Jalapenos, carrots, garlic, and potatoes. Done. Should we get basil, too? I reviewed the list on my phone and wondered where they’d moved it. For some reason, this store liked to play hide-and-seek with its produce. I never knew where to look for things. I hefted my baggie of potatoes, frowned behind my mask, and glanced around. I’d somehow lost my way and my boyfriend in produce. Great.
A frail, old man shuffled past the edge of the freshly watered offerings, muttering something about lettuce and inflation. I tuned him out and decided to add penne to the list. I could make a pasta salad with baby tomatoes, if only I could find them…
“Do you expect me to pay this much? Do YOU?” Indignant, querulous, and with a fistful of leafy greens, the old man parked himself at the end of the potato corral. He wagged the romaine in my direction. It suddenly dawned on me that he was angry about inflation AND my lack of participation in his ravings.
“I don’t care what you pay for lettuce. I grow my own.” The lovely spring weather had been glorious for bibb lettuce, spinach, arugula — our pivot towards local, PNW varieties meant endless bowls of salad. However, the weather sucked for baby tomatoes and basil. Now, where would basil be? Would they have put the tomatoes with the basil? I shifted my gaze to look for fresh herbs.
“I’m going to get you FIRED!” I looked back. The old man’s face had turned an alarming shade of red, a nice contrast against the lettuce he was balling up to throw at me. Houston, we have a problem.
“I don’t work here.” My tourist tee, jeans, and sneakers admittedly could have passed for an employee uniform, but the fancy Coach bag should’ve been the high that avoided the low. Annoying.
“I don’t BELIEVE you!” He stabbed the lettuce at my phone. “You have one of those DEVICES.”
I didn’t follow his leap in logic, so I flipped my phone around. “It’s my grocery list, SIR.”
He paused, mid-rant, lettuce hanging in the air like an inappropriately tossed salad. Suddenly, he was affronted at my upset. “DON’T RAISE YOUR VOICE TO ME.”
“Oh, I’ll do worse than that.” I quickly pocketed the phone and hefted a potato. I was pretty sure I could afford to take out his knees with a russet, even at these prices. “Don’t try ME.”
As the standoff took on a Sergio Leone air, a calm hand reach for my produce and put in our cart. “What are you doing?”
I blinked and smiled at my boyfriend. “Looking for basil.”
“It’s over by the lettuce.” The old man shuffled towards the apples. I could hear him muttering about inflation and rude employees. I no longer wanted pasta salad.
“Never mind.” I wanted out of this madhouse of mislaid veg. “I have everything on the list. Let’s get out of here while we can still afford it.”
