Three Bad Eggs
They sidled through the hatchery of carcasses and boiled
bounty of plenty, where faceless jars and cans all blurred
into a snail crawl of tedium and blank stares that looked at the
overhead lights like they were thirsting for a mothership or
some golden sun to blast back from eons ago or a dusty voyage
but they kept walking and their pace was like mall cops denied
respect and dates and their pulse quickened.
she was the first to notice his body and he was the first to notice
that nobody else had noticed what was unmistakably clear:
that the deli counter clerk had fallen over gross plastic tubes of
air conditioner absent bologna and sheets of congealing cheese
and the flies had come not for his soul but for the wasted plastic
that was marketed as food.
She started to dart like a fish from being stabbed through the
rippling stream magic mirror and he checked the clerk’s clammy pulse
and the clerk was barely alive or was once dead but crawled back to life.
They started to lose their shinola but realized that fussing to a fevered
scream was about as useful as selling Elvis earrings to Bostonian bankers
or convincing sons of the soil to invest in bitcoin and solar panels
so they carried the poor moaning bastard through aisle 6 right up to 10
and used his ghost like face to batter open the outside door.
They dropped him without grace next to a puddle of piss, checked the poor
bastard’s wallet, raided his pockets and lint fell out like funny cosmic clockwork
to let the detectives on scene have a clue of some sort I guess.
Anyway, they picked up their walk away from marooning the deli clerk who
was 2 days late for his bridge club where he was supposed to get an honor
of some kind and turns out that the deli clerk lived and identified the couple
as the 2 mall cops he had mocked on Saturday night and it was just all a
weird cosmic mind melt that karma grabbed all three by the nuts because
the clerk went to jail for possession and the couple for thievery and all in all
they were the real bad eggs in the grocery store, even worse than that liquid
dog foul they call egg beaters on sale for $3.
Twisted Up (One for the Boys)
what was i thinking
course these pants don't fit
tight like they gonna burst
always ridin' up my ass
i just can't walk right in 'em
struttin' with my knees up high
tryin' to loosen my stuff down there
all twisted up like
some sad piece of giant linguine
oh why did i walk so far from home
to go shopping
i coulda ordered
now it's itchin'
no please don't start itchin'
oh look at me in that shop window
ridiculous
everyone knows
i gotta scratch it
i gotta pull it
i gotta straighten it
no don't grab it out here
oh god i can't take this
somebody fucking shoot me
1/18/2025
Writer’s Block, Grocery Store Edition
He just wanted some coffee. He had been on a roll, churning out page after page or brilliance, when he ran out of gas. His character was left hanging with no options.
Think. Think.
But no thoughts came to him.
Coffee! Perhaps caffeine is all I need, he thought, having been up for about 60 hours straight. So suffers the writer.
He had run out of coffee by hour #55. It was an emergency.
He struggled to stay awake at the red lights en route to the grocery, but he made it, mostly with muscle memory.
He got out of his car, locked it, and approached the automatic doors. A man with a butcher's apron held out a hand.
"Sorry, sir," said the man.
"What's the problem?" he asked. It was obvious he wasn't going to allow me into the grocery.
"You're a writer, aren't you?" he asked him.
"Yes," he answered. "How did you know?"
"You're showing, not telling."
"Oh."
"And no writers allowed," he said sternly.
"Again? Damn!" This was the third grocery in a row with an official Writer's Block.
Time for a nap.
On the Way to the Store
Rick grudgingly shoves his price-stamper into the back pocket of his jeans, and stomps toward his modest home’s front door. He smolders and won’t give his smiling mother a glance.
Ma grabs her son’s shoulders. The teen-ager stops and dutifully awaits another reprimand/pep talk/attitude-adjustment lecture.
But this time she only says, “Have a good evening at the supermarket, Richard Alan.”
Rick knows she is peeved because she dusts off his full first and middle names. But this time there is no “quit complaining” or “I used to have part-time jobs after high school, too” or “it’s only four hours of your life” or “if you don’t smile your face will stay that sour way” or “you’re lucky to have a job.” Or her usual closer: “Working will make you a man.”
Rick departs, but keeps his rejoinders to himself. They echo in his head during the ten-minute walk to the Hello, Good Buy Supermarket: But I’m only a freshman. Johnny’s folks don’t make him work. Yeah, it’s only four hours, but four boring hours that I’ll never get back. And how am I lucky to be a lowly stock boy? How will stocking shelves or chasing carts or cleaning up a mess on aisle three make me a man?
The teenager keeps his head down as he walks, looking only at the contraction lines and cracks in the sidewalk underfoot. Four minutes pass and he is halfway into the next block on his street when he hears a shout.
“Hey, Rick my man, how about a hand?”
Rick looks up and sees his pal Johnny trying to drag a heavy cardboard box toward a U-haul truck parked in his family’s driveway. Rick runs to his friend and helps him lift the box and carry it to the truck.
When the box is stowed, Rick looks at the truck and his friend’s house and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Finally, he manages three words: “What gives, Johnny?”
And Johnny Wilcox comes clean. He apologizes for not letting his best friend know that his father lost his job as an accountant and could not find even a temp job that would be enough to make an upcoming mortgage payment on the family’s modest home.
“I was embarrassed to tell ya,” Johnny says, “especially after I made a big deal about not having to work. I don’t even know where we’re gonna live. Maybe a rental.”
Rick looks at his gym shoes, struggling to find the right words.
“So,” Johnny says, sticking out his hand, “I guess this Is it, friend.”
But instead of reaching out to shake Johnny’s hand, Rick looks into his friend's eyes and says, “Last night at work, the assistant manager quit. They didn’t know how they were gonna fill his job. I don’t know how much money he made, but do you think your dad would be interested? Maybe it could help you stay in…”
Before Rick can finish, Johnny shouts for his father. Excitement colors his shrill voice.
Mister Wilcox does not wait for Rick to finish relaying news of the job opening.
“Come on, Rick, I’ll drive you to work,” the balding man says, pushing the boy toward his sedan parked at the curb. “I can apply there.”
Johnny also runs to the car. “Do they have any openings for stock boys?”
Rick smiles the rest of the way to the Hello, Good Buy. Ma never said that work also could spread hope.
Hunger
Marie wandered through the supermarket, going from aisle to aisle, trying to find something that would sate her strange new hunger without making her throw up moments later. The young woman knew that her search was futile, as everything (ranging from the most bland and light foods to the most convoluted dietary meals) had ended up swimming inside the toilet. On one of those occasions though, Marie had noticed that the food looked largely intact, as if her stomach simply refused to digest it.
She must've caught something really bad somewhere. That party she recently went to was the most likely culprit, as Marie still couldn't remember what happened that night, or the night after. But what in the world could make her feel like this, along with giving her a partial amnesia? Nothing that the internet could help with, that's for sure. Marie knew she had to get checked out by a doctor, but at the moment her financial and legal status prevented that from happening.
Empty-handed and disappointed, Marie walked out of the store and into the dark, dimly lit streets, slowly dragging herself along. Not wanting to return home right away, she decided to take a stroll in the nearby park. Marie hoped that the fresh air would help her clear her head, maybe even give her new ideas regarding her problem, yet the longer she went, the more anxious her thoughts became. Streetlights began to flicker hectically, and the trees around Marie seemed to grow bigger, looming over her like ill omens. She took it as a sign to go back home and turned around. That was when Marie felt someone grab her, and her mind went blank.
Next thing she knew she was standing in front of a dead man, his face frozen in horror. Marie covered her mouth with the palm of her hand, but pulled it away the moment she felt something thick and sticky. She looked at her hand and almost screamed.
Blood. Her face was covered in it. She felt it in her mouth. In her stomach. But she didn't feel sick. And most importantly, she didn't feel hungry anymore.
Two shoes
I put my two shoes on and I'm heading out.
To the grocery store
Where I wonder and shout.
Looking for something that I have never eaten before.
Designing a new meal that I tried to explore.
Spices have different names, color doesn't matter.
Giving them life on my plate, in my bowl or platter.
Making my meal complete,
With all the needed essentials.
Using my special tools
And fundamentals.
Once I have gathered all I need
And head for the front line.
I put it on the belt , push it down
With forget-me-nots on my mind.
She rings up my meal and any snacks that I crave.
I pay her and leave because
It's been one of those days.
The human race
A grocery store is the last place you expect a mayhem, at least since the pandemic.
The automatic doors had barely let me in when an Asian old lady with a trolley packed with food and household items was making her way out.
The store manager was on the phone even as his eyes were firmly on the lady hobbling and struggling to push the amply stocked shopping trolley.
"Hey, wait up!" He shouted, "You haven't paid."
The old lady stopped in her tracks and turned to him but said nothing.
"I've been watching you on the monitors," The store manager panted, "you virtually stocked your trolley with every item in the store. Please get in queue here and pay up before you leave." The lady stared at him belligerently, and then smiled.
As other patrons looked on, he muttered not too quietly: "Some of these migrants, I tell ya. This used to be such an honest neighbourhood."
"I heard you!" The old lady finally broke her silence in perfect English.
"So you should, madam!" He walked up to her. "Please pay now, if you can. Else, come back later. I can hold the items for you."
"Perhaps you should be nicer to the customers. I'm sure you are not paid to be rude."
The store manager laughed. "Oh, really?"
"Yes, James!" The lady said and it was the manager's turn to be shocked. He stammered: "Do I know you, ma'am?"
"You should. I interviewed you for this job!"
"Oh, I'm sorry--"
"That's quite alright. You did well in this test to save the store from being robbed. But you could tone down your unconscious bias towards customers of colour!"
Then she handed him the trolley, smiled at our gawking faces, and left the store.
(culture shock)
The first I enter is Erewhon. I am jet-lagged and the shine pulls me in like a moth. The soup, stacked in Mason jars, is appealing. I lift a clam chowder and leave when I see it's $20.
The next day, I am more prepared. Yet Wholefoods is too cold. Shivering, I search for something familiar. I almost forget to buy something, distracted by an elevator for trolleys.
Albertsons, Ralphs, Pavilions and VONS. I enter them all and they play tricks on my mind. Apparently they are different, but they blur into one.
In Trader Joe's, everyone wants to be my best friend. They ask about my day, my family, stopping short of my trauma. I walk away with a sticker that reads 'NUTS ABOUT YOU', half convinced that I've found community.
One day, a year or so in, I wake up yearning.
My heart is heavy and I yearn for one thing: Tesco.
ostraconophobia
Bob stepped out of his car, grocery bag in hand and faced the grocery store. He always went to the grocery store on Monday; it had been his routine for so long that he couldn't imagine going any other day.
And so he walked to the entrance, a crumpled list in his pocket. He'd been using the same list for years, and saw no need to change it.
The automatic doors opened with that same, underwhelming squeak and slide, and Bob was welcomed into the sedentary symphony of checkout machines and rolling grocery carts.
Only today, the store was different. The first thing that Bob noticed was the song 'Be My Lover' being blasted on the speakers so loud that he nearly had to cover his ears. The lights had been dimmed, and the employees were riding on roller skates throwing bananas and boxes of spaghetti.
Bob was so surprised that he nearly dropped his grocery bag. As one of the employees rolled by, Ol' Mildred she was called, Bob tried to ask what was happening.
"New Manager", was all the woman deigned to say.
Bob had no clue what to make of the situation. In all his years he'd never seen anything like it. And so he did the only sensible thing he could think of.
Five minutes later, Bob again returned from his car, mounted on a unicycle. He hadn't ridden one in years, but he still carried it in his car for good measure. Bob got very uncomfortable when he didn't fit in, and would do nearly anything to avoid feeling that way. And so, he mounted his unicycle, and immediately lost control.
Poor Bob flew through the condiment aisle, unable to steer or stop. He tried to scream for help, but the music was too loud. It wasn't until he crashed into the seafood counter that he finally stopped. And fell onto the lobster container.
Don't break, Bob silently pleaded with whatever god was listening. The issue was that Bob had ostraconophobia, the chronic fear of lobsters. On a good day, he wouldn't even go near the seafood section because he couldn't stand the lobster case. The way that they crawled around in that unnatural blue water, staring at the tall beings that had trapped them there with beady, vengeful eyes.
Bob tried to move, but he had gone into shock.
The lobsters. The lobsters were so close. He could see them. Hear them. Feel them.
"Everything okay there?" Someone asked.
Bob looked up. Square into the beady eyes of a giant lobster. And he screamed. Screamed until his throat burned.
The giant lobster held out a claw and Bob leapt up and tried to run. But he tripped on his fallen unicycle and toppled over. And the giant lobster...it was going to kill him. Bob was sure of it. And so he grabbed the only weapon he could find. A giant dead fish that lay in the crushed ice of the seafood counter. And he struck the lobster.
"Hey!" The lobster said.
Bob didn't care.
He struck again and again, beating the lobster with that fish until the lobster was limp on the floor. And then the lobster's head fell off.
Not the lobster's head, Bob realized, but the head of a costume.
What had he done?
Bod stood there, still holding the fish, and stared down at the limp figure. And the music still blasted.
"Mike!" Someone exclaimed.
"What were you doing?" A voice said somewhere."That was the new manager!"
The Woman Who Loves Tea & The Man Who Does Not
There once was an older woman who liked to drink tea.
If you went to her house you had tea.
No and's, but's, or whatnot's, you had tea.
Your cat passed, we can't talk about it without tea.
Now, she would not serve nor drink old tea.
On the 2nd Thursday of every month she would take a trip to the grocery store and buy 16 small boxes of tea.
On those trips she would never buy any regular grocery items, no dairy, no fruit, no veggies, no meat, only tea. She would buy everything else on a any day of the week that was not Sunday or Wednesday, when she was going to church.
One day she met a young man. That man did not like tea. He would avoid the aisle, not wanting to waste his time walking by the tea. On the day that she met the man, the store had moved around their aisles and she needed help finding the tea. He had already located the aisle so that he could avoid it.
The woman tapped on his shoulder and asked if he knew, assuming he worked there. He gave her a polite nod and led the way. She smiled and thanked him, but as he was leaving she became conflicted. How would she repay him? As much as she wanted to, she could not invite him to her house. I could give him one of the 16 boxes, but I always bring home 16 boxes, no more, no less. But if he is still here... At once, she knew what to do.
She paid for 16 boxes, then went back to the aisle for another box. After she had her box she looked for the cash register that the young man was at and found that he was not in fact working, but was placing groceries on the table to be scanned. Perfect, she thought, as she knew the worker at the register. She waved and walked over, whispered something in the workers ear, grabbed a sharpie, set the box down, and waved good-bye.
That night the man slept much better than he had in days after drinking the tea he only drank out of the feeling of responsibility and the gratefulness for the kind gift he had received, even if it was tea.
Not only did he sleep well, but so did the woman, knowing that there are helpful people who are not just getting paid, and the feeling bringing of home 16 boxes of tea, no more, no less.