Shoes, Ships, and Sealing Wax

Grocery shopping

I am in line at the grocery store at dinner time on a Friday night. It’s the express lane, but the person at the register hasn’t got the money ready and has stalled our progress. I’m behind two women, an older one buying steaks and salad greens, and a younger one buying the Post, a coffee cake, ice cream and tampons. She is still dressed for work, a blazer and slacks and tasteful jewelry. She’s in her early thirties, with styled blonde hair and perfect nails, and I feel like a troll standing next to her. After me in line is a guy about the same age, wearing shorts and shoes without socks, also with just a few dinner items. He’s looking past me and toward the nice-looking woman.

The next line over there is another guy in shorts with two blond boys, maybe 8 and 6. The woman opens her wallet and takes out two registered-mail receipts, which she hands over the conveyor belt to the father. “Here’s the receipt for the taxes,” she says.

“Did you have any trouble getting them out?” he asks.

She says no. The boys have bounced over to the gum ball machines and back to their father, who taps the older one on the back. “What time is his game tomorrow?” he asks.

“Two, I think, but I have to check the schedule.”

“It’s at two,” the boy says.

“Check the schedule,” says the father.

This is odd, I think. Were they trying to make the shopping trip go faster by getting in competing express lanes?

“Matt, are you wearing a bathing suit?” asks the mother.

The older boy grins. “It’s a Billibong,” he says, lifting his t-shirt up to display the label on the leg.

The younger boy flings himself through our line and hugs his mother’s legs. “Thank you,” she says, kissing his head.

The father is at the head of his line, and the boys return to his side as the cashier bags their dinner: spaghetti, sauce, bread, ice cream. Same kind of ice cream as the mother.

The light begins to dawn. I glance back at the guy behind me; he is also watching the father and sons.

“He must be young, still,” says the older woman with the steaks.

“Pardon?” asks the mother.

“To still let you kiss him in public.”

“Oh,” she says. “Well, we’re separated, so I don’t see him as often...” her voice trails, and the older woman looks abashed as she devotes all her attention to paying for her groceries.

As the father and boys leave, he says “Call tonight with the schedule.”

“I will,” she says, and calls after the children, who have gone ahead, “Bye, Matt! Bye, Chance! See you tomorrow!” Then her smile goes off like she flipped a switch and she looks down at the food on the belt. I turn away to see the guy behind me suddenly absorbed in his basket too.

Posted by Nic at April 4, 2004 09:29 PM | TrackBack