Inside at the cart corral, all the small practical ones are gone. This leaves two options, the massive Chevy Tahoe of shopping carts guaranteed to obliterate someone's ankles in front of me, or the Lightning McQueen megalodon, a chariot for a king with premier toddler seating in the back. I roll into the store with style immediately realizing I've entered through the wrong door. The checkout door. A tactical error to say the least. The current of exiting shoppers flows against me. I stalk along the line, searching for the widest aisle to squeeze through. Then comes the showdown. A mom buying dinner for Will appears to be an entire platoon. Her Cadillac Escalade of a cart squares off of my Lightning McQueen. We stare each other down she hesitates. I take the opening trinkets fall. A rack of Snickers collapses. Someone's gasping, someone's crying. I hear a distant child whisper chow. Now, what am I here for? My mind is blank. All I knew was I was hungry, and this place seemed to have food. The cart squeaks in confusion. As I steer towards the bakery. I always head towards the bakery. The smell hits me glorious yeasty alive, bread stacked like treasures, cakes lined in perfect rows. There's even cheesecake, but there's one thing always missing the baker. I've never seen a baker here. They need to eat their creations to know their good. That is not a baker making these creations. And for that reason I'm out. Alright. I guess sandwiches will do, but to get these sandwiches correct, I must face my nemesis, the daily counter. Can I get some honey ham? I ask forcing a polite tone. How much the deli man asked. Not looking up, uh, enough for five sandwiches. You said five pounds. Uh, that sounds perfect. That sounds like a lot, but I don't know the math of meat. How thick. Thinly slice, please. He gestures to a laminated chart taped to the glass. Pick a number. Just pick a number. Yeah, any number. The chart shows 10 black lines labeled one to thin, 10 thin to thick. They all look huge. I picked two close to thin, but not thin. Thin. He knots slices for what feels like an eternity. And hands me a bag of meat that could feed a soccer team. I peek inside. It's too much. It's too much. But what am I gonna do? Return it. Put it back on the ham. I flee kachow. Speeding. Across the produce section, I'm hit within even greater horror. A dog, a real live dog standing in front of the apples head cocked looking. I'd say a little too comfortable to be in a grocery store before anyone can intervene. The dog lifts his leg and like a dog does, he lets loose a golden arc. Pandemonium, erupts a worker rushes over, then freezes. They're not into water sports. What are they doing? Another grabs a paper towel and immediately regrets it when the dog finishes. He casually kicks some fallen greens over his puddle, like he's helping. That settles it. I will not be getting my vegetables this week. My internal map of this store is now completely useless. They've changed the layout again. The peanut butters where the cereal was, the cereal's where the toilet paper was, and the toilet paper's just flat gone. I zigzagged from aisle to aisle, locked in an unspoken race with a young woman shopping with her own little method down every single row she checks. List I I operate purely on instinct. I am speed kachow. Kachow tea goes in the cart later to reveal to be buckwheat style ice cream goes in the cart later, revealed to be sugar and dairy. Free chips into the cart later revealed flavor free. I don't care. I'm committed. I'm winning this race. The finish line approaches self checkout. My methodical rival reaches for the line at the same time I do Lightning McQueen surges forward chow. She falls back in confusion. She didn't realize it was a race. They never do. They never do. There's a line, there's always a line. The attendant, quote unquote, stands guard like a TSA agent. They don't wanna be there. And if they're gonna get involved, you're not gonna like it. A glen up of the 10 ams are less, sign the down on my overflowing cart. The attendant follows my gaze. We share a moment of silent judgment that mercifully like a good king. She waves me forward. Wicked good. Looks, triumph again. The rhythmic dance of capitalism, bananas, bagels, mystery tea, meat, mountain. Everything piles up in my plastic kingdom. I pause in my hand and tomato, missing from the tomato. A barcode search by name. Tomato 30 results. Oof. This job is hard. This job is tedious. I don't think I'm getting an employee discount for this job. Matter of fact, I don't think I'm getting paid. These tomatoes are suddenly free. Finally, the total appears on screen, cash or card. I pat my pockets. I pat my pockets again, I think for a second, and then I pat my pockets again. Where is my wallet? I stand frozen in the self-checkout lane. And the machine beeps very impatiently, flashing its robotic warning like it has somewhere to be. Please remove your items, or the attendant will be over shortly. The teen attendant watches unamused. The teen attendant avoids eye contact at all costs. She's not getting involved. The methodical girl finishes her transaction beside me. Calm. Collected arrogant. I retrace my mental steps Car, lemon Tree carts, baker List Bakery. The devil himself. He has to have it. I mumbled to myself. Who else would do such a thing? Lightning McQueen squeaks along me, my lone companion. In the chaos at the deli caller, the devil himself stands slicing meat for another victim. He doesn't look up. He knows I'm there. Lose something. He asked uh, my wallet. He nods towards a small basket behind the counter. Guy turned one in a few minutes ago. I figure he'd beat back. Thank you so much. Do you accept tips? He doesn't answer. Just slices. Another piece of ham. This one thick is a dick of cards. This poor chump ordering. I take my wallet, I roll a light in McQueen back towards the checkout and rejoin the line. The world did not wait for me. I scan again, steal tomatoes again, but this time I pay. The attendant. She looks at me like she's seeing a ghost reliving mistakes. Finally, I'm in the correct flow of traffic and pushing towards the sun, the parking lot's back, the lemon tree. It's still there, still unbought, still thirsty yet I notice it's still alive. I consider it for a second. Maybe one more. Try. This one. I have a good feeling about this one. It'll make it, uh, maybe another day I load the groceries into the car. Start the engine and ease out a car ahead of me. Hesitates, reverse lights flicker. I slam the brakes. A Corolla, rockets past horn blaring. How are they in my spot already And just like that. I'm back in the race baby. Kachow

9:44

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