Wegmans

I feel it again, that Saturday night chill in my gut. My dad is away, running machines in an all-night factory. My brother is out with friends, driving around, being young, having stupid fun. I sit alone on the couch, crack my neck, pick up a loose pen cap to nibble on, and try not to check my phone. I check my phone. Still no texts. I try not to look at the time. I look at the time. 7:38. Far too early to give in and go to bed. What now? I set my phone down. Stare at the dark television. Turn it on. Turn it off. You should be out doing something. I try not to send a few texts. I send a few texts, 

“Hey, anything going on tonight?... How are you? It’s been a while.”

I scroll through my contact list, text my mom. Whatchu up to?. I walk to the kitchen, grab some popcorn. Eat it from the bag. No need for a middleman. I click through a Facebook page titled ROCHESTER EVENTS. Couples Scavenger Hunt? Hard Pass. Live Jazz? What am I, 60? I could go out. Alone? Do you really want to be that weirdo? What about a cafe? Bring my laptop, get a coffee. Finally, knock out some writing. That's normal enough. Not feeling it. Okay, then I could stay here, make some art, play some music? No. The house is too messy. I can’t think straight when it's messy. Then why don’t you clean it? But who wants to spend Saturday night sweeping up last night’s crumbs? What did I eat last night again? Oh right…Too much pasta, and then I watched that movie with my dad, you know the one with that guy, the guy with the goatee. What’s his name? John..something. Whatever. What to do? I could take a shower, try not to sit on the floor until the water gets cold. Can’t justify a third. My hair is still wet from the last one. I glance at the empty popcorn bag in my hands. That does it! I’m going to Wegmans.

The automatic doors welcome me in, greet me with a puff of warm air. I stand still, lulled by the sounds of cart wheels spinning on freshly mopped floors, trying to catch remnants of customer conversations.
“Whole milk or 2 percent? Oh, wait, Theresa doesn’t do dairy. I always forget…”

“I’ll grab butter. You grab the chicken thighs, but not the super fatty ones. You know the ones I like. We can meet by checkout.” 

“Dude, have you tried these hard lemonades? They get me so good, man. Absolutely buzzed.”

“Hey Siri. What do I need to make pasta carbonara?” 

I start my usual loop with a museum-style stroll. Slow and steady past the rosemary olive oil bread, eyeing the baked goods and sweets. My stomach churns. Should I splurge? 7 dollars for a slice of strawberry shortcake? No shot. I pass the sushi and prepared meals, recalling many family trips to Wegmans, the 6-dollar meals, the go-to dinner. I’m picturing mashed potatoes, asparagus, and some sort of saucy meat. The 13 dollar grain bowls scoff at me. I move on, wave to the lobsters in their glass purgatory. I shoot them a sign of the cross, bid their souls safe travels to Lobster Heaven. Lobster Heaven. That would make a good art piece. Bunch of red guys in halos. Are those demons? Nope! Just poorly drawn lobsters!  I pass the butcher counter, grimace at the oozing red lumps, pass the fancy olives and aromatic cheeses. Next stop: the produce section. Tonight, I’m searching for the strangest fruits. What the hell is a kiwano, anyways? I won’t be finding out today. I cross past the dry goods: garlic, onions, potatoes, and a beeline to my leafy green friends, glowing under the simulated sunlight. I light up too as they are misted in a gentle shower. You voyeur. What a perv. The mist travels up to my cheeks, indents into my dimples. It's hard to be lonely here, sharing a shower with my friends, we make light small talk.

“My good man Kale, how are you? Have you met Arugula here? She’s a real hoot! And gosh! Cilantro, the life of the party, but only in small quantities. And you guys, don’t even get me started on Beet! He’s so down to earth. So rooted!”

I commend myself for my sense of humor as I finish my produce loop past the pre-cut fruits. Who’s buying these? Lazy fuckers. I circle back past the bagged lettuce and prepared salad kits. Time to check out the hummus, read the labels of strange new vegan meats. Oh, what's this? Tofu curry nuggets? Count me in. Nuggets in hand, I weave through the aisles and memorize unfamiliar items. O’Doughs Gluten Free Bagel Thins. Wegmans Spicy Plantain Chips, PB2 Powdered Peanut Butter Powder. I take note for future trips, try not to stock up too much. This isn’t any mundane shopping trip. This is a rip-roaring adventure of a lifetime. I’m a tourist on a safari in faraway lands. Do not touch the wildlife. On particularly trying nights, I’ll make a few exceptions, picking up a big jar of Wegmans Old Fashioned Peach Slices laid to rest in that heavy syrupy goodness. And always popcorn. Skinny Pop or Lesser Evil Himalayan Gold. Tonight I pick my peaches and popcorn, and make my way over to the ice cream coolers. Maraschino cherries and panda paws for my sad girl sundae! I’m living large tonight. A group of college-aged kids pass by me in the aisle, laughing over what I’m sure was a real knee slapper. I check my phone again, glance at the contents spilling out of my hands, spilling over my belly. Living so large.

 I half smile at my reflection in the cooler. Ben and Jerry look on in pity. I stand there for a while. I’m out of excuses to keep browsing, but I should circle some more, keep my eyes open for guys my age. If I wander the aisles long enough, he’ll appear, maybe with one headphone in, browsing the house plants section, gauging the bananas on their level of ripeness. He doesn't mind a banana with spots. I’d say

 “Hey, you’ve got good taste in bananas.” 

And he’d say

 “Hey, you know what? I appreciate that.” 

And i’d ask him 

“What song are you listening to?” 

 And he’d say 

“Perfect Day by Lou Reed” 

And I’d say

 “Do you want to get out of here?” 

And we’d drive around until sunrise and kiss in his old car that his dad gave him for his 18th birthday, and then he’d drop me off at home and say

 “I’d like to see you again.”

And I’d say

 “I’ll see you at the banana stand.” 

And I’d wink and go inside, and he’d smile in that big dorky way that people do when they find something good. And I’d go home and fall asleep without that chilly feeling eating away at my gut.

I look around. Nobody here fits the bill.  I wonder about these strangers. Are they here to escape? Get away from their overbearing mothers? Maybe they are all alcoholics resisting the weekend temptations? A Bunch of introverts looking for a place to pause, without the busyness and pressures from the outside world, the big bad world beyond the parking lot. Maybe Wegmans is a haven for the loners, losers, and lovers alike. Or maybe they are just shopping. I’d like to ask one of them:

“Hey stranger, do you too find comfort in the stocked sleeves, the light music, the hum of the freezers, the tip-taps of shuffling feet?

 Are you also scared to go home, to enter your dark house, to close the door behind you, slip off your shoes, and face the quiet alone?

Do you feel a sort of melancholy peace at the sight of abandoned balloons stuck on the ceiling? Do you ever feel like you, too have lost your anchor? Full of helium but nothing to ground you?

 Do you find comfort in the glow of the fluorescent lights? Because, hey…what's a grocery store but a big night light?

 Right?

 Am I right?

Will you walk with me for a while? We can browse the granola aisle together.  Help me find something that really packs a peanut butter punch? 

Head over with me to the office supplies? Maybe we can pick out a nice journal, start writing again. Do you write? Tell me your hobbies or…let’s just get out of here?”

 Oh, you’ve got plans with friends. Can I come? Sorry I asked. Do you have to leave right this second?”

Stay with me for a while. We can camp out in the household items aisle. Make a big fort out of toilet paper?”

Two ply? 

Three ply? 

Stay with me, won’t you?

 Just five more minutes?”

An employee begins stocking pints in the cooler next to me. I blink my eyes, drag my feet to the self-checkout. The automatic voice greets me. There's a comfort to her robotic tone.“To begin, start scanning your items.” I obey, scan my items. The damage is done: 20 bucks and change. I insert my card and remove it when I’m prompted to. I take a deep breath, savoring my last few moments with that voice. She says, “Don’t forget to take your receipt. Thank you for shopping at Wegmans. I take my receipt, whisper “You're welcome," and brace myself for the rush of cold wind.