"So," he says, the planned yard work washed out by weather, "you want me to go grocery shopping with you?"
She rolls her eyes, not having budgeted for this. But knowing he will carry the bags and return the bottles, she says, "Sure."
Decades ago, when first they met, he worked in a grocery store and, while conventional suitors brought candy and flowers, he would often surprise her with frozen shrimp or jumbo eggs. But in the years since, she has wisely assumed responsibility for food and preparation of same, sending him to the store only in emergencies -- and with a specific list.
This trip, her concern begins when he parks at the north end of the lot, meaning they will enter the north door of the big-box store and must traverse acres of hardware, auto parts and team apparel to get to the groceries at the south end, where she always starts -- and finishes.
Not a frequent shopper, he notices for the first time that every item no longer has a price.
"You," she says, "wrote a column that it was OK for Snyder to sign that bill."
He drops a multi-head socket wrench with a built-in flashlight into the cart. And batteries.
"You're always going to need these," he says.
In fact, for him, this store is full of such things -- batteries of all sizes, paper towels, light bulbs, candles, tarpaulins and Spam -- that will be essential in the event of nuclear war and "might as well get while we're here."
She is "here" every week and knows that "here" is 10 minutes from home and open 24/7.
Filling up the cart
And so begins the dance -- he flips things into the cart, she waits until he is distracted by yet another shiny object and takes things out. He is especially enamored of paper towels, for they have strong manly names -- Bounty, Brawny -- and can be thrown like a football, two steps right, pump fake to Mr. Clean, then zip it into the cart for the game-winner in the Ty-D-Bol! As he raises his hands to signal six points, she slips the pickled okra back onto the shelf.
With little concept of the resources required to actually prepare the meals he consumes, he is drawn to food that looks new and interesting, or that he can't remember not liking.
She remembers, and in between selecting what's needed for her careful, balanced meal plan, she murmurs, "You tried that and didn't finish it. ... You swore you'd never eat that again" as he surveys varieties of sardines, obscure foreign delicacies and pickled anything. The ice cream freezer, which she cannot avoid passing on the way to frozen peas, is for him a land of wonderment.
"When did they start making this flavor? That's a Michigan brand; we have to support the state. ... What about for company? There's room in the freezer," and, finally, "It doesn't go bad."
At least she knows that the ordeal is almost over, for ice cream melts and must be hastened home. He pushes the cart behind her on the way to the checkout, adding creamed herring, a few kiwis and newfangled potato snacks of sea-salt/mustard flavor. He also recaptures the pickled okra and adds pickled Brussels sprouts.
The clandestine goods
At the cashier, he occupies her with sleazy magazine covers as the clandestine goods move along the conveyor. As she pays the bill, a good $40 more than usual, he is already headed briskly to the north exit, for it is at least a mile walk to the car.
Back at the home front, he does indeed unload the bags. But he cannot be much help with the putting away, for he has no idea where most of it goes. He takes the paper towels to the basement, where eight other rolls fill a shelf next to batteries of all sizes. "Hah!" he thinks, "Let the Russians come!"
Upstairs, she struggles to close the freezer door, blocked by a brick of cherry vanilla. And with a sigh she puts the pickled okra in the pantry, next to the jar he bought the last time she let him come along.
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