Executive

"Get in the car, we're leaving in two minutes!" 
He exclaims up the stairs, en route to the mud room.
I flick my wrist, read my Apple Watch: It's 8:21 a.m. on a Saturday.
Eh? Surprise adventure, what could it be? I wonder.
I catch up with him, jump in the passenger seat, stare at him expectantly.
"Executive Hours," he says, without context.
"Ooooohhhh" I reply.

He surges power into his battery pack on wheels as he exits our garage.
We roll, electric vehicle mosquito octave hum-shrieking through quiet streets.
We accelerate onto the highway, head away from city center, take the off ramp into the exurbs.
He coasts us into the largely empty Enormous Box parking lot, engages the E-brake; puts the car in Dog Mode.

We sit, facing the entrance: Costco looms.
Like a sleeping giant, she lays at rest, 
not yet aware that she's about to be rudely awakened 
by the screech of double-wide trolleys with crab-walking wheels
pushed by self-important Am I Better Than You? Mmmmhmmmhmmm Yes I Am Executive Members.

Members like...Him. And Me.
We pay over more than fair dues each year to get a couple percent back 
on our purchases of gallon jugs of maple syrup and fleets of Grade A eggs.
And today we are going to use an underrated perquisite: 
early shopping hours with fellow Black Card holders.

I scan the already growing line of people clutching their claimed carts,
and my heart begins to pump with a fretful cadence. 
"It seems like maybe we should get in line," I observe.
He points to the dashboard. "It's 8:47, we're fine. Hold until the line is parallel to our aisle."

Such discipline. Such patience. I do not share this with him.
I bounce in the seat, thump my hand against my thigh, surreptitiously bleeding my nerves.
"Babe, why are you so antsy? Relax. It's just Costco." 
He says, clearly not seeing the art of the hunt, of the competition.
"But they are GETTING IN FRONT OF US" I reason, eyebrows high. 
He remains unmoved by my unassailable logic. 
"Hold." 

He engages me, or tries to, in conversation for the next eleven minutes,
while I bobble my head back and forth watching the lots fill and the line lengthen.
At 8:58:40 a.m., I can't hold back and be polite for any longer. 
"LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!" I cry. I bolt from the car; don't look back.

He finds me in line, as I direct a gargantuan steel beast around mines: 
bollards, slow walkers, an ill-advised free-range toddler; 
a dissociating man immersed in his phone screen.

"ComeMonComeMonComeMon!" 
I chirp, a caffeinated squirrel on the search for acorns before the frost.
He rolls his eyes, affectionately (right? RIGHT?).
He sighfully shares, "So glad I invited you."

My attention is already diverted; the Intake Clerk is there, scanning barcodes.
I whip out my Black Card
— HERE I AM! I AM WORTHY! —
And she processes us, waves us forward.

At last, we traverse the warehouse threshold, 
dumped into a cavernous dungeon of commerce 
brimming with the allure of loss leaders 
in the form of dollar-fifty meat sticks and twirling birds.

I let out an inadvertent squeal of glee: "Eeeeek!! We're here!"
He holds my hand, and I squeeze it back.
"I love you, too!" I say, a tear threatening the corner of my eye.
"Remember, stick to the list." 
He says, hearing himself, 
and in his baritone, the futility of his guidance.

The sudden storm clouds of a challenge rumble in. 
I will not be restrained. By him, or anybody.
My eyes darken as my sight shifts to the farthest corner.
I calculate my next move; it's Go Time. 
"Catch me if you can!"