#47: The Grocery Games
HUMOR
One of the perks of freelance writing as my full-time gig is the ability to go to the grocery store whenever I damn well please. I don’t have to battle the Sunday rush or throw elbows during a mid-commute dinner run. Going to the grocery at 11am on a Tuesday has become a little luxury. Until this week.
The California rain had finally gone, and I drove 21 sunny blocks to our neighborhood Whole Foods (Adam is a health guy, so I have been converted — please don’t hold it against me. I still keep a stash of Top Ramen buried in the back of the pantry). The garage has a parking attendant because it’s unsafe to drive through without one. It’s all right angles and blind spots. My usual parking lady wasn’t there, and the guy on duty was less “on duty” and more just standing there staring blankly into my car making no indication of whether it was my turn to go or if going would result in a head-on collision or what. So I inched through the garage until finally he let out a visible sigh and directed me into the spot he thought I should claim. Little did I know, the parking man had been through it that morning. This was no ordinary day at WhoF. I was about to enter The Grocery Games.
After parking my Toyota Camry two whole inches from one of the structural columns, I took the elevator up to the store. Unbeknownst to me, as soon as I grabbed my cart, ding! I was in the game.
Level 1: Grocery Grannies
I started in the produce section like always. Thanks to the 11am on a Tuesday of it all, the store was mostly empty, at least I thought it was. In the time it took me to organize my reusable produce bags #sustainablequeen and ready my notes app grocery list, the veggie aisles were teeming with grannies. It was white hair, floral print, and shawls as far as the eyes could see. And these grannies meant business.
Like the good samaritan I am, I positioned my cart on the back of a mango stand out of the way of other shoppers, and stepped gingerly toward the broccoli, where one of the grannies was looking? stalling? testing my patience? I smiled politely at her. She did not return the gesture or move her cart or her broccoli-blocking body. The number of grannies in the produce section was rapidly increasing. They were everywhere. I was being brushed by cardigan sleeves and overwhelmed with powdery perfumes. Finally, I mustered the courage to reach.
“Excuse me,” I cooed as politely as possible, reaching over her empty cart and past her shoulder to grab a head of broccoli.
All of a sudden this slow-moving Sally was on! the! move! She zipped her cart out from under my arm, causing me to stumble back and fumble the brocc. What the heck?
The level’s speed had just increased. It was time to play.
Before the florets were safely tucked into the organic cotton mesh, another granny zoomed by, grazing me with her cart. They were everywhere. Where did they come from?
I zigzagged through the grans back to my cart, which was now boxed in by two empty granny carts. I shimmied it loose and took a breath. Here we go.
A dash to the carrots and celery, but wait! One granny was parked, empty cart across the aisle staring into space. She may have been asleep standing up. There was no way to get through. I tried a meek, “hello?” Before a little louder, “Excuse me?” Nothing.
Right when I was about to give up and loop all the way around, crash! another granny rammed her cart into our parked prune. The metal baskets’ clang reverberated off the potatoes and yellow onions and I slipped through while they both refused to apologize to one another. Carrots and celery bagged and buggied (that’s British for cart, right?).
Apples, pears, and bananas were next on the docket, but there was one granny in my way. She was a cart puller. You know the type. They stand at the end of their cart, inching it along with them through the aisles instead of grabbing what they need and pushing it on out of there. She was just ahead of me, lifting and inspecting every Golden Delicious in the bushel. No matter, I’d grab a pear first. It was like she heard that thought because all of a sudden there she was — still with no Golden Delicious selected — lifting and turning over every Asian pear on display. Her cart now blocking the apples as well. I’d go get my bananas then. But no!
“Fran, grab some bananas,” Cart Puller called into thin air.
Out of nowhere, Fran materialized from The Grocery Games Granny Realm and started fondling all the bananas. They were tag-teaming me. I didn’t stand a chance.
I retreated to the dried fruit to regroup. Finally, I decided to risk it all in a last-ditch Hail Mary. I parked my cart and ventured to the regularly hydrated fruit unencumbered, ducking under purse-laden arms and skirting around freewheeling carts. A bunch of bananas from the end of the stand. A backward spin around Fran. Double back to the apples and pears. A lean and a reach. Viola! A Golden Delicious just discarded by our Cart Puller and a pear snatched right out of her hand. Success!
I ran back to my cart and booked it to the deli. Level 1 complete.
Level 2: Restock Block
The thing about low-traffic grocery hours is that they’re perfect for restocking the shelves. I’m talking pallets across the aisles. Dollies propping open freezer doors. The chill wafting all the way to the spice section. Boxes and boxes of riced cauliflower, peas and carrots, and smoothie blends towering over the displays. It’s a boobytrapped maze, and you must tread carefully.
The grannies were gone, subjugated to the fresh foods of Level 1. So it was just me, the restockers, and the blocks. My list was varied. I’d have to make it to every section. Frozen. Spice. Snacks. Staples. Beauty.
I’d prepared for my mission as best I could. I was layered and ready for a stroll down Freezer Lane. But the shiver of a frozen aisle during restock spits icy crystals at any mere jacket. You’ll have to do better than that to keep off the goosebumps. I took a breath and embarked, maneuvering around piles of wet boxes stuffed with half-frozen veggies. There it was, my first stop, blocked by a restocker hard at work, headphones bumping, completely unaware of my presence. I shimmied into his periphery. Nothing. Did a little throat clearing. Nada. Craned my head around and made a real show of looking in his cooler. Not a flinch.
In a stroke of courage, I took a chance.
“Excuse me.” A little louder, because he still hadn’t registered I was talking to him, “Sorry, could you actually hand me one of those?”
A pregnant pause. Bated breath. A shivering wind from the open cooler.
“Yeah, sure.”
Score! Riced cauliflower secured.
Next, spices. We were out of garlic. An essential I couldn’t return home without.
Of course, it was blocked by a dolly piled with five — count em, five — boxes of glass-bottled spices. Not the sort of box I’d like to knock over, and exactly the type of box that will topple you right out of Level 2. It was time to get stealthy. An expertly positioned cart, so any falling boxes would fall into my basket and not onto the floor. A quick side quest explanation of the difference between coarse and fine sea salt that for some reason another shopper asked me for. An eagle-eyed scoping out of the shelves, then a tippy-toed reach, with the precision of a pole vaulter avoiding the bar. Garlic granules secured and carted. Boom.
To be honest, the snacks, staples, and beauty parts were more of the same, so I’m going to spare you. I only lost one Grocery Game life when I accidentally ran over a restocker’s toe (sorry, Gale!) with my squeaky wheel. I made it through! On to checkout, Level 3.
Level 3: Register Rumble
As every grocery goer knows, off-peak shopping means fewer open registers and even fewer cashiers. As every grocery goer at the 23rd and Wilshire Whole Foods knows, our particular register setup is a clusterfuck. Self-checkout is rarely open. There are 6 measly registers and never more than 3 people working them. On the weekends, the lines routinely snake all the way through the wine section, past the fancy cheeses, and sometimes, on Sundays, all the way back to the frozen food. But the waiting is the least of your worries, especially on a Tuesday. The real danger is the cutters.
Let this be a lesson. You may think Whole Foods people are fancy. And you may think fancy people are above cutting in line. I am here to tell you that fancy Whole Foods people are the most eager to cut out of any demographic I have ever encountered. This observation is statistically significant because I’ve been alive for a while and stood in many lines, so I suggest you take it as Cold. Hard. Fact. Whole Foods people WILL CUT. And the best place to cut is the Whole Foods in my neighborhood.
The registers run right through a main thoroughfare of the store, connecting the cafe to the bakery to the chocolate to the cheese to the wine to the dried pasta and jarred sauces. It’s the largest walkway in the entire, incredibly cramped, store. That’s how the cutters get you. There are signs posted at the ends of the wine and cheese aisles asking customers waiting in line to keep this main thoroughfare clear for shoppers passing by. This was Level 3.
There I was, next-next in line, waiting in the wine aisle by the sign asking me to keep the walkway clear, when a supposed passerby moseyed along. She picked up a bottle of rosé, pretending to read the label while eyeing the conveyer belt at Register 1. She conveniently avoided my gaze, which coincidentally was boring into her skull daring her to steal my register. She set down the rosé and took two steps closer to the register, this time picking up a chocolate bar and weighing it in her hands. I pushed my cart six inches into the walkway. Signs be damned. I was angled and ready to strike as soon as the conveyer belt inched forward enough to house one of those yellow plastic dividers.
The conveyer belt lurched to life and our cutter pounced, setting her entire basket on the edge of the belt. I lunged forward, hitting the back of her legs with my cart causing her to tumble onto the floor. She groaned and turned over, staring up at me. I lifted her basket and dumped its contents on her outstretched body. Blueberries plopped and bounced like confetti off her head and onto the floor. A half gallon of oat milk split open and soaked her pants. A can of beans fell right on her little toe.
“Here are your items, ma’am,” I smiled. “I thought I’d move them for you since you were just looking.”
She fumed at me.
“Unless you were cutting?” I challenged.
She relented, melting into the floor. The monster vanquished. The level complete. The cashier high-fived me, and I started bagging. Because yeah, I might be a Whole Foods shopper now, but I’m not too bougie to bag. I’m no cutter. I’m a Grocery Games champion for Christ’s sake.
Thanks for reading!
Unrelated to Grocery Games, today is my and Adam’s fifth anniversary! We’ve been together for a fifth of my life. How is that possible? Feeling #blessed and #loved and #happy.
Please reply or comment with your own Grocery Game tales. Have you beat the Bumper Carts level? Maneuvered the Tantrum Triangle after your local daycare lets out? Used a sweet Clean Up on Aisle 4 Cheat Code? Let me know. Make something up. Congratulate me for being loved. Whatever!
happy friday bbs <3
Ari