The Hunt for Red Tomato

It wasn’t that long ago that men hunted and gathered. Now we shop. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to be in air conditioning in summer or a heated space on cold days. We used to sit outside, in all types of weather, waiting for some animal to wander by. We’d ponder what we wanted for dinner as the rain soaked us, but it actually didn’t matter. Food is food and eating is a good thing so any preoccupied animal that didn’t notice us, hiding behind a log with our green-and-brown-painted face, was going to have a bad day. Ah, when men were men.

So, it’s a sunny Friday afternoon as I head to the grocery store with my wife-directed shopping list on my phone. In the parking lot, a luxury sedan zooms by and slams on the brakes just short of an older man in the entrance crosswalk. Wow. That was close. She almost dropped her phone. The man doesn’t even turn his head. I nod. He’s a courageous, experienced shopper.

She parks in the front of the store next to the curb, blocking traffic, and hops out. The sour-lemon face gives her away. She’s a VIP. None of us matter. I suspect she forgot something on her last trip here. I turn right, down an aisle, watching out for other old men.

Crap. A Camry with a turn signal blinking is stopped in front of me. It’s waiting. The bumper sticker says, “I Love (some of) My Grandchildren.” It’s a retired person and this is probably their daily outing. I start tapping the steering wheel. In the rear-view mirror, I see two cars waiting behind me. They can’t get around the waiting car either because of a crew-cab, long-bed truck parked on the left that didn’t pull in far enough. This is going to get ugly.

Ahead of the Camry a woman is pushing an overflowing cart while one little girl holds her hand and takes slow, baby steps. Another little girl walks ten feet behind reading a book. As the mom walks, the Camry slowly stalks forward to keep up. If the mom walks too far, her space will not be considered a “prime” space and the Camry may give up, but no such luck. The woman stops and opens the hatch of her minivan. She glances toward the line of waiting cars expressing no concern or sense of urgency. After all, she’s just been shopping and is stressed out. The valium is wearing off. It takes her several minutes to load the groceries into her van. She does it with one hand as she holds the little girl’s hand with the other and consoles her. The Camry waits. We wait.

Fully unloaded, mom takes the cart to the cart stand with the little girl in tow. Her neck is bent severely left to hold her cell phone while she walks. She wanders back to the minivan, straps in both kids, starts the car, and sits with the brake lights on, unmoving. It must be a really important call. In the meantime, a car backs out of a space to my left and squeezes by the protruding truck. The Camry’s white backup lights come on but it can’t back up. I’m in the way. Ha. The space is mine.

I drift back a foot and swing into the open slot. As I get out of the car, I glance at the Camry’s driver. She is giving me the eat-waste-matter look. Her anger will persist. The other people waiting are also angry. The only happy people are the mom and me. This sets the stage for a normal shopping experience. Half the people are angry, almost half want to be somewhere else, and me.

The automatic swinging door opens and to the right are the shopping carts. I turn toward them, and a person cuts me off and takes a cart. As she leaves, she glances at me with no expression. I’m an object, just like a tree next to the interstate.

Deciding to maintain my upbeat mood, I say to me, “I’m glad I let her get go first. She’s probably in a hurry, with a lot of things on her mind.” My calm ends when another person, male, blocks me and takes a cart. He leaves and I scan the area. No one else is around to be rude.

Cart in hand, I go into the store. One wheel has something caught in it. It’s not turning and is pulling itself to the left. I don’t care. I’m moving forward. If I go back to the carts, I may hurt someone.

Checking my phone list, I note “lunch meat and cheese” and head for the deli section. There are two people waiting at the counter as the store folks are slicing something on what I call the meat table saws. Without a number system it’s every person for themselves. One store employee hands some sliced turkey to one of the customers and stupidly asks, “Is there anything else I can help you with today?” The elderly customer says, “Well, let me see…”

The second customer gets his sliced cheese and says, “I wanted this to be sandwich thickness. This is obviously thinner,” and he hands it back. A woman walks up to the other end of the counter as a third employee enters the area. He asks her what she would like today. I turn my cart around and head for the fruit. I’ll just tell my wife they were out of lunch meat.

As I approach the apples, a man performs a “block.” It’s the same principle as blocking in football, but you have a cart and can impede more area. He parks his in front of half the apples. Of course, they are the ones I want to buy. I pull in front of him and wait with a snarky smile. He doesn’t even look at me. He’s really experienced at this.

He inspects over twenty or thirty Fujis, trying to find the most perfect apple since Adam and Eve. I wait. Finally holding two superior selections, he walks back to the plastic bag dispenser where, after fiddling with a bag for about a minute, throws it on the floor. Everyone knows you can’t open them with one hand and sometimes two. He is obviously new at this. My opinion of his shopping prowess is diminished.

Taking another, he manages to open it on the first try and we’re almost home, but then seeing some Golden Delicious, he starts to examine alternatives. I move his cart out of the way.

He glares at me for a second, then smiles. “I’m sorry. Let me move this.” I’m not stupid. He’s not sorry. It was intentional. A woman approaches, so I hurry to position my cart to block the Fujis and Honeycrisps. As I snicker inside, she passes by. That was awful. Why did I do that? I reprimand myself using words and phrases I learned from my high school coaches.

Broccoli is on my list. I get to the bin and the same guy is blocking it. He must have prematurely abandoned the Golden Delicious. Standing there, peeling leaves from a purple cabbage and dropping them in the broccoli bin, he smirks. I suspect he saw my shopping list. I move past as if I have no interest. That’s right, rude man, I don’t need broccoli. I’ll just tell my wife they were out of broccoli.

The next list item is tomatoes. The tomato aisle has no customers or carts. I can’t believe it. I sprint toward the aisle. The rapid pace causes my stuck cart-wheel to squeak loudly. People are noticing. Just before I get there, a store employee pushes a dolly filled with boxes in front of the tomato bin and blocks them. Now, with tomatoes inaccessible, he walks back through the doors to nowhere, the double metal doors for employees only. They don’t want us to see what’s behind them. I think of Charlton Heston and soylent green. I move on to the packaged products areas.

The non-fresh areas are much friendlier turf. Things are boxed and labeled, and products are sought by name. There are no quality concerns other than ensuring the boxes are not crushed or severely wounded by box cutters. The downside is people reading labels. Those folks always seem to park their carts in the middle of the aisle. Only by stopping and glaring will they move. They probably read all the documents when buying a house or car. Lawyers love them since they bill hourly.

My wife always tells me to search for sales – the special signs where the prices are displayed, sometimes even below the correct product. Instead, I find gaps on the shelves and hope there are items left. Gaps are easier to detect. However, that doesn’t work during a pandemic for toilet paper and bleach, but for other things it works quite well. There are no sales of anything I might want, but I do pick up a couple of things because you just never know.

All done, I go to the checkout line. Left and right, I notice only two of the eight lines are open, several people waiting at each. It’s like the doctor’s office where they make you wait on purpose. It’s part of putting you in your place, letting you know where you stand. There are four or five employees wandering around, but we are not their concern.

I slowly advance to next in line. An employee walks up the adjacent aisle and tells the person behind me to come over. He is opening up a new checkout lane. What am I? Chopped liver? Two people behind me move into the new line. The customer in front of me is still unloading their cart and will be for a while.

I have time so review my list. Of the twenty items, I have nine in my cart plus two sale items I don’ t need, one more than the ten-item express lane permits. I consider going there anyway, but I don’t want to endure the other customers’ condemnation.

The person in front of me has struck up a conversation with the checkout lady. Seems they have children at the same school. Now she’s leaning on the cash register and laughing. I think, “I don’t have to live like this.” I look at my list again. The one critical item was a tomato. What do I do? What do I do? I would have to wait in line again but decided to go back to the vegetables or my mission would be a failure.

Six people are sorting through the just-put-out, fresh, gloriously red tomatoes. The area is totally blocked with carts and people. I take a deep breath and spot a small gap in the herd. I squeeze between the carts, reach in, and grab a large one. As my arm retracts, the lady next to me watches the tomato pass by with an envious stare. I got a good one, maybe the best one. I decisively walk away, trophy in hand. Throwing protocol to the wind, I go to different, empty aisle and get a plastic bag. I am proud of myself.

Back at home, I pledge no shopping for at least two days. Recovery time is important. The tomato is isolated on the counter, much like a trophy. I study it and feel a hunger pang. “That would be good on a sandwich.” I open the refrigerator. No lunchmeat. No cheese. I close the door and exhale. Time to start a new shopping list.