Her, She, He, and Me

Attention: Walmart Shoppers

Patronizing Walmart isn’t something I look forward to because, well, it’s Walmart.

But I was dehydrated.

About a year ago, Karen transitioned our household from wasteful, singular water bottles. Now, we each have refillable glass bottles with gaberdine-like fabric sleeves. Her sleeve is green. Mine is grey. Mine used to be black, but I dropped it on the pavement outside the library. Fortunately, it all shattered inside the sleeve. We have more than a dozen bottles and sleeves of various colors for guests.

We used to refill our six one-gallon jugs at an osmosis water station at Wegmans until they discontinued that service. As far as we know, Walmart is the only one remaining in this area. So, I went to find a parking space close to a shopping cart wrangler and as far from the store’s entrance as possible. I succeeded—made doubly cheerful because clouds weren’t harassing the sun on a 40-degree afternoon

Us, if we were water.

.

It was my first time entering a Walmart with positivity, which made all the difference. I noticed how well-appointed the produce section was. Note to self: Give that a visit someday. On a beeline to the rear of the store’s grocery section, where the water refill station is, I noticed the signage at the aisles’ ends was well-marked with large type in readable fonts. I read “Crackers” in a digestible list. I need crackers, I thought. Parking my buggy off to the side, I strolled down aisle 3. Crackers were at the other end, but I enjoyed timing my steps, so I didn’t run into any bottlenecks with other shoppers.

A few aisles later, “Canned Vegetables” caught my eye.

“I haven’t had corn in a while,” I said.

I know corn is pretty vitamin-deficient as far as earth-born edibles go. I don’t care. I like corn. Go ahead, call me a chicken. Karen does. I call her chicken, too. We used to call our dog Jake chicken as well. One nickname for everyone in the household! We’re goddam communists, I tell ya

I bought this ceramic chicken spoon rest from a thrift store because the sight of sauces and other stirred foods on kitchen countertops makes my brain explode. It roosts atop the stove.

I found another product I wasn’t looking for but needed, then filled my water jugs with enough joy to make the upcoming tedium at checkout bearable for my aversion to mindless repetition.

Scanning the lines, I fell in behind an elderly couple with perhaps more product than alternative lines but fewer total transactions than others with less product. Feeling good.

They had little interest in transactional efficiency, I decided. Not gleaned by anything I heard. It was their body language. I’ve become a self-proclaimed expert in the language of the body. I have a lot of experience in the retail environment. I always offer a 6 to 9-foot berth between me and those ahead of me in line. Sadly, I miss Covid sometimes.

It’s going to be a bit, Eric, I think to myself.

So, I distract myself by reading People magazine headlines: Kids of Celebrities, Celebrity Breakups, The Death of [that guy from Friends].

Reminiscence ensues as I take inventory of candy bars from my childhood. I pick up a Hershey’s with Almonds chocolate bar—my all-time favorite— rotating it in my hand, admiring its perfection, and adding it to my loot.

Peeking at the clerk, I watch her in admiration. Her demeanor is calm and collected in the face of hand-wringing customers with puzzled eyebrows and flapping lips that appear combative to me.

She had soft jeans—my clerk—to soften the stress on the legs of a long day of standing, requiring a particular kind of patience—one customer after another. And she did it all with a believable smile and the most glorious, oversized false eyelashes, which somehow made me adore her more. She was a large woman. Perhaps late 20s. I couldn’t be sure if she was Black or Hispanic—probably a blend of both.

I began to narrate her story in my mind: watching her kick it in clubs on weekends, then shifting to Walmart the following day. Then I noticed the couple in front of me paying for their purchase—distracting me from my own distractions. They weren’t paying once. They had split certain items and would be sticking a credit card into a slot, not having it work, turning it upside down, pulling it out, holding it up, having Ms. Eyeluscious quietly guide them toward success, and then doing all that again—a married couple making two separate transactions [faceplant emoji]. I caressed my Hershey’s bar, seeking comfort.

Eventually, I rolled my cart full of gallons forward, trying to keep pace with the speed of the conveyor belt conveying my other items for purchase. The can of corn, the box of Saltine minis, the candy bar, and the other item I can’t recall

.

I slid the Hershey’s toward my clerk and asked,

“Do you like these?”

“Yes,” she answered with conviction.

“It’s yours,” I said.

“No, that’s yours,” the clerk countered.

“I spent some time gambling on which candy bar you might like. I watched you. You’re relaxed, patient, and possess a restraint I sometimes struggle with. I can’t imagine this job is easy. And I know you can’t judge people out loud. It’s yours.”

“Thank you,” her grin like a beacon. “You seriously just made my day!”

“Good,” I smiled, “that’s what I was hoping.”

What I didn’t tell her was that the gift wasn’t just for her but also for me. Mark Twain summed it perfectly,

“The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer somebody else up.”