We live in an age of crumbling faiths. Everywhere I look, beliefs are battered and belittled – belief in God, belief in human goodness, belief in public transportation. Even faith in our president is wavering – just today I received an email informing me that my beloved Barack Obama (and I quote), “IS a muslim and IS a racist and this is a fulfillment of the 911 threat that was just the beginning.” My God, why hast thou forsaken me (and my preferred politician)?
Amidst these trying times, I am happy to say that this evening, I experienced a restoration of faith in one of the most fundamental institutions of modern society: the grocery store. First of all, in an era when the echoes of far-off bombs and gunfire resonate through my withered conscience, I long for the sweet, serene sounds of simpler times. Tonight, while shopping for shallots, I find myself inexplicably drawn to the vegetable and fruit section. There, enraptured in an alternate universe, I nuzzle the organic carrots as a mechanized Mother Nature sprays a soft mist of hygienic H20 and serenades her vegetative wards with midi thunder sounds. That’s right – in today’s supermarkets, tumultuous audio storms are invoked for the benefit of the zucchini and beets. Oh ye, bard of broccoli, let thine sweet symphony seduce my singed senses!
After I satiate my tastes in fresh produce, I move on to the rest of my grocery list. Alas, there is no crème fraîche. But I eschew bitterness in lieu of tolerant understanding. Let the plebeians devour their Half and Half; I will not lose heart! (There is no lemon thyme, either, and no halibut. Even the “Ethnic Foods” aisle is a bust. Grocerial segregation? Nay – not at this grocery store, surely. But I digress.)
At long last, I clothe myself in pretenses of economic security and prepare to pay for my indulgences. Because of my deep-seated inability to relinquish control, I select the self check-out line. As it turns out, my choice is richly rewarded.
There is a brilliant feature on the “do it yourself” checkout lines involving an automated voice. If you have, say, neglected to weigh and catalog your fruits in the produce section, you are given a second chance at checkout. The automated voice extends an olive branch of mercy and understanding. First you must enter the product number, and then, as if by magic, the oracle speaks. Ever the stereotypical woman, she wants to communicate with you.
“Please place your muffins on the belt,” the voice chides in monotone, like a knowing lover. “Place your muffins on the belt.”
So I place my muffins on the belt. Then the mysterious voice gets even more familiar.
“How many melons you have?” Um, two. Two melons. “Please place your melons on the belt.”
Okay. As I nervously place my melons on the belt, I can’t help but eavesdrop on the chorus of neighboring commands.
“Please place your avocado on the belt.”
“Please place your banana on the belt.”
“How many kiwis do you have? Please place your kiwis on the belt.”
Suddenly, I am seized by an uncontrollable fit of laughter. I cannot contain myself – I am possessed by the thought of countless adjacent customers placing their bananas, muffins, melons, and God knows what else on the belt. It’s ridiculous. This virtual woman has no shame.
As I roll my cart out into the parking lot, I am still chuckling. I hardly notice the kiwi man’s truck as it pulls up beside me.
“Hey, muffin girl,” he calls. I look up mid-chortle. “Can I have your number?” he drawls out his window.
I think he’s drunk, but I’m in too good a mood to care. I cheerily explain that I'm presently involved, but thanks anyway.
He responds in a tangled mass of supplication, but I only catch the words “nicest,” “sex,” and “construction.” God only knows what that means.
I wave, and he drives away. I unload my groceries – now broadcast to the world – and keep giggling as I shift into first gear.
Thank you, grocery store, for renewing my faith in humanity. And if the offer still stands… my muffins are yours for the taking.
