A short (true) story

When it snows, people seem to be magnetically drawn to grocery stores.



The girl with the blue hair was there again, restocking the sliced cheeses. She's stick thin, and her hair is a washed out sort of blue, like hair that has been dyed while ago. As she bends over to stack the sliced cheeses into their neat rows, I notice that we're wearing the same boxers; red with dogs on them, a holiday special from a few years back at the Gap. Trader Joe's always has the most interesting employees. There is inevitably the bearded guy somewhere, the girl with the really short hair and the obnoxious guy who insists you have to try "the new vegan chocolate crackers." I tried them once, they tasted terrible.

I always refuse to get a cart at Trader Joe's, it seems like overkill. I never buy more than a few items, but carts always seem like driving a Mini-van by yourself. As I walked down the 4 aisles before hitting the produce section, I randomly filled my basket with items, a pint of Italian Grapefruit soda, some sliced cheese ("Excuse me" to the girl with the blue hair), a bag of those bake at home rolls. Finally shuffling into the bleak desert of an end of January grocery store produce section in New England.

Plastic wrapped cucumbers, sickly looking oranges, and bananas doing their best Dalmatian impression. I grab one of each and on to the last stop, the dairy section. There is a guy there, steel toed boots worn down to the steel, pants with holes and paint in equal abundance, and 2 hoodies covered by a blue Dickies work jacket. He has paint in his hair and as I get closer, I can see that the left arm on his glasses, long broken, is soldered into place. He grabs a gallon of milk, checks the price and then puts it back and takes the half gallon. His basket only has a dozen eggs and now the half gallon of milk. I glance down at mine, full of salami, overpriced produce, and the sliced cheese the girl with the blue hair stacked so neatly.

We both head towards the register and as we get there, a new line opens up, I politely let him go before me and place my basket on the little ledge as the cashier (short haired girl) rings him up.
"$4.19"
He pulls out his battered wallet and slides his credit card through the reader. The register beeps at the cashier and the asks him to try it again. Again, beep.
"Is it a gift card? It says here that there isn't sufficient balance."
It's not a gift card.

He fumbles with his wallet pulling out all his cards, but knowing that there wasn't any forgotten money in there. He mumbles that he doesn't have another way to pay and, with his head down walks away from the cash register and grabs his folding grocery
cart. On his way out the door, I see that his folding grocery cart is filled with bags from Shaws, another grocery store about a half mile away.
He had walked a half a mile extra in worn out boots to save a dollar on milk and eggs.
"$33.75"
I pull the two twenties out of my wallet and haphazardly stuff the change into my pocket.

I walk slowly to my car, put my groceries in the back, and sit and stare at the snow accumulating on windshield.