Chapter One #2
“Exactly. Unnatural.” There was no argument to make because Edith had constructed a completely sealed logical system. Microwave heats food. Food was previously not hot. Machine made it hot. Unnatural. Case Closed.
I pulled away from the curb before the great microwave debate of the century could escalate.
Budget Foods was a ten-minute drive, which gave everyone plenty of time to argue about technology, dentures, and whether or not Artie’s blazer was burgundy or maroon.
Spoiler alert—it was definitely burgundy, but Artie insisted it was maroon, and I wasn’t getting involved.
I had survival instincts.
Five elderly people, each operating under their own private set of laws, and I was chauffeuring them through Temptation while carefully choosing which hills I was absolutely not willing to die on.
The parking lot at Budget Foods was half-empty, which was ideal. Fewer people meant less chaos, and with this crew, chaos was always one poorly placed cantaloupe away. I pulled up to the front entrance and killed the engine.
“All right, everyone. Let’s make this quick and painless.”
“Speak for yourself,” Walter said, already working his jaw. “These dentures are staging a coup.”
“Revolution starts in the mouth,” Greta said solemnly.
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Neither do your dentures, apparently.”
Climbing out, I opened the side door and helped Irene down first.
She took my arm with the kind of grip that suggested she didn’t actually need the help but appreciated the gesture.
Walter came next, still clutching his plastic bags like they contained state secrets.
Then Greta, who patted my cheek and asked one more time if I’d reconsider her grandson.
“Not happening, Miss Greta.”
“You’re breaking my heart, Ollie.”
“You’ll survive.”
Artie emerged next, adjusting his blazer like he was about to walk a runway instead of a grocery store. Edith brought up the rear, death-gripping her coupon bag.
“Everyone remember what they need?” I asked, knowing full well nobody was listening.
“Wine,” Irene said.
“Anything but wine.”
“Spoilsport.”
Parking the shuttle in the handicap zone took exactly thirty seconds.
I grabbed my phone and wallet, locked up, and followed my crew through the automatic doors.
Budget Foods smelled like floor cleaner and rotting produce, a combination that should’ve been reported to the health department but somehow passed inspection every year.
“I’ll grab a cart,” I announced to no one in particular.
I found one near the entrance and gave it a test push. The front right wheel immediately veered left like it was trying to escape. Just great.
“This one’s broken,” I called out, but everyone had already scattered. Irene was beelining toward the wine section with alarming speed for someone who needed a cane. That cane was apparently necessary only until the Pinot Grigio came within range.
Walter had entered Budget Foods like the produce aisle was about to photograph him for GQ: Medicare Edition.
Greta was examining a display of potato chips like she was about to receive a divine revelation from a bag of sour cream and onion. While Edith was clutching those coupons like somebody was lurking nearby waiting to steal her thirty-five cents off Greek yogurt.
This wasn’t grocery shopping. It was supervised release. They’d hit those automatic doors and had immediately become five independent side quests.
I stuck with the cart, gave it another shove, the wheel squeaking in protest, and continued its leftward trajectory. Fine. We’d work together. Me and this cart against the world or at least against the fluorescent lighting and Muzak version of “Wonderwall” currently assaulting my eardrums.
Irene was in the wine aisle, naturally. She’d already selected a bottle of Pinot Grigio and was reading the label.
“Miss Irene.”
“Oh, hello, Oliver. Just browsing.”
“Browsing. Right.” I stopped the cart next to her, fighting to keep it from careening into the display of Pinot Grigio. “You know you can’t have that.”
“It’s just one bottle.”
“One bottle that will interact with your medication and send your blood pressure into the stratosphere.”
“My blood pressure is fine.”
“Your blood pressure is fine because you’re not drinking wine.” That argument was airtight, and Irene was deeply offended by its logic.
She huffed, clutching the bottle tighter. “I’m seventy-six years old. If I want a glass of wine with dinner, I should be allowed to have one.”
“Take it up with your cardiologist. I’m just the guy who has to explain to your daughter why you’re in the ER.”
“Tattletale,” she said again but set the bottle back on the shelf. “You’re no fun.”
That was her official designation for me whenever I interfered with her criminal enterprise. Tattletale. “I’m loads of fun. Just not the kind that involves medical emergencies.”
“Fine. But I’m getting sparkling cider.”
“Sparkling cider is acceptable,” I said like this was a hostage negotiation. She’d surrendered the Pinot but secured sparkling cider in the settlement.
She grabbed a bottle of cider with more force than necessary and dropped it into my cart. The impact made the cart lurch sideways, and I had to wrestle it back into submission.
“This cart is possessed,” I said.
“Everything in this store is possessed. Have you seen the price of chicken?”
Valid point. I followed her through the store, collecting items while fighting the cart’s ongoing rebellion.
I managed to intercept Walter before he bought a bag of hard candy that would’ve destroyed his dentures, stopped Greta from purchasing a jar of pickles so large it qualified as a weapon, and prevented Edith from buying tuna in bulk because they were on sale and she had a coupon.
“But it’s a good deal,” Edith protested.
“It’s seventeen cans of tuna,” I said. “What are you going to do with so many cans?”
“Save money.”
That did not answer my question. “You’ll save money by not buying things you don’t need.”
She glared at me like I’d personally insulted her ancestors. “Young people don’t understand value.”
After I’d just explained value to her. But Edith was a repeat tuna offender. “I understand that you live alone and probably don’t eat seventeen cans of tuna in a year.”
“You don’t know my life.”
“I know you tried to return nine cans of tuna last month because you bought too many.”
She muttered something about technology and fiscal irresponsibility and put back twelve cans, kept five. Compromise.
Artie appeared with a package of sliced turkey and the swagger of a man who believed he had just devastated a deli employee with his sexual magnetism. He interpreted politeness as flirtation.
“Got her number,” he announced, returning from the deli with imaginary digits.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I could have.”
“But you didn’t.” The deli woman probably said, “Have a nice day, sir,” and Artie walked away thinking, “Still got it.”
“Details.”
I rounded everyone up near the registers. Five seniors, five carts, and enough groceries to feed a small army or one determined coupon enthusiast. Edith pulled out her bag and started sorting through slips of paper with the focus of a surgeon.
“This one’s expired,” the cashier said, holding up a coupon.
“By one day.”
“Still expired.”
“That’s corporate greed.”
“That’s store policy,” he said. The cashier never stood a chance. Edith had been preparing for this ideological battle since the microwave betrayed humanity in 1985.
“Same thing.”
It took twenty minutes to get through checkout. Another ten to load everyone back into the shuttle along with their groceries. Walter’s plastic bags had multiplied somehow, defying the laws of physics. How? He’d brought bags so he wouldn’t have to pay for any. Were those bags breeding?
Greta had acquired a potted plant nobody remembered her buying.
Artie was still talking about the deli counter woman, but now stretched a routine turkey purchase into an entire romantic subplot.
Edith was reorganizing her coupons because naturally the system must be restored after the devastating loss of one expired soldier.
Irene was clutching her sparkling cider like a consolation prize.
“Everyone have everything?” I asked, climbing into the driver’s seat.
A chorus of affirmatives, plus one complaint from Walter about his dentures.
“All right. Let’s get you all home.”
Starting the engine, I pulled out of the parking lot, already mentally preparing for when we’d do this all over again. Same seniors. Same chaos.
But I knew every one of them. Knew Irene’s medical restrictions and exactly why she couldn’t have wine.
Knew Walter’s dentures were bothering him.
Noticed Edith’s hip hurting even when she refused to say it.
Remembered her tuna-return history. Knew Greta’s matchmaking disasters, and that Artie interpreted basic customer service as romantic interest.
I corralled them, protected them from their own questionable shopping decisions, let them argue, gave them shit right back because I loved it. Wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Well, maybe I’d trade it for a cart with four functional wheels.
But probably not.