Curing the Uncommon Man-Cold (31 page)

“Like getting buns and Sloppy Joe mix, but forgetting the meat?”

“Good example. That was your contribution to our July 4th dinner, as I recall.”

Jason nodded with no apparent embarrassment. “I think I comprehend what you call
scheduling
if that means getting the frozen stuff last.”

“Yes, it does! Good.” She almost felt like she was helping her young niece answer homework questions. “Now, maneuvering is mostly getting around the unintentional and inconsiderate blockers who clog the aisles and slow down the flow of your shopping experience. It takes skill.”

“Like zipping around to the other end of an aisle to get from behind the old deaf couple who stand on both sides of their basket?”

“That’s one example. Another is those triple-length carts with the huge plastic kiddie cars on front.”

“Okay, got it. What was the other part?”

“Logistics. Basically planning and forethought.” Amanda nodded sagely. “So you only have to make one trip along each aisle with no doubling back across the store for something you forgot. Of course, the cornerstone of a solid plan is a thorough list.”

“Amanda, I think you’re the one with the wrong approach. It doesn’t have to be that complicated. With my method, you zero in on the aisles with the good stuff and you grab what looks tasty.”

“And you end up with chips, snacks, and beer.”

“Right. Primary food groups.”

Amanda shook her head. “You’ve got to have a list.” She held up the one she’d been writing since they left her apartment.

“That’s a store inventory sheet!” he sputtered. “We’ll be here all day, trying to find that much junk!”

“Not if the list is in logistical order by aisles.”

“Hold on. You fully intend to go limping in there on crutches and hit the full length of every single aisle?” Jason seemed aghast. “That’s nuts!”

“They have motorized carts with little baskets. I’ll ride.”

“You’ll need a lot more than a little basket for that warehouse full of stuff.”

“Good thing you’re here. Everything on this list should fit into one regular shopping buggy.”

He sputtered a bit. “I didn’t come here for an
experience
. I buy stuff to eat because I’m hungry. I don’t want to think about it, or draw out maps, or write marching orders. Three steps. In-grab-out.”

That description resembled Jason’s occasional approach to other aspects of their relationship, but Amanda was focused on groceries at the moment. “Let’s just try it my way this one time. If you don’t like it, we won’t have to shop together again.”

“Aw, man!” He sounded like a third grader told to sit still in church.

Chapter 22

Amanda waited while Jason used antibacterial wipes on the seat and handles of the one battery-powered scooter nearly always available — the oldest of its type from that chain’s entire eastern division, and the only one to have been locally modified. Some of the employees called it — with absolutely no affection — Ole Crotchity.

Jason helped her get situated and then placed the crutches in a regular shopping cart. The feet of those crutches stuck out in front of Jason’s cart by nearly twelve inches and it almost looked like he was ready for a joust.

With a chorus of wobbles and creaks from Ole Crotchity, Amanda began to drive toward the far right edge of the store.

Jason caught up. “What’s that horrible noise?”

“Uh, I think my scooter squeaks. Must be one of the wheels.”

“I think it’s all three wheels. That’s piercing!” He leaned down to examine Ole Crotchity’s underpinnings. “Move forward a few feet.”

She did, and Jason signaled a prompt stop.

“It’s just the back two wheels squealing.” One had a slightly higher pitch and clashed with the other in precisely awful discord. “But get a load of that front wheel!”

Amanda leaned over and peered toward the bottom of the yoke. “I can’t see anything. What?”

“It looks like a wheel from a shipping dolly, or a mechanical mule like the movers use to haul pianos and stuff.”

“What would a dolly or mule wheel be doing on my scooter?”

“Well, steering, ideally. But that wheel has a gouge out of it, kind of a flat spot.” He examined it more closely.

A four-inch hard rubber wheel has a circumference of approximately twelve and a half inches. Through some horrible misfortune, Ole Crotchity’s jury-rigged front wheel had roughly eleven inches of a circular shape, interrupted by an inch and a half of flatness. The result, when it rolled, was a jarring bump while the vehicle’s momentum struggled to overcome the resistance of the wheel’s flat spot.

Jason’s face was nearly on the floor. “Move it forward again, just about a foot.”

She did, but nearly two feet.

“Whoa! You’ve also got a bad shimmy in that wheel.”

Amanda looked at him with restrained impatience. “I think you’re just stalling because you’d rather not have me tag along for this shopping experience.”

He shook his head slowly. “No, I’m telling you that wheel is busted and I don’t think it even belongs on that scooter.”

“Okay, so the front wheel wobbles and thumps and the back wheels squeak a bit. Let’s just shop.”

He sighed. “I’m just trying to warn you, it’s going to be a noisy and bumpy ride. But I can’t stand that squealing. I’ll be stark raving mad before we get through the first aisle. Hold on a minute.” Jason left his buggy and returned to the place with the moist towels. He pinched off two pieces approximately an inch square, rolled them roughly into small cylinders, and squeezed out the excess juice. Then he plugged each ear. The towel pieces extended about half an inch outside his ears and looked a bit like the electrodes on the Frankenstein monster.

Besides the piercing wheel squeak, her borrowed scooter had a decidedly slow turning response. After twisting the very stiff front wheel yoke, there was at least a two-second delay before the machine began moving in the indicated direction. Plus, Amanda could only steer with her left hand, the weaker of the two when both wrists were functioning normally. She could pull on the yoke to turn left, but she had to use an extended push on the handle to veer right. That was her weakest motion while temporarily impaired.

That model of scooter had another alarming idiosyncrasy: no brakes! To slow, the driver had to release the throttle switch and simply coast. Depending on speed, slope, and terrain, it typically took a couple of extra feet to stop. Amanda had seen no speed limits posted, so she’d just reached full throttle by the time she neared the fruit section.

A frail man at the apple bin saw her approach and stared like a confused squirrel on a county lane. Amanda mistook his gasp for an attempted greeting, so she waved as she got closer. His eyes were large — he likely recognized Ole Crotchity and possibly had experience with that defective machine.

When Amanda figured her speed had frightened the man, she released the throttle button. Her momentum still took her past the fruit bins and nearly to the lettuce heads before the buggy finally rolled to a stop. The fragile-looking man had lurched back out of her way and accidently bumped the stack of oranges, which had once been a beautiful partial pyramid. But oranges, Amanda quickly noted, are so symmetrical that they’ll roll nearly indefinitely unless stopped by the wheels of a nearby customer’s grocery cart. Much to the surprise of that particular shopper, one wedged under her wheels.

When Amanda tried to back up, she realized her jury-rigged front wheel’s flat spot was lodged on one of the sticky floor drains near the vegetables and wouldn’t move. She tried pushing backwards with her left foot.
Nope.

The escaped oranges had attracted the attention of the male fruit-tender, who alerted the woman who stocked and moistened vegetables along the wall. She, in turn, signaled the meat man, farther along that wall at the butcher shop. His apron spotted with blotches of fresh blood and related gore, the meat man lumbered over. Looking burly and distinctly surly, Mr. Meat picked up the front of Amanda’s scooter and pivoted it on the back wheels until she was pointed away from produce altogether. Then, without words, he pointed toward the main aisle. A dab of pig intestine landed on Amanda’s forearm and she recoiled in horror.

It was her inaugural occasion to be pelted with flying butcher gore. Also the very first time a bouncer had tossed Amanda out of the fresh food section. She realized she’d been banished to canned goods, boxed meals, beverages, and snacks.
Oh, hairy hell.

Slowly regaining her composure after that mortifying eviction, Amanda noticed a young girl complaining to her mother that she was thirsty. To get the child to shut up, her mom reached in the top of her basket and tore open a ten-pack of fruit-flavored punch pouches. She handed a pouch to the girl and resumed her own obviously frazzled shopping experience.

The child ripped off the attached mini-straw and began stabbing at the designated spot on the top of the pouch. To Amanda, it resembled the homicidal maniac from the movie
Psycho
during the classic shower scene. The straw finally made it inside, as a considerable amount of punch jettisoned from both the opening and the straw. The child’s eyes lit up with investigatory excitement.

Scientists have established that this particular model six-ounce pouch is capable of squirting over eleven feet when firmly squeezed by an adult grip. In the hands of an eight-year-old girl, it went roughly half that distance. The juice reached the rear thighs of a hefty woman wearing spandex shorts that were considerably strained by the flesh they attempted to encase.

That woman turned and glared. The mother promptly chastised the girl, who automatically put on her totally innocent mask and loudly slurped the remaining two ounces of juice from the pouch. The entire exchange had consumed only a few moments, but it further rattled Amanda’s composure and momentum.

Once the parties to the juice episode had moved away in separate directions, Amanda resumed her own interrupted shopping experience.

After maneuvering Ole Crotchity along the far side of the first aisle, Amanda concluded it was like trying to drive a recalcitrant bathtub. In the close quarters of a crowded grocery store after 11:00 a.m., a tub with a two-second turning delay and two extra feet of stopping distance could lead to disaster. Not to mention the flat spot in the jury-rigged front wheel.

Through superior mental discipline, Amanda was able to tune out the awful, grating, squeaky noise from the two rear wheels and the wobble-thump feel of the front one, but she didn’t realize the double-whammy significance of the other scooter flaws until she’d completed one full loop and reached the front end of the second aisle. She was distracted because Jason’s focused speed had him already halfway along the third aisle.

Hurrying to catch up, Amanda tried to effect a sharp right turn around the front end of the shelving which currently separated them. But the checkout lines ahead extended nearly back to the end caps, so there was precious little space available to maneuver anyway. When she saw her turn was developing too late, she automatically tried to overcorrect, with only her weaker left hand. By turning even harder on the yoke, the front wheel happened on its flat spot, then bounced up, and the scooter trembled like it
wanted
to tip over.

But with no brakes, she was still moving! Partly forward and partly to the right. What she’d intended as a 90 degree turn to the east actually became a 45 degree tendency to the northeast. With no brake to press, instinctive reflexes slammed her left foot onto the scooter’s worn and stained floor pad. In the absence of any pre-trained verbalization, Amanda hurriedly yelled, “Fore!”

She wasn’t even a golfer, so it was a mystery why Amanda selected that word. But the nearby shoppers instinctively understood its meaning and several scattered. One old woman, not as quick to react, was shoved backwards into the rack of quick-sale items which stuck out in the middle of the main fairway. Nearby, an enormous, prissy-looking man nearly tripped on the tall basket of four-dollar DVDs.

Amanda was already apologizing profusely before Ole Crotchity finally came to rest on the foot of Mr. Priss, the flustered heavy man with ugly leather sandals. He looked like he’d selected several words to invoke, but managed to restrain himself for the moment.

Jason appeared around the front end of the fourth aisle. He’d obviously heard none of the commotion because of his earplugs, but he could now see Amanda’s scooter had been involved in multiple collisions so he hurried over. “What happened?”

“Excuse me!” blurted Mr. Priss, nearly beside Jason.

Jason didn’t hear.

“Excuse me!” Louder. The persnickety man tapped Jason’s shoulder like he was touching a dead animal.

Jason turned that direction.

“Your wife is on my foot!” He pointed.

Jason didn’t hear his words, but he saw Amanda also pointing at the front wheel. So he lifted the front of the scooter and freed the fleshy foot. “Sorry.”

“You both ought to be. Menace!”

“What?”

Mr. Priss repeated himself and added invective.

“What?” Jason could not read lips, but he could tell the petulant expression included anger.

Checkers had stopped checking and baggers had stopped bagging. Several customers gathered and other staff appeared, including a young woman handing out samples of fried shrimp. Jason took two, which seemed to anger Mr. Priss even more.

The little girl, still holding the nearly empty punch pouch, stood very close to Amanda and began staring at her limbs. “Mommy, what are those little black things all over her legs?” Speaking loudly, as all eight-year-olds do when observing personal flaws in others, she pointed with great flourish.

The mother tried to shush her. “Hush, honey! Sometimes crippled ladies can’t shave.”

Suddenly Amanda realized that changing into jeans would have been worth the temporary pain.

At that point, the assistant manager zipped onto the scene. She tried to calm the effete Mr. Priss while also tending to the elderly woman with unwanted quick-sale items scattered in her cart.