Saturday at the club

​Saturday at the Club 

A rotisserie chicken package lies on the top layer of a pallet of tortilla chips. It won’t be discovered for three more hours when it will then need to be thrown away. An abandoned shopping cart sits nearby—its contents, two crushed packages of ground beef underneath a forty-pound case of bottled water. The juices from the meat drip onto the concrete floor. A man passes by eating a footlong hotdog. He stops momentarily, burps loudly, and continues on his way, his burp lingering still. A woman screams, “Kayden!” 

Three different boys all look her way, but none of them is the right Kayden. “Kayden!” She shouts again, frantically stomping around looking for her child, searching between pallets and inside trash cans. She’s wearing an oversized leather tactical soccer mom backpack packed to the brim with thermoses, applesauce pouches, baby wipes, diapers, a change of clothes, sunblock, bug spray, bear mace, needle-nose pliers, an extra phone charger, an iPad, and a pair of binoculars. This woman is prepared for any and everything the universe could possibly throw at her, and her only oversight was forgetting to actually keep an eye on her child. “Kayden!” She calls out a third time in exasperation. He is located a minute later, three aisles away, karate chopping loaves of bread. 

A man viciously coughs directly into his hands, then touches eleven different jars of mayonnaise before deciding it would be better for him to buy a smaller one at the regular grocery store.   

A woman places a box of noodles in her cart, crosses another item off her list, and giddily asks her husband if they can go look at granola bars. He nods his head approvingly but appears to be miles away. On the inside, he’s yearning for the golf course. Longing for that joyful feeling he gets on the green hanging out with his boys while soaking up the sun and crushing cans of Coors Light. But their marriage counselor suggested spending more time together, so instead of an 11:00 a.m. tee time, he’s here shopping for noodles. “Want to get frozen yogurt after this?” His wife inquires. He nods his head again and dies a little inside. 

A woman shakes her fist in the air and tells at no one in particular, “Where the hell did you move the coffee to this time, you bastards!” You don’t react because she seems unhinged, but wait a moment or too before proceeding on the off chance that someone nearby knows the answer, as you also can’t find the coffee. 

An elderly man sits down on a pallet of Dr.Pepper and rests his head against a steel beam. The excitement of the day evidently too much for him to bear. 

A child blows his nose and sets the tissue on an end-cap. A bird flies overhead. How long has it been inside? No one quite knows for sure.

Two long-lost friends reunite in the middle of the bread aisle and stand there for twenty minutes reminiscing about earlier times when they stood in everyone’s way. 

An Instacart employee scans a carton of eggs and recklessly tosses them on a flatbed. The customer won’t discover they’ve been pre-scrambled until much later after the tip has already been paid. 

A man spits out at a free sample on the floor right next to a trash can. A woman coming from the other direction steps in it, then uses a wet floor sign left out from a previous spill to scrape it off her shoe. The hot dog guy from earlier watches this incident with a look of disgust on his face, then tosses his hot dog wrapper on a pallet of macaroni and cheese. 

Kayden sprints past you, once again unsupervised and nearly collides with your cart. A baby awakes and begins to cry. In the distance, sirens sound. Is this an emergency? Should you evacuate? Is the building on fire? No one seems to know or care. The chaos ensues. A few more babies begins to cry. A young man near you calls his girlfriend and reminds her to take her birth control. 

A man sneezes on an entire tray of free samples. Evidently this is a routine occurrence as the old lady doling out the samples doesn’t blink an eye. She simply tosses the whole tray away and begins filling it again.  An oblivious lady talking way too loudly on her Bluetooth crashes her cart into a pallet of EVOO. Dozens of bottles crash to the floor. A woman slips and falls. Someone shouts out, “Dear God!” Oil is everywhere. 

The cacophony of crying babies has intensified. You estimate that as many as 70 babies are now screaming at the top of their lungs. Your anxiety is through the roof. You must escape. Taking a risk, you abandon your cart and leap over the oil spill, bust a spin move around a guy wearing overalls eating a Slim Jim, and sidestep your way through the center of the store near the patio furniture and gardening equipment. You sigh in disbelief. What were you thinking coming here? It’s Saturday afternoon for chrissakes, you should know better. A veteran napping on a patio swing display startles himself awake, and his service animal nips at your heels, almost causing you to fall. You somehow manage to maintain your balance, veer left, take a few steps, and stop dead in your tracks. 

“Who do you have for cell service?” 

“Hey, what’s up? We’re helping out members today.” 

“Come here, let me holla at you a minute.”

Oh no. In your haste, you accidentally walked right into the gauntlet of super aggressive cell-phone salespeople! 

“I don’t even have a phone!” You shout, much to their consternation. “Never had one!” You continue. “I still use messenger pigeons.” 

Then the most serendipitous thing happens. The bird from before, or maybe a different bird, Lord knows how many birds are inside this building, nevertheless, a bird flies overhead taking the attention of all three cell phone goons, giving you the perfect opportunity to slip away. A few aisles later, you tuck yourself behind an endcap. Enough of this, you think to yourself. Just leave. Try again another day. Suddenly, a gust of air blows on the back of your neck, and you turn to find one of those cool looking globe fans that rotate both vertically and horizontally. Standing there, staring in awe at this amazing appliance bobbing up and down and side to side, the cool breeze softly caressing your cheek, you feel a wave of inspiration washing over you. What an innovative piece of technology. You decide it would make a terrific addition to your living room, pick one up, and make a decision. You’re going back for your cart. No more messing around! You’re finishing this shopping trip. Your redemption arc starts now. 

You check your phone to read a text and an elderly woman on a motorized cart nearly side-swipes you, causing you to leap three feet backwards. “No, no,” you whisper to yourself. “Not today, Satan.” Courageously, you carry on. 

You blast back through the center section, the cool-down from the globe fan literally giving you a second wind, squeezing between two slow walkers, then zig-zagging around a married couple having a domestic dispute over which kind of barbecue sauce to buy. One by one, you begin checking items off your list. Tortillas, check. Peanut butter, check. Cheerios, check. You’re on a roll. Rounding the corner of the cereal aisle, you encounter the man in overalls eating a Slim Jim from before, only now he is with his whole family, walking four abreast down the center of the main aisle. Moving in perfect synchrony, at a glacial pace, they have all the time in the world and what appears to be an unlimited supply of Slim Jims. 

Trailing them cautiously, you merge from side to side with the precision of a Formula One driver desperately looking for a seam. Finally, after twenty agonizing seconds, one of them turns into an aisle to more closely examine a family-size pack of ramen, giving you the narrowest path to escape. You accelerate past them and continue your mission. Apple Juice, check. Capri-Suns, check. Coffee (hooray, you found it), check. One item left to go, and it’s all the way in the back of the store. 

You stride to the back, moving with a sense of purpose and an intolerance for nonsense. A large mass of people crowd around a free sample station in front of the freezer section, blocking access to the back of the building. Evidently, the tray of Perdue chicken nuggets is empty but only for a few more seconds. As the free sample worker begins piling the freshly cooked nuggets onto the tray, the swarms of salivating savages hungrily advance like pigs at a trough. 

“Excuse me!” You bellow while pushing through the ruckus. Enough is enough. You have no more time for shenanigans. An employee breezes past you, pulling a pallet of bottled water. You slam on the brakes and veer right around a man on the phone who appears to be in the midst of a nervous breakdown over paper plates. “Should I buy the Dixie or the Chinets?” He pleads to his wife. His indecisiveness disgusts you. You slam an economy-size pack of paper towels on the bottom tray of your cart, spin on your heels, and head back straight for checkout. Side to side, right to left, back and forth, you glide through the havoc with the elusiveness of Pac-Man evading the ghosts. “Peace out, losers!” You call out to the legions of shoppers left behind in your wake. It is only once you reach the front that you realize the line to checkout starts back where you had just come from. Swallowing your pride, you scurry back, pretending that you had forgotten something important. A few people stare, but you avoid making eye contact. Let them judge. It’s fine. Anyone could have made that mistake, you tell yourself. Move past it. 

Once again, you are at the back of the store, hundreds of yards from the exit. Who knows how much longer you’ll be stuck here. Your stomach rumbles. Fortunately for you, a fresh tray of chicken was just put out, and you pop a steaming hot nugget into your mouth. Chewing carefully, trying to avoid scalding the roof of your mouth, you survey the line ahead of you. It seems endless. It reminds you of a TSA line at the airport during a busy holiday weekend, and even though everyone is wearing shoes, it still smells like feet. The person behind you bumps their cart into your heel. “Sorry.” They mumble under their breath, but they do not sound sincere. 

Slowly but surely, you make your way to the front. Four people ahead, three people ahead, two people ahead… Finally, you’re on deck. You’re next up. Nothing can stop you now, you naively tell yourself while watching the cashier flag over a supervisor. Oh no! It’s a coupon discrepancy. The elderly woman in front of you is evidently attempting to pay for a case of Coke with an expired Pepsi coupon that’s only good for online purchases at a completely different store. Your heart sinks into your chest, and you feel like screaming! How could this be? Eventually, after what seems like an eternity, she understands her mistake and decides to forgo the Coke altogether, explaining that it was her husband’s idea to use the coupon so it wasn’t her fault. He’s the one that drinks most of the soda, and besides, she has plenty of tea at home anyway. The cashier listens to her ramblings with the same detached look you imagine rests on your face while what little energy you have remaining slowly deflates from your body. The cashier tells the old bag her total, and you breathe a sigh of relief. OK, you tell yourself. That was an ordeal, but it’s over now, and…Oh-my-fucking-god! She’s writing a check! 

Fumes burn inside you with the fury of a thousand fires, and you’re not sure if that’s the result of the burrito you had for lunch or the existential dread engulfing you that you’ll never leave this building alive. Hours pass, or perhaps only minutes. At this point, time is an illusion. Nearby, someone aggressively clears their throat. You snap out of your trance and see Grandma Moses slowly exiting the checkout line. This is it! It’s finally your turn. You cross your fingers, hoping for the best. May the items all scan. May there be no need for price checks. May the receipt printer not need to be reloaded. May this process be quick and easy. And it is! It only takes about twenty seconds. The cashier hands you your receipt and wishes you a good day, despite clearly not meaning it, and just like that, you’re on your way. 

However, there is one last obstacle. The receipt checker at the exit door. Not only do you need permission to enter this god forsaken place, but you need permission to exit, and exiting is a lot more stressful. The woman working the door gives you an ocular assessment as you approach. Like, some kind of cyborg, she’s already counted all  the items in your cart, including the KY Jelly you attempted to hide in between the Capri-Sun and Coffee, and is currently silently judging you for your indiscretions. You hand her the receipt and hold your breath. Your heart beats wildly, and the shopping cart practically quivers under the scrutiny of her penetrating gaze. She draws a line through the receipt with a Sharpie and brusquely hands it back to you. 

That’s it! You’re done! You continue towards the vestibule, nearly colliding with 13 other people attempting to enter, and zig-zag your way outside. The great outdoors! Finally, you meet again. Trees and sunshine, and birds! Outside birds! Where they belong! You take a deep breath and take in all the fresh air. Now, if you could only remember where you parked.