Kroger Catastrophe
Growing up in a large family, I became accustomed to the long stares and the open-mouthed astonishment we received as people confirmed that we were, indeed, one big family. There was one part of that attention that I could never seem to get over, however—the comments in the grocery store.
Sent to the store one day by my mom because of a great sale on milk and eggs, I pulled a cart from the bin and started off through the door. Here’s to a few seconds of seeming normal, I thought, dryly. I noticed the smell of fresh strawberries as I passed them on my way to the lettuce. I grabbed three heads of lettuce and two heads of the nearby cabbage. There. First astonished look of the day.
Moving on through my shopping, I quickly filled my cart. I called my mom often to check prices and the integrity of sales. Even though people watched openmouthed as I picked up bag after bag of pretzels, I continued loading the attention-drawing, crackling, plastic bags into my cart until I had a total of twelve. Didn’t those strangers know that sales are the only things that keep large families’ grocery bills to amounting to more than the National Debt?
After thirty minutes, I had, much to my relief and delight, reached the last row of the store. This is the point where I always notice the scuffs on the floor as I pass other shoppers. Nevertheless, I walked up to the egg display. The cool air permeating the area matched the cold and blank stares I felt I was receiving. For a moment, no other shoppers seemed nearby. I grasped the opportunity and called my mom. “Mama, I got six gallons of milk and eight dozen eggs. Is that all you wanted?”
Suddenly, I felt eyes burning through my back. Casting a glance over my shoulder, I saw a petite, elderly lady. Her cart was filled with various things: a bunch of three small bananas, a tiny jar of salt, a lone apple, a miniature bag of Uncle Ben’s rice, a pouch of Pillsbury cookie dough, and a mere quart of milk. As she placed her half-dozen crate of eggs into her cart with her meager supply, she stared at me and my cart like she was seeing one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
I smiled sheepishly as I hurried off to the checkout line with my elephant-sized lot and tried to imagine my cart from the elderly lady’s point of view: a single cart, a single girl, and heaps and heaps of groceries.
Nearing the checkout lines, I remembered that the U-scan checkout’s policy had been changed. I frowned at the new “20 items or less” sign swaying above me and groaned inwardly as I realized I would have to face a cashier. I found a check-out line and began unloading. As I did, I had to chuckle. Compared to the elderly lady’s cart, mine was abundantly abounding. Instead of three bananas, I had nine. Salt had been on sale, and I had three large containers. I had the twelve bags of pretzels, ten bags of bagels, nine boxes of various cereals, six gallons of milk, and frozen vegetables galore. Seven cans of tomato sauce, ten cans of peaches, and ten cans of fruit cocktail were precariously stacked to reserve space. Eight dozen eggs were carefully placed in various spaces throughout the cart, and I hoped none would be broken. Finally, three heads of lettuce and two heads of cabbage made a green mountain in the toddler’s seat and one 24-roll package of toilet paper was balanced on the bottom rack of the cart.
As I watched the belt roll my items toward the teenage cashier, I wished I could hide under the belt or among the masses of groceries. The girl behind the counter smiled sweetly at me and said, “Do y’all like eggs?” It was all I could do to have confidence like I emptied the egg display everyday of my life as I replied, “As a matter of fact, we do.” The cashier raised her eyebrows incredulously, snapped her gum, and scanned the last dozen.
There are only a few more things, I told myself, reaching for my purse. I heard the cashier sigh in frustration. The toilet paper bar-code was not registering. I groaned inwardly. People were starting to pile up behind me in line about as bad as my groceries were piled up in my cart. Conspicuous could not rightly describe how I felt. The cashier, frustrated, slid the package across the scanner once more. As she did, the plastic packaging caught on the side of the scanner and tore. At this point, I didn’t care. The girl and I sighed simultaneously as the item rung-up correctly. I placed the toilet paper back on the bottom rack of my cart, paid, and headed for the door. I just wanted to go home!
As I neared the door, my heart sank even more. It was raining. I was barely outside the door before the toilet paper package began sliding off the cart. A man commented as he passed, “You might not want to leave that on the bottom.”
Oh really. I thought. Thanks for the tip, but what else am I to do? I just want to go home!
I stubbornly pushed the package back on the cart, tried to act like I dealt with toilet paper packages falling off my grocery cart every day, wiped the raindrops off my face, and started again for my car on the far end of the parking lot. I thought I was doing pretty well, the package having not fallen off the front, when I rounded the line of vehicles and my little car came into view. Until my toe hit something. I looked down and froze.
There lay an empty toilet paper roll.
I closed my eyes and turned around slowly. The moment seemed like an eternity as I looked up and saw the white line stretching between my cart and the front door of the store. Awkwardly, I grinned my bravest grin at the elderly man in a wheelchair nearby, who was regarding my plight with amusement. He burst out in a large laugh. I couldn’t help thinking that he looked like Santa, minus the red and white suit. Good thing I was too old to go on his naughty list.
After putting my groceries in the trunk of the car and returning my cart, I retraced my steps, very embarrassed. I never knew how much toilet paper is actually on a double roll. The wet, sticky paper clung to my fingers, taunting me. In my humiliation, the car motors in the parking lot even seemed to be laughing at my quandary. Little children pointed and stared; their parents openly stared with them.
Finally finished picking up the seemingly endless line, I threw the big white ball into a nearby recycle bin. Maybe that would make my predicament look a little better! As soon as I saw the toilet paper disappear into the bin, I ran for the car.
When I was finally out of the reach of curious eyes, I sighed. And to think that they have that on the security camera! I thought, inwardly cringing. For a moment, I felt like crying; instead, I burst into uncontrollable giggles! I will never get used to the grocery store thing. Yes, well-meaning on lookers might survey my cart with astonishment and occasional disdain. Yes, I might have embarrassing moments. Yes, compared to their cart, my cart might look like it’s going to feed the entire United States Army. And yet, my grocery store experiences reflect one thing that I love: I am part of a wonderful family of nine. In light of my family – our closeness, our good times, our bad times - a few minutes of embarrassment in the grocery store is a trifle. Well worth the awkward moments, life in a large family is a never-predictable adventure.
Published in The Stonepile Writer's Anthology, December 2010. For information visit: http://upnorthgeorgia.org/
