The Aisles of Man

Where humanity collides

Hi everyone. Welcome to my new subscribers—welcome back to my loyal regulars. Sometimes I’m at a loss for something profound to write about—and everything I write is profound—n’est pas? The everyday world is full of humorous and informative anecdotes worthy of an essay. Monday’s grocery run was one of those. We all do it. It is truly where humanity collides.

The Aisles of Man (see what I did there?) Enjoy.

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There’s no cover charge.

No entry fee.

No class division—racial division—gender division.

There is certainly no dress code.

There are parents and grandparents—singles and children.

Peepers and creepers. Victims and perpetrators.

There are staff—volunteers—management—customers—thieves—grifters and freeloaders.

There is food and drink in copious quantities. At least here in America there is when we’re not raiding the toilet paper aisle during an emergency.

Surrounded by decades of marketing strategy and billions of dollars spent on product placement—we nevertheless retain an illusion of control in our choices.

People die at the grocery store. Get hurt. More on that alarming statistic later.

There’s also magic. I see more of my small town friends and acquaintances at the store than anywhere else. I ran into Paul Simon at my little grocery store—fan boy moment to be sure. It was 2021 and he had a mask on so it was weird.

This week’s trip to the aisles was a demographic smorgasbord. Monday effect?

I came around one aisle pushing my cart—God I hate carts—I much prefer the handheld basket that I can swing freely as a blocking or cornering tool.

I came around one aisle and there she was. The Monday Mom with the double wide. One hand gripping an overstuffed shopping cart and the other on a stroller barely containing a child that looked a wee bit too old to be strolling—or rather not strolling. And somehow—with her useful Mom third hand—she was talking on her phone. Loudly. The tight stroller straps—and Mom’s wan smile—were an indication of the level of her determination.

May I help? It was all I could offer.

I got it the curt response she mouthed silently to me. I backed out slowly and chose aisle 11 instead—eventually circling back around to 10 only to discover four septuagenarians carefully leaning over comparing the contents of 5 or 6 different yogurt brands. Exactly one of them was my target—Two Good—my favorite. The four surprised me by suddenly standing upright just as I thought I had a discreet path over the shoulder reaching for my prize. Oh Goodness—Excuse me ladies.

Next stop—the meat display. Poring over the hamburger packages—apparently deciding on 80% vs 93% lean—was another petite veteran shopper. Not wanting to repeat my rude yogurt faux-pas I patiently awaited her verdict. Minutes passed. She finally chose a 1 lb. package and turned back to her basket. I swooped in and grabbed 5 of them—the dogs’ weekly dinner allotment. I turned quickly and placed them in my cart and started off. Suddenly I noticed the 8-pack of Ensure on top—realized it wasn’t my cart—and wheeled around to see that she had quietly inserted her cart between me and my cart. Clever girl. As I made eye-contact with her and rolled her cart back to her, she smiled and said, I’d have found you.

Pacing is key in a grocery store. If you’re in too big of a hurry—you’ll bump up against all manner of obstacle. Too slow or pre-occupied with other thoughts—you’ll get run over and grumbled at. I always marvel at those who park their carts exactly in the center of the aisle so that no one can pass. As I patiently wait and Ahem I often fantasize about having one of those Ahhoooooogahh rubber horns from old cars in the 1920s. Ahhhoooogahhh! Get the fuck outta of the middle of the aisle Puhleeeese!

It’s truly a wonder any of it works at all. There is no required direction east to west or north to south. Each individual or team has their own preferred route mapped out—or not. Veterans of this daily or weekly exercise know the days and times to avoid—but sometimes even the avoidable becomes completely un.

As I slowly rolled on to the frozen aisle to retrieve my sugar-free popsicles I encountered a very serious man. He was adorned in cutoff jeans—a NASCAR t-shirt—wrap-around shades—a filthy Harley Davidson hat—and what looked like a chrome Ruger 1911 holstered and open-carried at his hip. At a quick glance I couldn’t imagine how he might ever pull the pistol given the girth he’d have to circumnavigate with his hand. He plowed grimly ahead down the aisle on a mission as I deftly gave him space.

He’s no one to fear. That said—I read an alarming piece in the Business Insider about shooting statistics in grocery stores. We’re mostly just familiar with the high profile mass shootings in Buffalo, NY, Boulder, CO, Eaton Township, PA, and El Paso, TX.

Quoting the article below—which was written in 2022—so you have to assume there’s been more since then.

Specifically, Guns Down America used the Gun Violence Archive to track "gun incidents" and gun deaths from January 1, 2020 to May 14, 2022. It found a total of 448 incidents and 137 deaths across 12 large national retailers. Guns Down America estimated that the numbers come out to four shootings a week at large supermarket chains. 

Now let’s be clear—I’m a firm believer in the 2nd Amendment—the world is a nutty place—and I’ve held a concealed carry license for 15 years. All that said—I generally leave the pistol in the truck when I shop for food. Not sure why there’s a threshold there for me—but there is. Supermarkets ought to be safe. But so should schools and bars and subways and streets for that matter. I suppose if I start seeing beady-eyed young males wearing heavy sweatshirts in the summer in the bakery area I might rethink my decision. Or if those stupid cloth masks make another appearance everywhere.

Sidebar complete. I’m not carrying in the grocery—yet.

On to the deli—where I encountered a large line of assorted humans awaiting their caloric treasures. Ann and I freely admit to a bit of denial in liking our rotisserie chickens. We try not to think about the hateful and brief lives these little broilers endure without ever seeing the sun. Like I said—denial. The line ebbed and flowed as I firmly held my position and gathered what I could within reach—feta crumbles—kosher dills—rye crackers—as copious piles of cold-cuts and other sliced delicacies were ensconced in other baskets and carts.

The produce area is spacious and inviting. Color and crunch is my happy place. It’s also where I’ve always seemed to run into friends and make new ones.

Vegetables are quite sensuous.

It’s the produce area that should give us the most room to navigate—but only if everyone is thinking about their neighbors—which of course they never are. Carts that haven’t rolled in a half-hour are parked sideways and diagonally every which way—while their owners fondle the avocados and squeeze the tomatoes and ponder the difference between a green bell pepper and its red cousin.

Then the race to the checkout lines. This truly is a game—and everyone thinks they’ve got the winning strategy. Selecting your checkout aisle requires observation, quick decision-making, and sheer luck. Others just chill and look at their phones. If you’re a regular to the store—knowing the employee doing the checkout is also key. Are they a chatter? A half-speed automaton? New to the job? There are some that I avoid like the plague—others I know to be swift and efficient and wordless. But don’t other shoppers know those same tendencies in their favorite store employees? Goodbye advantage.

Then there’s the shoppers themselves to observe. Overflowing cart? Check writer? Three kids in tow who are currently ravaging the candy racks? I usually choose the self-check line unless I’m overloaded with produce—I hate putting in the damn codes without my readers on.

The success/failure of each shopper’s attempt to game this process registers clearly on their faces. We’ve all seen the silently stewing shopper trapped in a line that he or she thought would be the magic pass-through. We’ve all tried to fool ourselves into thinking we don’t really care—I’m so Zen today I’m just taking what is presented to me—and then getting denied the zippy path through. We’ve all been halfway through the line—gleeful with our apparently wonderful choice—only to find that 6 items need a price check—or the person in front of us is writing a check and they haven’t even opened their purse to begin the process yet. Doh! Fuck me! I was sailing until you—and you—and you hit the brakes.

And sometimes it’s just a magical experience.

You find everything you need on your list. You encounter several friends and have short conversations and get in no one else’s way. You breeze through checkout. You save $12 as a member. The coupons match the dates! The debit card works! You fill up your cloth bags and use no plastic! You didn’t get shot. No one cried in front of you. The homeless folks out front are content and munching away. You pull out of the parking lot with no fender-benders or near misses! You wave through the open window! You’re joyful! You’re golden! You’ve won the game today! This is how commerce in America should work by God almighty!