Clean up in the Meat Dept. by J. Bradley Minnick

I see her in the supermarket. She wears an oversized pink sweat shirt displaying two big cloth cut-out letters that signify sorority. She is maybe 30, beautiful, and not alone.

Her cart rattles against the unevenness of the shiny supermarket floor. A large man, her boyfriend I imagine, dressed in unmatched wrinkles, stands facing backwards wearing a backward baseball cap on the front of the cart she pushes. I watch as he cleans off various shelves with his broad arm while he uses the heels of his untied sneakers at intervals to slow the cart. “Woody” is written across his massive gray sweat shirt.

“Woody,” I murmur to myself. 

I manoeuvre my cart simulating synchronous test-patterns to the cool muzak of “Somewhere (there’s a place for us),” grabbing items off the shelves (paper towels, Kool-Aid, caramel brownies, artisan jalapeno bread, baby swiss cheese, prepared sushi) all the while calculating the purchases in my head, while at the same time positioning myself in front of Sorority, looking backwards more than occasionally. 

When I see Woody snap his arm out for a box of animal crackers, I imagine myself having a supermarket affair with his girlfriend. 

We would cut coupons using the same scissors and agree to meet in the popsicle aisle until our relationship grew warmer; soon after, she would trust me to squeeze the honeydew melons while she weighed and bagged them; in the veggie aisle, she would scrutinize cucumbers dutifully shrink-wrapped and then, with abandon, run her hands through leafy spinach and broccoli heads looking for bugs; as we grew bolder, together, we would scoop devil chocolate ice-cream into fat funnel cones fresh out of their boxes with no intention of paying; we’d lick our fingers in the good housekeeping aisle and feel dirty afterwards; we’d eye odd-shaped bottles of expensive spicy French mustard and imagine hotdog picnics with our friends drinking out of wine boxes and eating soft buns; we’d push separate carts down the store aisles secretly pleased with our slyness yet recognizing we were under surveillance; we would rub elbows as we clandestinely walked toward Check-Out, and giggle at the blips as our items were scanned by a glittery woman with purple eye makeup and a tierra with a button that read, “I bring the glow,”; we’d discover our special award points and Sparkles would call out to the manager, a man with a mustache that curls upward toward the florescent lights, who would take our picture and throw in a Sippy cup advertising the store; then, together we’d hold our bring-your-own bag as we exit, a single orange juice container between us; we’d unlock our separate car doors, my Buick, her Prius, nod to each other, and follow whoever left with the juice.

Ours would not be a brief shopping spree of check-ins and check-outs, receipts and coupons. This girl, who I’d affectionately call Sorority, would know I loved her more than. . . Corn Flakes, more than corn muffins, more than cornbread with tasty bits of creamed corn, more than corn niblets in cans. Still, no matter how much I’d push, she’d refuse to give up her sweatshirt clad boyfriend.  

“What does Woody have that I don’t?” I’d ask. 

Sorority would cock one eyebrow. Then the other. “Do you really want me to answer that?” 

“The only thing I have to fear is frozen food itself. Pleeeeeeeaaaaaasee, take me in out of the cold,” I’d beg.

“Don’t whine in the wine aisle,” she’d say.

In a rare moment of honesty in frozen foods, she’d say, “Okay, you asked for it. I keep Woody around for three reasons.”

“I’m prepared for the worst,” I’d shiver. 

“You owe me double coupons for this.”

“I’m prepared to write a paper check and suffer anachronistic condemnation.”   

“Please know this is against my better judgment. . . I like Woody because he’s funny, he can play golf, and he can dance. I don’t expect you to understand.”

Sorority’s words fade away as I wheel my cart into the present, mirroring her twists, and occasionally looking behind for a turn signal in her eyes. I manoeuvre my cart with the skill and grace of an ice skater through housewares toward meats. 

Out of nowhere, an old lady with a trip ticket sticker on her purse and an out-of-control cart, whose front resembles a cartoon whale face with a child in a front seat holding onto the whale’s red nose runs the red-light special and smack dabs into my cart, which flips around sideways displaced in the middle of the meat aisle.

“Shit!” the lady says, “As I’ve always said, people cannot attend to more than one thing at a time. My grandbaby. Are you alright little Carl?” she says to the stunned child who looks like he is ready to cry. “I will take a pic of the accident with my phone.”

 “I’m prone to daydreams,” I say.

“It’s a good thing this cart didn’t swallow you whole,” she says, winks, and removes little Carl from the mouth of the whale while holding her phone in her other hand.

Although I am only 35, my mother is always trying to set me up with her blue-haired friends, who, when mom invites me over for bridge, sit inappropriately close and are handsy. 

Suddenly Sorority’s cart swerves and t-bones the whale, and Woody falls backward in very slow motion into the whale’s open mouth. 

“My meat,” the old lady says to little Carl who immediately begins to cry. “That big man is crushing my meat!”  

From inside the whale’s mouth all one can see are Woody’s hands holding a big rubber spatula, a box of ant traps, and a beef sirloin. The old lady snaps another picture. 

I imagine the headline in Shopper’s Guide.

Meat Aisle Meeting Spoiled by Boyfriend Stuck in the Mouth of a Whale

“You weren’t looking where you were going, and ran into me and Whaley. Thank god, little Carl was not in the cart!” the old lady says to Sorority and snaps another pic. 

“Damn right we did!” Woody yells from deep down inside, still waving the spatula.

Sorority blushes. Her eyebrows curl upward. Little Carl continues to cry.

“Today is about being nice, Woody,” I say into the mouth of the whale, “let’s be trend-setters and upright citizen models for Little Carl.”

“Whaley gobbled up that horrible man like plankton,” Little Carl yells.

“Who you calling a whale?” Woody yells.

“Somehow I feel the fault is mine,” I say to Sorority

“Asshole!” from the depths.

“Lady ears,” the old lady repeats.

“Fuck you!”  Woody says.

“Lady ears, lady ears, lady ears,” the old lady covers little Carl’s.

 “My name is Chuck,” I extend my hand to Sorority. 

“Annie,” Sorority says.

“I would have taken you for a Martha or Maddie,” I say.

“Glad to know you, Chuck. Fancy meeting you in the meat department,” Sorority says. 

“Should we exchange coupons or wait for the manager?” I say.

“Oh, let’s exchange numbers,” the old lady says.

“Listen Pal,” Woody’s voice comes out of the whales’ mouth all echoey. “You better shut it before I stuff something in it!”

 “Oh, I get it: like the food chain,” I say. “And, you’re the itty-bitty fish. . . ” Woody drops the spatula and the ant traps and the meat and tries to get up out of the cart, which rumbles and moves on its own accord precariously close toward the pot roasts all stacked and sealed in plastic. 

“Somewhere!” I get on one knee and sing to Sorority. “There’s a supermarket for us.”

“Oh, I just love that song, Chuck!” The old lady says and takes another picture as Whaley spills over sideways and dumps Woody and its contents onto the floor. 

The manager turns the corner and yells, “Clean up in the Meat Dept. Stat!”

“You better run buddy,” Woody yells from the cart. “What the hell was that all about, Annie?  Do you know that guy?”

“Stick it, Woody.”

“Lady ears to you, too, young lady.” 

I stand in the parking lot with my two bags of groceries and watch a store employee, dressed in a white shirt and a bow tie try to run a stack of 30 carts too many toward the front entrance. The first cart in the runaway train chugs fearlessly toward little Carl, unaware, who stands on the ramp in front of the store staring at a red gumball.    

I see myself running like the wind, surpassing the carts, and in a single bound and with superhero strength, grinding the runaway train to a halt, derailing grocery carts and saving the child, who miraculously doesn’t drop his gumball. 

When I open my eyes, Woody is holding the child safely in his bulging arms. The carts are stopped. The cart runner, startled, tie askew, name tag hanging by a thread from his shirt, sits on the ground with his head in his hands. He looks at Woody. He looks at Sorority. He looks at the carts and the old lady and the store manager. He looks at little Carl.      

Sorority stands clutching grocery bags to her sorority letters. She kisses Woody full on the mouth and the child on the forehead. They pose while the old lady takes a picture.

I set my bags on top of my Buick, grab the package of paper towels that stick out of the top of the bag, and throw it toward Woody and Sorority and little Carl and the cart runner and the old lady and the manager; the wind catches hold of the package and blows it back way over my head and out into the parking lot behind me.

J Bradley Minnick

Image – Pixabay.com – A modern supermarket seen from inside a shopping cart