Rare three-hour gap
in my schedule
guess I should go to
Costco on a Sunday.
What fun it will be to
eat rotisserie, Mom says.
OK I'll pick up one for you,
one for me. Easy dinner!
My child opts out, clever girl.
So it's me against the masses.
Drive away from the city.
As I near the turn, traffic slows.
The cars weave in and out of
parking spots and access roads
at low speed, indiscriminate of
stop signs and pedestrians.
Seems no one recalls
driver's ed lessons
on Sunday afternoons
around these parts.
By the time I have parked
at the far end of the lot
I know my cortisol is spiking.
I plot my way to the entrance
dodging over-loaded carts
backing-up cars,
and escaped toddlers.
Crossing the street on foot
turned out to be the
safest part of my trip.
I allow myself to be
astonished that so many
people from behind or at
rear flank think that it is
their turn, not mine, to scan in.
Once inside, the people
I outpaced clip at my heels
with their shopping trolley.
Now, all bets are off.
Costco implicitly guides
its members and their carts
through a prescribed maze.
First, down the first main hall.
Then, they expect you to loop left,
through the meats
and to through the far right.
Then, I'm to loop up and down
the interior aisles before
Ivolley for a place
in the checkout queues.
And yet, none of that
process engineered ballet
is on display today.
Instead? Mayhem.
Before I make it to
the first intersection,
I've been swiped three times
from unexpected angles.
Head on a swivel,
I endeavor to ford the river
of double-wide carts
to cut into the snack section.
In between the RX and Lara
and Reeses-branded protein bars,
I recall how narrow these
packed inner rows can be.
There's barely enough room
for two expert navigators,
let alone the immobile
or unpredictably shuffling peds
and the inevitable minefield of
abandoned carts.
Squeezing by pallets of nut mix,
I quickly tire of
thwarting off so many would-be
four-wheeled assassins.
I squish my body into walls
of Ferrero Rocher truffles
yet another time before I flee
back to the Wild West.
The Running of the Carts
is in full force.
I whisper a gratitude
to myself that I'd preemptively
donned defensive footwear.
To protect the squeamish,
all I'll say is:
The flip flop incident of 2018
is a Never Again kind of injury,
of the sole and to the soul.
Within a few short minutes
my cart is harder to push,
slowed down by its rapidly
accumulating mass.
I refer to my Reminders Lists
(yes lists, plural)
to discover where Siri
has squirreled away
all my requested items:
Costco list [bulk boxes R us]
--onions
--seltzer
-- ramen broth
-- Greek yoghurt...
(Siri, you got these right, good job...)
Grocery list [for regular market]
-- bulk string cheese
-- Kirkland Milk (Siri, really?)
-- Costco rotisserie chicken...
(Siri, come'mon)
Shopping list [system default]
-- Pellegrino, glass one liter, box of twelve
-- Costco-Kirkland-FROM-COSTCO PISTACHIOS!
(Siri, come see me after class.)
Why does Apply not attribute
all my reminders to one list?
One wonders. In any case,
it's an indication that AI
is still baking, not yet done.
I digress.
I dutifully check off Siri items
while my once nimble body
shows signs of fatigue
from its state of perpetual vigilance.
To my left, an eager shopper
slides a frozen side of lamb
precariously into their arms.
They haphazardly coax
the stiff half-body into
an awaiting trolley.
All the while,
I narrowly miss
being shivved by a
cotton-sheathed rear hoof.
I somehow make it into
the walk-in morgue, alias:
the Dairy room.
I wait my turn to enter.
After the sixth or seventh
person in a row cuts me off,
I make a break for the eggs
then cut back hard into the
towers of milk.
After selecting a tray of eggs,
I make a calm path to my cart.
Two carts at once careen
towards me, neither caring
that I will lose in either scenario.
I'm looking at both of the pushers
and deduce they seem fine
with the highly possible outcome
that I will be smashed into
a skyscraper of eggs, left for dead.
I am haunted by a brief vision:
my lifeless body, limbs splayed,
turning blue, icy eggshell shards
frozen to my yolky face,
intestines caught up in a cart wheel--
I snap out of it,
self-preservation instincts activated.
FLIGHT!
I yield backward to the right;
narrowly escaping my disection.
In the process, my butt is rammed
by the laden pushcart of
a grey-haired, wrinkle-faced
woman, half my size but
with thrice the animus.
She does not even glance up,
despite my cheeks being
shish kabobed to her front grille.
Her nervous system is set to: FIGHT!
I run a mantra in my head,
as I force a long exhale.
Respect your elders.
Respect your elders...
But I'd be lying if I didn't mention.
I'm about ready to call my
If You Have a Phone,
You Have a Lawyer.
You know, that 1-800 number
from the 1980s era cable TV ads.
But that, of course, would entail
standing, unprotected,
in one place.
And I don't wish
to be a prime target for
the next angry patron, or ten.
I plot a bold move to exit,
pushing through with
the heft of my
harvested goods.
The long-established rule
of the high seas is:
The Law of Gross Tonnage.
E.g., the heavier craft prevails
when caught in a game of chicken
with another, smaller boat.
Yet in Costco,
in the hellscape
that is the back left corner,
people have given up hope.
They have also probably lost
a child or a parent
— or a shoe two aisles back.
They are now blinders-on,
criss-crossing foot traffic
with reckless self-entitlement.
No one seems to give a fig
about anyone else's safety,
no less a 36-count carton of them,
even if fresh in from Greece.
Game of chicken....
CHICKEN!
Consulting my lists, I see
I still owe my Mom and me
our EZ-button Sunday dinner:
rotisserie chickens.
Yes, those lusty loss leaders.
They lure the Membered Class.
Thrifty falsehoods, they con us
into believing we are saving
as we toss and drag and stuff
hundreds of dollars of merch
into our overflowing, migratory
vessels of consumerism.
I pick the two largest,
crispiest specimens from
the freshest section of
the chicken tanning salon.
I sling two searingly hot bags
in my left hand.
I use my right to fend off carts
and purses and canes and
trolley-encaged children's feet
kicking up at me from gonad height.
Speaking of hellscapes.
Did I mention that the entire time
that I have been
fighting for my life in these
mean streets of Inner Costco
that an ominous, ceaseless
and piercing alarm
has been blaring and bleating
through the whole warehouse?
Oh. Well, that's happening.
Maybe the alarm is a sleeper cell
call to The Purge, and now
all these shoppers
really are out for blood?
I don't care to stay here
long enough to find out.
I slip one rotisserie chicken handle
onto the grey metal hook
at the front of my carriage.
The second one,
I lay gently on a large flax box,
far away from the cold foods.
I carve a path through a
throng of indecisive
pineapple squeezers.
I steer into an eddy at the
back-end of the coffee beans.
With this momentary calm,
I dash out a quick text to my sibling,
lest I not make it out alive:
"The lack of self-awareness
and spatial awareness
paired with scarcity mindset
makes skipping at Costco
on a Sunday afternoon
an absolute death match."
They respond, swiftly:
"Costco shopping is an adventure.
I now go in with an audio book
and completely dissociate
to protect the peace."
A two-cart wide brigade is
now pushing towards me
with five kids in tow.
Ooph gotta jet!
I do not want to get pinned
against this column of
granite state granola and the
wall of glass Pellegrino bottles.
(Talk about being stuck
between a rock and a haute place.)
((I'll be here all week))
(((No truly, I may perish here.)))
I pivot out of sudden death,
right into the belly of the beast,
otherwise known as
the frozen treats back alley.
This is where club members
tend to well,
club
members.
A slalom of tall glass
refrigerator doors heave
open and pinch shut
into the four-way highway
of mightily heavy pushcarts.
This sacred Sunday,
the Costco lords have chosen
to put two barricades of
50-pound bags of
brand-named potting soil.
These Home Depot-coded items
set on the floor in slippery stacks
are laying directly across from
the freezer with Haagen Dazs
chocolate-dipped ice cream bars.
The ones, I observe,
over which
this entire side of the store
is circling in frenzy.
Discount deluxe dairy divinity?
Costco knows what it's doing.
They're chumming the water.
The air is electric
with consumer desire
and purchasing demand.
Soon I'm a walker in a vice grip
between two dueling carts.
I'm in the middle, unable to move.
They arc and slice at one
another while I stand in fear
of losing toes through my trainers.
NEVER AGAIN! My brain yells.
Metal clashes against metal.
CRUNCH!
CLANK!
CRINGE!
I swear I see a wave of colors
as the imaginary house flag
of the winning dueler
snaps gloatingly in the air.
The winner dives into the pile
of dirt, and has her partner
come behind me
to slither a slick bag
off the top of the pile.
Each of them are on
opposite flanks of me,
a dirt bag to my front,
and a losing cart to my rear.
I am keen to be clued into
their brilliant game plan here.
Oh, I see! I know.
It slowly dawns on me.
They are simply getting the
earth ready for my imminent burial.
I continue to stand fixed in place,
lamenting my stupidity
for saving this "little errand"
for prime-time wrestling hour.
It gives me time to text my dad:
"I see a woman across from me
wearing leather thongs.
Unguarded toes!
Does she even know what happens
in the Frozen aisle?
The sheer number of carts
whipping through here.
*Nothing* is more painful
than wearing flip flops
to Costco on a Sunday!"
Within seconds, he sends a
*Cry-Laughter* emoji reply.
It gets quieter near the olives.
I temporarily abandon my huntings
to nab a 16-count of Kleenex cubes.
(On sale! See, savings!).
I decide to take an unorthodox
yet legal route to the register
(no, don't even ask,
not even on my
very-currently-at-risk life
am I going to share my hack)
Miraculously,
I am but one doddering,
aisle-blocking cart away
from accessing a
two-person-long queue for the till.
I am home free!
But, no, I know better.
Don't celebrate yet!
The Aisle Blocker moves
from turtle speed
into freeze mode.
They just --- stop.
In the middle.
Between two check-out lanes.
I may finally lose my shiiiiiiiii---
"Hello, excuse me, Ma'am?
Can I just scoot right through?"
She stares at my eyes but not into them.
She makes no motion.
"Can I just --
if you just---
could I just..."
More blinking, from her.
Blankly, slack-jawed
in my general direction.
She's gone-gone.
While I desperately
attempt to communicate,
two enterprising cart jockeys
maneuver their loaded carriages
right into "my" lane.
I point, futilely,
at the now occupied spot,
and at the lady blocking me.
"Hi!" I was..."
The precision drivers
become suspiciously
simultaneously occupied
in their respective phone screens.
I know they can hear me--
Oh, forget it.
I wait in a different, gnarly queue.
Six back, I see every cart
ahead of me is groaning with products.
I live here now.
Please forward my mail.
I am atoning for something.
But for what?
I am not sure.
The copious time in front of me
gives me the opportunity to
pay it forward, be a dear.
I carefully rotate each item
with a barcode so the black
and white stripes are top-up,
facing the awaiting cashier
and their hand-held scanner.
But my handiwork,
my peace offering,
is not accepted.
The attendant sighs, crams
all my items back together,
ignores my gesture of efficiency.
Fine. I'm almost out of here.
I get to the double card scan,
once for membership validation;
twice for credit card transaction.
The clerk hands me the receipt.
I note my bill is nearly five hundy.
Whoofffff.
But it could have been worse, right?
Right?
I brace for impact as
I thread my way through
defeated dads and
hyperbolic children
and breakable-looking old men
eating dollar and a quarter
hot dogs in the exit lane.
By the time I have proven that
I am not a criminal
and earn my official Sharpie swipe
through my receipt,
I've aged eighteen months.
I use brute force to grunt my
over-the-brim haul to my car,
crossing raised thresholds and
sidewalk curb cuts
and cranky motorists
and dead-eyed mother-types.
Somehow I'm not run-over,
nor flattened.
To celebrate, I unload my
year's worth of food that
I'd bought to last two weeks.
I body-check every box,
bundle, package and
clam shell into the trunk.
And then I turn to find
the hot chicks,
the rotisseried pair.
I pick up my mom's; place it
in the passenger foot well.
I even gave the bird its own
reclaimed box, for comfort.
I turn back to collect
my rod-spun poultry
and to return the trolley.
Something beneath it catches my eye.
But wait, what is that?
In the void where the chicken layed,
is now a dented plastic bundle
with a melty puddle showing through
its peep-and-reveal window
in the packaging.
It's the bulk
Polly-O string cheese.
My child's request, the one
that set off this journey
now oil-seeped and floppy
at the bottom of
the pit of despair.
= = =
I am a lady.
I am a gentle woman.
I am a mom.
I am a role model.
= = =
And so I wait until I am
fully inside my car and door
clamped behind me
before I let a scream curdle
in my lungs, fill my cabin
with unleashed angst.
This time no one is cutting me off.
I let the yetis exit my system.
I shake it off, exit the car.
Pop the trunk, rip open a box.
I tear the flimsy outer package
and bite a chunk
of Haagen Dazs ice cream bar
like a shark taking down
a harbor seal by its neck.
I release my shoulders,
lay down my armour.
I relax into the manufactured bliss
of chocolate, almonds, and vanilla.
Okay, this is really good.
And it was three bucks off!
What a(n) (or)deal.
