The Grocery Store Encounter
by Leah Jarrett
“Skurump, skrump, screech.” Aden rolled the cart along the scuffed grey cement floor of his local chain grocery store. The buggy veered stubbornly to the left as the rear wheel stuttered. He identified the culprit as a tangled mess of a mystery substance wound around the axle. Muttering under his breath, Aden strong-armed his mischievous cart, joining the stream of gloved and masked individuals in their determined march towards the back of the store.
Lodged squarely between an angular young woman pushing a cart full to the brim with an odd assortment of canned kidney beans and artichoke hearts and an austere old man defensively wheeling along bulk bags of cat food, Aden surrendered himself to the slow and squeaky shuffle of shoppers. His cart bounced and slurred, the knuckles of his right-hand straining against the pale blue rubber of his glove as he fought the insistent off-kilter pull of his cliché bum buggy.
Having recently returned home from university following the timely pre-midterm school closure, Aden had a simple, if crucial, mission. His quest, the only venture to adequately justify his escape from quarantine, was to fend off the inevitable depletion of his family’s toilet paper supply. With two parents, three brothers, and one displaced roommate, Aden’s sanity depended on the outcome of trips like these.
“Skurump, skrump, screech.” Aden rolled the cart along the scuffed grey cement floor of his local chain grocery store. The buggy veered stubbornly to the left as the rear wheel stuttered. He identified the culprit as a tangled mess of a mystery substance wound around the axle. Muttering under his breath, Aden strong-armed his mischievous cart, joining the stream of gloved and masked individuals in their determined march towards the back of the store.
Lodged squarely between an angular young woman pushing a cart full to the brim with an odd assortment of canned kidney beans and artichoke hearts and an austere old man defensively wheeling along bulk bags of cat food, Aden surrendered himself to the slow and squeaky shuffle of shoppers. His cart bounced and slurred, the knuckles of his right-hand straining against the pale blue rubber of his glove as he fought the insistent off-kilter pull of his cliché bum buggy.
Having recently returned home from university following the timely pre-midterm school closure, Aden had a simple, if crucial, mission. His quest, the only venture to adequately justify his escape from quarantine, was to fend off the inevitable depletion of his family’s toilet paper supply. With two parents, three brothers, and one displaced roommate, Aden’s sanity depended on the outcome of trips like these.
Sure, contagion was a risk, and of course, boredom would eventually set in, but Aden found the prospect of holing up in his room for a few weeks rather enjoyable. No, the real danger, Aden thought, would not be the risk of infection or mental fatigue, rather the depletion of their toilet paper. Although, Aden imagined, a close second would be the loss of high-speed internet. Then the world would truly fall into chaos. Aden felt the right wheel of the old man’s cart clip his ankle as the line surged slightly. His damp sneakers squeaked as he tripped into an awkward jog, narrowly avoiding collision with the woman at his left shoulder as his deviant cart careened. With her mask pulled tightly from left ear to right, her face was mostly obscured. Still, nothing could conceal the expression in the arch of her brow and the slight twitch of her crow’s feet. Head ducked and shoulders square, Aden adjusted the cart's trajectory. He wouldn’t want to meet that woman in a dark alley after curfew.
As he passed aisle after aisle, he was struck by the stark emptiness of the shelves, like out of some cheap dystopian film he might pirate on a particularly dull Sunday night. Never, in his all of his 20 years, could he have imagined that this would one day be his reality. He figured that he was living history. One day, when he was old and shrunken, surrounded by his fidgeting grandchildren, one of them would grasp his pant leg with chubby fingers and ask, “You lived during the outbreak of 2020? Whatever did you do?” He would nod his head, tap the child’s nose with a wrinkled finger and respond in a gravelly tone, “Well, my dear, we posted Facebook memes and fought over toilet paper. After that, not much, not much at all.”
Aden snorted, his sharp exhale pinging inside of his mask, warming his cheeks. A scuffle ahead abruptly pulled him from his thoughts. In an aisle previously obscured by the procession of carts, Aden could see a frantic female figure muscling a large package of water into her heaping cart. A dejected employee slumped noncommittally next to the woman, pointing a gloved finger towards a battered sign taped to the orange shelf scaffolding.
“Ma’am…”
The woman ignored the young man and huffily marched towards the shelf, palming stubborn springs of auburn hair out of her eyes.
Feeling ignored, the employee repeated, “Ma’am, I must ask you to limit yourself to one pack: store policy.”
The woman finally turned, her eyes sparking as she took a threatening step towards the uniform-clad man.
“I have a right…” she seethed. Turning back to the shelving, she grasped the cumbersome package with stubborn fingers, puckering the protective plastic as she set it defiantly on top of the others in her cart. “I have a right...to LIVE”.
The hesitant employee considered the woman for a moment. He gazed down at her petite frame, then glanced at the cart piled high with water. His eyes never leaving the woman, he retrieved a walkie talkie from his front jacket pocket, thumbed its controls, and muttered into the pitted speaker, “Robbie, I’m taking my 15”.
Without giving the woman a second glance, the worker slouched towards the break room, a set of keys rattling at his belt. Aden shook his head, chuckling to himself as he passed the resolute woman, wheeling past the chip aisle, abandoned except for a crushed bag of Takis, and beyond the bread aisle where two middle-aged women seemed to be negotiating for the last bag of rye.
Finally, he reached his destination. Aden broke from the line and steered his cart down the aisle. That was when he saw it, as though illuminated by a heavenly light from above: the last pack of Charmin Ultra Soft. He steered his cart around the corner and moved swiftly towards the pack, attempting a deceptive nonchalance that might distract from his true mark. That was also, however, when he saw her. At the far end of the aisle, Aden could make out a figure clothed in ripped jeans and a large hoodie sneaking her cart around the corner. She hunched her shoulders, curling inward to evade the notice of fellow shoppers; her gaze intently locked on the lone package nestled against the back of the aisle’s bare shelf. Despite having slowed to avoid discovery, the rear wheel of his cart let out a traitorous squeal. The girl’s eyes snapped up. Curse his cliché bum buggy. Aden took stock of his options. One, he could play the chivalrous knight and surrender the pack to his opponent, or two, he could speed down the aisle and snatch up the prize. Option one was clearly not possible; desperate times called for desperate measures.
When asked in his old age what exactly took place in the following seconds, Aden, perhaps in embarrassment, or due to acute amnesia, would reply that he was not entirely sure. However, the dejected floor man Arnold, for that was in fact his name, prided himself on an elephant-esk memory, and, as it happened, was blessed with a front-row seat to the exchange. Having just returned from his break, Arnold shuffled back to his post guarding the packs of bottled water and soda. Just as he was considering the pros and cons of licking a buggy handle and testing fate, he caught sight of two shoppers charge from opposite ends of the deserted toilet paper aisle. He was quite certain that the boy had actually growled. Arnold sighed, straightened the sleeves of his jacket and brushed past the platform. It was outside of his department.
Aden and the girl raced towards the center of the aisle; carts wielded like shields. Stopping just shy of collision, they abandoned their carts and vaulted towards the lone pack of toilet paper. What neither of them realized was that, in the aisle adjacent to their own, there stood another player. Oblivious to the rising conflict only an aisle to her left, an eclectic college student embarked on a similar mission. Having been distracted from her true destination by an unusually large collection of biodegradable straws, she was glad to spot the pack of toilet paper. She squatted in front of the shelf, abandoning her tie-dye bucket bag and glass mason jar on the concrete floor. Crawling forward she managed to hook her finger through the plastic wrapping and tug the hefty load over onto her side of the aisle. She deposited the pack in the wide belly of the cart, collected her belongings, and contentedly lilted towards checkout.
For one beat, Aden and the girl stood completely still, staring at the spot where the package had been only moments before as if through sheer will power, they could turn back the clock. Aden lowered himself onto the bottom platform of shelving; arms wrapped around knees; ratty black sneakers pressed together. The girl collapsed to his left.
They sat in silence. Finally, after a short eternity, the girl brought her palms to press against her kneecaps, inhaling deeply before saying, “My name’s Emily.”
He let the statement hang in the air, probably too long, it must have collected dust. She turned to catch his eye, arching a brow, waiting. Realizing his mistake, he quickly filled the silence.
“Aden, my name’s Aden.”
She nodded. Scrunching her nose, she peered into his empty cart.
"Rotten luck, huh,” Emily observed. Aden hummed in reply, reaching to rub his eyes with the heels of his hands, then thinking better of it.
"You know, none of this feels real," she sighed, hands dancing in the air as if to punctuate her words. She continued, "Feels like yesterday I was complaining about the weather and wishing Andrew Norman would just ask me out, and now I think I just fought a random guy in a store over.... over what?"
She drew her bent legs to her chest, picking at the busted-out knees of her jeans. "Over a pack of toilet paper!”
"Yeah,” he said lamely, rubbing his palms together.
They sat there, on the dingy wooden platform; orange metal industrial shelving rising around them. The conversation came slowly at first, then flowed smoothly. He told her about the fiery woman and the exasperated employee. She told him about the three seasons of Friends she had binged in the past three days. He explained the chaos of his home, the cramped room he shared with his ex-roommate and oldest brother, and the cozy breakfasts they shared at their battered dining room table. She spoke somberly about living with her grandmother, how her grandmother had gotten sick, how she now lived alone.
So there, in the most unlikely of places with the unlikeliest of people, they were reminded of the realities stretching far beyond their own. Their tiny little islands of solitude were, for a moment, bridged.
"So,” Emily said through a lopsided smile. "I have a proposition.”
As he passed aisle after aisle, he was struck by the stark emptiness of the shelves, like out of some cheap dystopian film he might pirate on a particularly dull Sunday night. Never, in his all of his 20 years, could he have imagined that this would one day be his reality. He figured that he was living history. One day, when he was old and shrunken, surrounded by his fidgeting grandchildren, one of them would grasp his pant leg with chubby fingers and ask, “You lived during the outbreak of 2020? Whatever did you do?” He would nod his head, tap the child’s nose with a wrinkled finger and respond in a gravelly tone, “Well, my dear, we posted Facebook memes and fought over toilet paper. After that, not much, not much at all.”
Aden snorted, his sharp exhale pinging inside of his mask, warming his cheeks. A scuffle ahead abruptly pulled him from his thoughts. In an aisle previously obscured by the procession of carts, Aden could see a frantic female figure muscling a large package of water into her heaping cart. A dejected employee slumped noncommittally next to the woman, pointing a gloved finger towards a battered sign taped to the orange shelf scaffolding.
“Ma’am…”
The woman ignored the young man and huffily marched towards the shelf, palming stubborn springs of auburn hair out of her eyes.
Feeling ignored, the employee repeated, “Ma’am, I must ask you to limit yourself to one pack: store policy.”
The woman finally turned, her eyes sparking as she took a threatening step towards the uniform-clad man.
“I have a right…” she seethed. Turning back to the shelving, she grasped the cumbersome package with stubborn fingers, puckering the protective plastic as she set it defiantly on top of the others in her cart. “I have a right...to LIVE”.
The hesitant employee considered the woman for a moment. He gazed down at her petite frame, then glanced at the cart piled high with water. His eyes never leaving the woman, he retrieved a walkie talkie from his front jacket pocket, thumbed its controls, and muttered into the pitted speaker, “Robbie, I’m taking my 15”.
Without giving the woman a second glance, the worker slouched towards the break room, a set of keys rattling at his belt. Aden shook his head, chuckling to himself as he passed the resolute woman, wheeling past the chip aisle, abandoned except for a crushed bag of Takis, and beyond the bread aisle where two middle-aged women seemed to be negotiating for the last bag of rye.
Finally, he reached his destination. Aden broke from the line and steered his cart down the aisle. That was when he saw it, as though illuminated by a heavenly light from above: the last pack of Charmin Ultra Soft. He steered his cart around the corner and moved swiftly towards the pack, attempting a deceptive nonchalance that might distract from his true mark. That was also, however, when he saw her. At the far end of the aisle, Aden could make out a figure clothed in ripped jeans and a large hoodie sneaking her cart around the corner. She hunched her shoulders, curling inward to evade the notice of fellow shoppers; her gaze intently locked on the lone package nestled against the back of the aisle’s bare shelf. Despite having slowed to avoid discovery, the rear wheel of his cart let out a traitorous squeal. The girl’s eyes snapped up. Curse his cliché bum buggy. Aden took stock of his options. One, he could play the chivalrous knight and surrender the pack to his opponent, or two, he could speed down the aisle and snatch up the prize. Option one was clearly not possible; desperate times called for desperate measures.
When asked in his old age what exactly took place in the following seconds, Aden, perhaps in embarrassment, or due to acute amnesia, would reply that he was not entirely sure. However, the dejected floor man Arnold, for that was in fact his name, prided himself on an elephant-esk memory, and, as it happened, was blessed with a front-row seat to the exchange. Having just returned from his break, Arnold shuffled back to his post guarding the packs of bottled water and soda. Just as he was considering the pros and cons of licking a buggy handle and testing fate, he caught sight of two shoppers charge from opposite ends of the deserted toilet paper aisle. He was quite certain that the boy had actually growled. Arnold sighed, straightened the sleeves of his jacket and brushed past the platform. It was outside of his department.
Aden and the girl raced towards the center of the aisle; carts wielded like shields. Stopping just shy of collision, they abandoned their carts and vaulted towards the lone pack of toilet paper. What neither of them realized was that, in the aisle adjacent to their own, there stood another player. Oblivious to the rising conflict only an aisle to her left, an eclectic college student embarked on a similar mission. Having been distracted from her true destination by an unusually large collection of biodegradable straws, she was glad to spot the pack of toilet paper. She squatted in front of the shelf, abandoning her tie-dye bucket bag and glass mason jar on the concrete floor. Crawling forward she managed to hook her finger through the plastic wrapping and tug the hefty load over onto her side of the aisle. She deposited the pack in the wide belly of the cart, collected her belongings, and contentedly lilted towards checkout.
For one beat, Aden and the girl stood completely still, staring at the spot where the package had been only moments before as if through sheer will power, they could turn back the clock. Aden lowered himself onto the bottom platform of shelving; arms wrapped around knees; ratty black sneakers pressed together. The girl collapsed to his left.
They sat in silence. Finally, after a short eternity, the girl brought her palms to press against her kneecaps, inhaling deeply before saying, “My name’s Emily.”
He let the statement hang in the air, probably too long, it must have collected dust. She turned to catch his eye, arching a brow, waiting. Realizing his mistake, he quickly filled the silence.
“Aden, my name’s Aden.”
She nodded. Scrunching her nose, she peered into his empty cart.
"Rotten luck, huh,” Emily observed. Aden hummed in reply, reaching to rub his eyes with the heels of his hands, then thinking better of it.
"You know, none of this feels real," she sighed, hands dancing in the air as if to punctuate her words. She continued, "Feels like yesterday I was complaining about the weather and wishing Andrew Norman would just ask me out, and now I think I just fought a random guy in a store over.... over what?"
She drew her bent legs to her chest, picking at the busted-out knees of her jeans. "Over a pack of toilet paper!”
"Yeah,” he said lamely, rubbing his palms together.
They sat there, on the dingy wooden platform; orange metal industrial shelving rising around them. The conversation came slowly at first, then flowed smoothly. He told her about the fiery woman and the exasperated employee. She told him about the three seasons of Friends she had binged in the past three days. He explained the chaos of his home, the cramped room he shared with his ex-roommate and oldest brother, and the cozy breakfasts they shared at their battered dining room table. She spoke somberly about living with her grandmother, how her grandmother had gotten sick, how she now lived alone.
So there, in the most unlikely of places with the unlikeliest of people, they were reminded of the realities stretching far beyond their own. Their tiny little islands of solitude were, for a moment, bridged.
"So,” Emily said through a lopsided smile. "I have a proposition.”
"Yeah?" chuckled Aden. For the first time in weeks, he felt the smile reach his eyes.
"We may not have toilet paper,”, she mused, gesturing towards their empty carts. "But, how do you feel about paper towels?"
"We may not have toilet paper,”, she mused, gesturing towards their empty carts. "But, how do you feel about paper towels?"
