Costco Saturday by Tobi Pledger

My stomach growls like a badger as I park my silver Rav4 and walk toward the entrance. As a distraction from the rumbling, I consider the questions I always have when I come here. What is the deal with that iconic red bark mulch? Is it pine mulch that’s been dyed, or is it made from California redwood trees? And, why did Costco planners put the cart corral for incoming shoppers next to the exit door? The cross traffic is a serious problem.

A fat raindrop gets caught in my eyelashes. I blink and move under the awning, grabbing the closest cart and pushing through exiting customers—a salmon battling the river.

A smiling Latina glances at the photo on the Citi VISA card I flash at her.

“Welcome to Costco.”

“You, too. I mean—thank you.” She’s not listening, she’s dealing with the other salmon.

As I round the display cases full of glimmering cubic zirconia and diamond jewelry, a tall woman steps toward me, saying, “May I ask if you’re happy with your internet and cable provider?”

Before I can answer, she adds, “We’re offering Frontier service with bundled cable and internet for—”

“No, thanks.”

“Here’s a brochure outlining the different plans.”

I palm the leaflet and move on; I’m hungry and it’s Costco Saturday. I head to the back of the store, and the foraging begins. There’s a Costco employee every fifteen feet, manning small, cloth-covered tables, offering free samples—savory islands in a sea of shoppers. At the first one, a man with a beard net, but no discernable beard, cuts a steaming filet of beer-battered cod into two-inch squares. He puts a piece of fish and a spoonful of Costco tartar sauce on a small plate and pushes it toward me. “This is really good fish, and it comes pre-cooked—just pop it in the microwave.”

I stab the fish and push it under the tartar sauce—subversion of a continental plate—then lift it to my mouth. He’s right. It is good fish.

I drop my plate in the trashcan and move toward the next delicacy. This table has cubes of cheese from a collection of cheddars produced in England. A plump guy with a bad case of acne describes his offering, reading from a card and circling his right index finger clockwise as he points to each cheese, “This is black truffle, cracked black pepper, caramelized onion, garlic and herb, sage ‘derby?’… and mustard and ale cheddar. And there are three kinds of Carr’s Table Water crackers. Help yourself, try them all.”

“What’s the green one?”

He refers to his card, “That’s the sage derby. I don’t know the backstory on that one.”

I try the sage derby first—it reminds me of my favorite Dr. Seuss book. When I was six, I asked my dad if we could have green eggs and ham. He cooked me a green omelet, which tasted quite amazing. I just knew he’d used magic to create the green eggs, but in retrospect, it was probably food coloring. Two drops of yellow, two drops of blue would do it. I tell the man, “This cheese would make naturally green omelets a possibility.” He nods and murmurs “Uh, huh,” then reads cheese names to a new customer.

Another table, manned by a petite black woman, has Chinese spring rolls and spicy mustard with round black specks, and the next has kosher mozzarella balls in olive oil. Then comes Kirkland Signature Beef Jerky samples. I eat it all.

I arrive at a station with a crockpot full of mini sausages. The LOWL (my code for little old white lady) at this table, her purple reading glasses hanging from a chain, is spearfishing the Lit’l Smokies that swim in barbeque sauce. When she pierces one, she puts it in a small paper cup, and starts again with another colored toothpick. “Help yourself,” she says. I eat four of the sausages. This is my favorite sample so far.

The woman asks, “Can you stay here for a minute while I run to the restroom?”

“No problem.”

Twenty minutes and several smokies later, the woman still hasn’t returned. I keep stabbing Smokies, and people keep taking them. I have a strong desire to please, and I’m pretty sure I have undiagnosed OCD, so I continue sticking the lit’l guys—trying to stay ahead of demand—but I do wonder where she’s gone and when I’ll get to resume my food tour. I don’t plan to shop, because I really don’t need two dozen pairs of white tube socks, or a quart-sized can of albacore tuna.

An hour later, the supervisor comes by and asks where my hair net is. I tell him I need a new one, and ask if he can have someone bring me more Smokies.

The LOWL never came back. That was three months ago. I wasn’t looking for a job. I had a job. But now I have a new job, and I hope she never returns. If she does, they’ll have to give her a card table somewhere else. This one, next to the freezer cabinet with the twenty-eight count boxes of jumbo corn dogs, is mine.

Tobi Pledger

Image: Mini barbecue sausages in sauce from google.