A Big MonstEr Blog: It's Saturday -- Let's Go Krogering

It’s Saturday – Let’s Go Krogering

Original Fiction by Butch Ekstrom

“It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in

giving, but like morning light it scattered

the night and made that day worth living.”

-- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Saturdays I usually welcome. Mostly they are errand and catch-up days, freedom from the mundane aches of five days at the most unremarkable job in the galaxy. Once I've had a decent Friday night’s sleep, following two or three (okay, sometimes four or five) Shock Top brews and some Netflix, I am ready to roll by 10:00 a.m. My ritual odyssey of the Never-Ending Shoulda/Woulda/Coulda List kicks into gear.

Things are supposed go like this:

Pull Scion onto street;

Drive through ATM line at bank -- make deposit, get cash;

Inch up drive-through lane at Starbucks;

Acquire veinte green ice tea, 2 straws please;

Ponder if gorgeous bank teller on ATM camera screen meant

anything by ‘Can I do something else for you?’;

Visit Kim Can Do dry cleaning shop – leave stuff, pick other stuff up;

Drop envelopes, old-school postage glued on, into rusty mailbox;

Double-check if squeaky mailbox drop-slot did its job;
Drive to grocery store, go in.

In New Orleans, people identify my next tactical move as “making groceries.” However, in this mid-South haven, the step (based on decades of commercials) is known as 'Kroger-ing,' So, like ‘Let’s go Krogering.’ Even if you were to drop into a Handi-Mart, Publix, or Piggly Wiggly, the effort might be labeled Kroger-ing.

Grocery Cart Selection: Easy Does It

Major food stores in America usually offer two basic shopping cart models. So a successful supermarket foray will begin normally on the open prairies of a monster-size parking lot. This is where (in my opinion) the best basket options wander, both models, on worn-down wheels, like farm animals aimed in no particular direction.

Your selection will prove critical. You will long for a basket that is well-balanced, with a properly aligned chassis, sturdy handlebar, and no annoying wheel wobbles. Secret some anti-bacterial Wet Wipes on your person. The big moose would be your Traditional -- a grocery industry standard, with four high-sides, a deep-well basket, a low slung horizontal rack right above its four wheels. Old age and uninventive design srob each Traditional of drink cup holders (a sinful omission). But it does supply a mini-basket in which tiny kids can be wedged.

The Traditional

The Traditional normally evinces a horrid dullness in its metalwork, scratched and gashed from wear and tear, with dead tread and wiggly wheels. Like balky John Deeres and old farm horses out in the country, they present themselves for service as long as they benefit from minimum care and shelter.

Yet, during a recent burst of spectacular innovation, the grocery industry began to offer The Small Fry - or The Smart Dart -- sporadically at supermarkets. Of reduced size, with a shallow, no kiddies allowed, collection basket, a reliable handle, and a pair(!) of drink holders to insert walk-around beverages, the spiffy, scatback SF really fits my bill. Bigger: no, sir, it is not always better.

A Black Smart Dart

Yes I live alone in a modest place. My requirements seem simple. But the annals of grocery lore teach that those whopping-big bascarts tempt wimp-willed, low skilled, and addictive eaters into over-shopping. Even cagey, lonely veterans (as in my humble case) succumb to the 'fill 'er up' mentality. It’s discouraging. What kind of sick human being races over to the Kroger just to snag an improbable sack of Science Diet (food for Fido), a three-gallon jug of canola oil, and double party-pack of graying pork chops 'on sale?' What a way to deplete the budget and clog family arteries. Truth be told, I have never personally stumbled upon an 84-pack of Fanta Orange two liters on sale, or a 50 pound supply of breaded catfish nuggets or a 15 pound 'family can' of Heinz Pork & Beans.’

I wouldn't even know where to search. Something must be wrong I fret.

On a recent weekend, by pure happenstance, I got schooled on proper cart-care and selection. The strangely meaningful episode has me tiptoeing, still, beside the humming DAIRY case and eyeballing other shoppers as I assay my weekly Kroger Games.

Which Way to Check Out?

At 11:11 a.m. I was later than usual for the Games. Rain pelted my car. Cold winds blew crisscrossing shopping carts around the parking area like a disturbed flock of farm animals or unmoored skiffs atop a black lake. I hoped that the predictable Saturday customer tsunami had not washed into store yet. I eyed an abandoned Small Fry near my Scion. But a whooshing gust and sheet of rain of blew it far from me. I felt disappointment.

"Oooh ominous," I whispered with a trace of a smile.

I knew I should chase that little basket. But three teen boys -- one I could make out as Darius, a cool kid -- with Kroger rain slickers and hoods, like wind frenzied yellow ghosts, chased wildly to corral the escapees. One of them pushed a hobbled old Tradtional my way.

Slowly we wobbled and wiggled toward the fresh greens and produce. I was wet. My calm and composure had been harshed away. I sucked a long drink from the plastic Starbucks cup in my hand, glad that I had it. I took a deep breath.

Bagged yellow onions -- 3 pounds, fresh basil, sliced mushrooms, a Napa cabbage, bell peppers in a mini-rainbow of colors, and pods of bok choy were the first staples among my food needs. Impulse buys followed. They were Ragu Old World sauce, dry whole wheat pasta, and a hermetically sealed sack of the Keebler elves' finest sugary delights.

My arms, face, and hair stayed damp. I could swear my clothes were visibly shrinking, underwear included. I struggled to Aisle 7 -- CANDY, GUM, SOFT DRINKS, WATER, BEER, WINE COOLERS. I wondered about chugging a couple Neato Mojitos right there in 7. But I noticed up ahead a new arrival from Aisle 6. She was a pretty blond girl dressed in soft and casual Lacey brand sky blue sportswear and blindingly neon green New Balance jogging shoes, with neon pink trim, and silver accents. Honey, you look like Disneyland, I thought crazily.

She rolled her Traditional toward me. This female – apparently a Millennial but not for long – made me think of Jennifer Something or Other, who's from here, and who plays the out there badass, Katniss Everdeen, so lethal, in"The Hunger Games" films. I guessed that Lacey was 28 or 29 years old, a competent but disinterested attorney who strains each week through long, billable hours, very low-profile, amidst a greedy old male law firm. I was sad to note that Lacey had no bow and arrows, but in this open-carry jungle of state that would have been a thrill.

When I feel good, even somewhat playful in public, I like to bedevil others in Kroger's with brief eye contact, a wink, maybe just a hint of Charlie Manson homicidal delusion to line my brows. What I get back is unpredictable -- modest smiles, the silent head nod, blank stares, impertinent look asides, crimp-lipped How ya doing?'s, someone's lecture full of grievances about the way this store is run. Fun. Whee. My snarky principle at work in this is Keep them guessing what you’re up to!

This was not one of those feel good forays. The cold rain had been a damper. Yet something that no man can resist attracted me to this blonde girl, besides her splendid Katniss locks, racy kicks, and sky-blue Lacey outfit. She was beautiful, disinterested, and she had been diligently piling items -- like I do -- into the child-seat of her Traditional basket.

On Aisle 7, I sidled up to Katniss. The devil prodded me to embrace her, seek her painted lips. She dropped a fat carton of Tic Tac mints into her cart. I sought eye contact and produced a smile. I wished I had drunk those wine coolers. Kat pretended not to notice. Kat raised her shiny Blackberry. Faking a look of concern, got busy tapping a text message. Like, I imagined, Marcy -- geezer alert aisle 7. Her long nails ticked on the smartphone. I pushed on. Would I hear the click of the camera on her handheld?

At the mouth of Aisle 11, I flagged badly. I craved a rest. Surrounded by freezer cases, I hunted for a Sara Lee red velvet cake.

Katniss appeared at the other end of this row. I rounded toward Aisle 12 –ICE CREAM, NOVELTIES, PIZZA, POTATOES to the left. Lingering on chilled open shelves, to my right, were CHEESES, BISCUITS, YOGURT, CREAM CHEESE, BUTTER, MARGARINE -- PLUS a few random consumables stretching back to a perpendicular wall full of MILK and JUICE compartments. Above this area, in huge letters, was the message DAIRY.

I sensed a minor surge of god feelings. It surprised me. My clothes and hair were almost dry. The Never Ending Get Around was coming to an end.

It Was Right Here

I decided cockily to freelance my way (sans basket) to secure the last things on my shopping list. I barely noticed that the blond, preoccupied with her Blackberry, was still standing up Aisle 12. I parallel parked my Traditional beside displays of Shredded Cheeses, Greek Yogurt, and Horseradish. I hustled in and around several, high-number aisles. I grabbed a gallon of ice cream (Cherry Cordial, No Sugar Added), Hershey dark chocolate syrup, frozen grape juice bars, Klondike mint bricks, microwave popcorn, and Pillsbury breakfast pastry. I completely overlooked Sara Lee. Soon my loaded hands and arms were feeling a chill. I slid toward to my big cart to dump my stuff. I felt happy I could pass through one additional area, BAKERY SHOPPE, before making a zippy escape from Krogering.

My fingers encircled the chilly metal push bar on my basket. The cart's aged wheels squeaked when they moved.

But not for long.

"Excuse me, sir . . . . Uh, sir?" an impatient female voice said behind me. I took another step. Couldn’t be for me.

"Sir, you are taking my . . ."

The intrusion made me suddenly testy. I turned and saw Katniss up close. She was very pretty indeed. And quiet as a stalker in those NB shoes.

"What is it? What did you . . . . Oh, hey!” I stammered.

"I think you've got my shopping cart there," the lawyer said, cool but puzzled.

I looked down to study the basket. My thought process reeled. Would I throw up?

'Geez, . . . crap,' I acknowledged. I did have hers. My most recent pick-up items were lying atop the things in her kiddie carrier seat. I stared at the carton of Tic Tacs.

'Geezooey,' I mumbled, dumbfounded as ever.

Katniss and a few assorted bystanders stared at me.

"Wow. I, I've never done anything like this. Sorry. And I'll tell you now, Lacey, I’ve been shopping a lot of years. A lot" I added, drawing close to an aimless ramble.

"Lace-ee. Oh wow, sorry, miss. Stupid," I blushed and slapped my hand on my forehead.

What civil or criminal penalties might a lawyer might slap on for commandeering someone else's Kroger basket?

I explained defensively, "Mine -- my cart -- was right here too. I parked it right here. See?"

I scanned all of Aisle 12. My basket had vanished.

"Now . . . here it is gone. Who in hell would take my groceries?’

Katniss and others smiled. She said that she did not know. Her black and silver smartphone gleamed, like a gemstone, under the overhead lights.

"Well. Thanks a lot. So . . . Ummm, I’ve gotta go look for it" I said anxiously.

I would hide in a place isolated, near SEAFOOD, until this all blew over. I would know my basket if I saw it.

"You know, mister, people just up 'n walk off with stuff nowadays," a middle-aged woman in a tired Virginia Slims tee shirt blurted. "Just like that. Freaks me out." She cradled a family-size box of Velveeta and a can of Grand butter biscuits in the crook of an arm.

"They'll probably go 'n figure out what they done 'n just leave it be somewhere,” a man in an oily auto repair-shop jumpsuit said.

"Yeah, guess so," I said. I pushed the basket to walk once more.

A strident female voice called, "Sir! Sir!"

"What? Yeah?" I asked absentmindedly.

"My cart. My cart. That’s still my cart. I need it back,” Katniss declared.

"Oh yeah," I blushed. "So sorry."

The word discombobulated came to mind. I doubted I could then pronounce it.

Kat grabbed impatiently for her basket. As she did, I noticed that Katniss had selected raw fruits and vegetables, whole wheat muffins, tilapia strips, Lean Cuisine and Healthy Choice entrees, a filet of top sirloin, and some sugar-free candy. This girl was all business. Disciplined without whimsy. No Guy Fieri, Hell's Kitchen, or Food Channel poser nonsense in her grocery life. Then I saw the Tic Tacs once more. Iron Chef would be proud of her.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure this happens. They all, the baskets, look the same if you don't look closely," Kat said graciously.

I made a split-second choice to speak. "Yeah, well, yeah but not if you get one of those great, new little carts. The Small Fry. That's what I call them -- Small Frys. You know 'em -- they've got the drink holders, a central basket, and the wide bottom wire rack for things like cases of Fanta or sacks of Science Diet for big dogs."

I grew scared again. 'What the hell?' In my head, my voice sounded foreign, high-pitched, out of control maniacal.

Katniss said, "Hmm. Yeah. Well, I guess that's right. That's about all." In her hand she clutched her shiny phone.

“Are you planning to give me your way cool Blackberry too?," I joked.

She laughed nervously and said no. Quickly she slipped it into her Coach shoulder bag. I sensed pity from her. Several more shoppers had slowed to look on.

"Well then, bye. Sorry." I turned to flee.

"Sir? Sir? These would be yours. Don't you want your items?" My new friend pointed down to the pile of Pillsbury breakfast buns and other food selections that I had dumped into her cart's child-ready bin.

I turned a deep red. Don’t hurt me, Miss, I thought.

"Sure enough," I whispered. "Good idea. Thank you and I'm outta here."

Perplexed, I held the groceries in my arms. How would I finish this?

Almost The Last Straw

After a frantic search, I was discouraged. My basket had become invisible. In my mind, it rolled swiftly, under its own power, groceries flopping and twitching, out Kroger's door and across the parkway.

The managers and security guards should recognize my dilemma, I told myself. Briefly, I angrily blamed an oblivious, fictional octogenarian couple krogering mindlessly through SUGARS, SPICES, SWEETENERS, SYRUPS which had nabbed my basket. I quick-stepped up and down Aisles 11, 10, 9, 8 . . .

My stress level was still going up. Each time near DAIRY, languid customers and store managers chatting with low-rung employees to avoid the public's demands burned me up. Then I snapped inside. I scooped up the leaking Cherry Cordial and other stuff to stomp toward the checkout zone. carton of ice cream and my armsful other stuff toward the checkout zone. It was time to engage.

* * *

A thick steel pole, floor to ceiling, painted bright yellow, easy to see in theory, stood in the middle of this old Kroger. I spied two women leaning against it. One was African-American. Her bright red vest and nametag identified her as Melda Plumb. The other red vested lady appeared to be a Latina named Lanita Reyes. They were Kroger floor managers: poised, all-knowing, ready to help.

Melda squinted at me over her half-moon reading glasses. Lanita closed her mouth and looked toward the self-check lanes impassively.

"Yes?" Melda asked, but her tone had a ‘don't tread on me’ trace in it. She eyed my softening perishables.

Feeling mildly intimidated, I began, "Well, uh-huh, I mean, ha ha ahhh, you may not generally hear about this kind of thing. But . . . Or, well, you may think that I'm a bit unhinged, that I would say this but, but . . . look I can't find my cart with my stuff in it. Nowhere."

"Did you look at where you left it at?" Melda asked matter of factly. Lanita looked at me with anticipation.

"Uh. Yeah. I sure did,” I said. Now I was a defendant in a courtroom. I pleaded my case. “Aisle 12. CHEESES, GREEK YOGURT and you know. So. I was gone over to Aisle 11 and then I came back and my basket was gone. You know?"

"Did you look around some more? Did you see anybody with it?" Melba asked. Lanita nodded unhelpfully.

"Yeah. I did all that. I looked hard. I even went back twice by MILK and CREAMERS. Look, I don't want y'all to think I'm crazy. But I don't know what else to do."

"Somebody just took it,” Melda stated without feeling. Then like a veteran TV detective, she added, “They'll ditch it. For sure. Just ditch it. We ‘ll find it – we find 'em all over all the time.”

Lanita nodded again with a smile.

"What? Really? Just like that?" I asked in disbelief.

"Look, don't you be worried none. Just go get you another cart. Those items belong to you?" she nodded toward my full hands.

"Yep,” I answered. “But they're fading on me fast."

"I know. It's a pain. But you go on and start over. Go on, get going. I'll look for your things. If you see your basket you come get me right off. If I find your cart I'll tell you once it shows up. Okay?"

Melda seemed suddenly balanced and reassuring. Lanita nodded again.

"I'll be over There," I said unhelpfully as I pointed at the FRUITS and VEGETABLES sign on a distant wall.

"Don't you worry none. Somebody'll look down, see what they done, and they'll figure THIS all out," Melda noted.

The two red vested officials walked away

After a couple of steps, Melda stopped. She turned quickly. “Just in case, how will I know that it's yours?” she asked.

"In the little top basket for kids. A big plastic Starbucks cup. Iced tea. Two green straws will be sticking out of it . Can’t miss it. Tucked into the kiddie seat,” like I was testifying to a court reporter.

Melda tossed me a strange look. Then she headed across the Kroger Games turf to where the big bosses hang.

* * *

Moments later I commandeered another abandoned cart to re-commence my shopping excursion.

First I snatched some jasmine rice, that jar of Ragu sauce, and the dry pasta. Then I stalk-walked, still angry, over to FRESH FRUITS and VEGETABLES.

I snapped -- with a little too much angry vigor-- three plastic sacks off the bag dispenser next to a pile of Granny Smiths. Take it easy, don’t go postal, I cautioned -- the world is watching. A big woman, with a doe-eyed, little peanut in her Traditional perch, anxiously assessed the danger I might pose or if I was carrying concealed weaponry.

"For bell peppers and onions," I blurted.

Briefly I turned toward a shopper checking out Napa cabbages. I motioned to her to extract her white earbuds with the small silver skulls and crossbones.

"What's the problem?" she inquired seriously, caressing a Napa lightly.

"Just wondering . . . here," I pointed to the vegetables and flshed a hint of a smile. "What was green, could really sing the blues, and dance up a storm?,"

"Sir? I dunno. Really, I . . . ." She rolled her eyes.

"Okay. Okay. You give up? -- Elvis Parsley, that's what, ha," I said.

"Oh," she said, unmoved. She stuffed the earbuds back in.

"Whatcha listening to?" I asked loudly.

"Parsley's Greatest, dude," the woman retorted. At last she grinned.

"Ha. That's funny, now that's fun-nee" I said. But the game was over.

I pushed onto Aisle 4. It was deserted. The words LATIN FOODS, INTERNATIONAL, MARINADES, GRAVY clung to the signage above.

Then before I could say enchilada, my life as a Kroger Valued Customer changed permanently.

On the overhead announcement system I heard clearly, "Good afternoon, everyone. Will the Kroger Valued Customer who is missing his shopping cart please come to the BAKERYLAND department? We got what you're looking for."

Feeling suddenly hot and furious, I glanced about furtively. I was alone on 4. No one stared at me. Had Melda really said 'missing his shopping cart' out loud? I listened for derisive laughter. But a soft, background muzak version of "Fools Rush In" hummed up and down the aisles.

'Wait a minute. Nobody knows it’s me!' I said to myself, relieved.

Then a bit louder Melda declared, "Attention. Attention, will the Valued Customer who lost his shopping cart please proceed to the Bakery Shoppe? We have a very special surprise here. It's your runaway."

Lost? Effing lost? I shivered with embarrassment.

Lanita emitted a muffled snicker in the background before the microphone went dead.

"Geez, ladies, go ahead and announce it to the world," I mumbled.

* * *

I worked my way with my replacement cart, like a snail in a crosswind, across the front of the grocery. Its wiggly wheels squeaked and complained on the linoleum floor. I felt panicky. Could people be giving me the dreaded sideye as the Loser Man who was so hopeless he lost track of his slippery basket? The painfully formidable, Saturday checkout lanes stood to my left. Progress proved difficult. Individuals with overflowing carts slowed me by veering left and right without care or caution. Some haphazardly bolted back out in front of me thus surrendering their spots in numbered aisles. Items clacked and smacked on the floor as random things fell over the top edges of overstuffed Small Frys. Two little kids in a faux, red and yellow BMW attachment (on the front of some man's Traditional) darted at me, daring a head on collision, like NASCAR cutthroats. I stopped abruptly. One child, with a wad of chewing gum and a runny nose, stared at me. The other, looking dosed by a psychotropic med, flipped me off.

Beautiful, so charming indeed, I murmured. My immediate thought was to slap the little flipper's hand. Instead, I briefly sized up the gent pushing the faux BMW. Clearly he suffered from more than an irreverent child or two. Let the man and his PTSD pass I decided.

An old woman, dressed in tacky, seam-stretched Wal-Mart clothes, sporting spiky wild white hair, but with no coat in sight, veered persistently in front of me. She inched forward slowly and leaned, as if drugged and nearly sleepwalking, over her Traditional's push bar. Her head was bent forward and her two bare and wrinkly arms and hands dangled, corpse-like, inside her cart -- like an old feline that had been sucked up into a pick-up's engine with her legs dangling. The old lady's feet were dragging -- each set of toes pointed down on the scuffed linoleum. I pictured her sound asleep but yet guiding a rusting Ford-250 carelessly off the rain-slickened parkway. Near Kroger's main doors, she ditched her truck atop a red No Parking square of asphalt. The back of the woman's faded shirt looked wet and held an outline of a fragile fetus. It said "Pretend that I'm a tree. Protect my life. God bless the unborn!"

I considered strategies that would allow me to slip around this creeping nuisance without killing someone. But I let it go. I needed to arrive in one piece over in Bakery Land, or Baker's Shoppe or Baskersville, or whatever. Melda was waiting, I hoped. Meanwhile, I felt chastened, impatient, and, wow, thirsty.

Doing It Her Way

Melda in the red vest and khaki trousers, all skeptical and streetwise in her demeanor, waved pleasantly toward me. She seemed glad to roll my grocery-bearing, Traditional cart toward me. Two green Starbucks straws were sticking up proudly, like a country's beloved flag, from the kiddie seat area. Melda steered briskly through all the carts around her.

She has driven this way before, I thought stupidly. The lyric I once was lost but now am found played, with a big church organ, in my head.

"Bueno suerte. Must be your lucky day, senor. Como no?," Lanita spoke from the big yellow pole.

"Must be," I conceded.

Melda Plumb rolled up to me. She actually seemed sympathetic for a second.

"I don't know how to thank you. I really don't,” I babbled. I felt like a fool. “Thank you. You’re great. I really, really did not want to do all this over again. But where'd you find it? How?”

Melda replied, “You know what? You gave me a good clue. I saw them straws clear 'cross the floor. Two green straws. Yessir. If you hadn't a said somethin' I'd still be looking."

She handed the drippy cup to me. "Here. You look like you could use a stiff drink. Been some kinda mess, ain’t it?"

I drank two big swallows. It did taste good. Anxiety had turned my mouth bone dry.

“I was like really, truly, worried when I first came up to you ladies,” I stammered. 'Like you'd think I was unhinged or whatever. Going mental. Some kinda lunatic . When I first told you it sounded kinda weird even to me. Wow. Harsh day.”

"Look at this stuff," Melda gestured toward my Traditional collection. "Look like yours, sir?"

It looked good to me. No mystery items. A Traditional that wheeled straight ahead. Hastily I grabbed my Aisle 12 acquisitions and transferred them to my recovered basket. I would switch the melting ice cream and drippy juice bars with replacements soon.

"So where'd you find it, ma'am?" I asked.

Lanita answered, "Back near DAIRY, by the milk cases. It be dumped. Ditched. Chillin' all by it's lonesome."

"That's the deal," Melda agreed.

"Well, you’re a lifesaver, I mean it," I flattered her. "Heh, heh, I, I guess you were pretty what's all this when I told you what my problem was. Right?"

Melda scowled. "No sir. Not at all," she said in a very matter of fact tone. "No-oo-o, sir. Okay, then. That's it. I'll take your second basket, put your second-stab goods away."

Katniss/Lacey rolled into my field of vision behind Melda, bound for a checkout lane. The girl was texting again on her gleaming Blckberry. Then without warning she shot a disapproving look my way.

I felt something flutter in my heart.

Katniss spoke into the phone, "So I was I sayin' -- this older guy starts rolling away with my grocery basket, for real. Crazy shit, huh? So I say ‘Sir, oh Sir?’ . . . Oops, Marcy, I gotta bounce."

A sarcastic smile and a light toss of her lustrous hair came next. But before laying items on the checkout belt, Katniss laid her compact phone aside, tightened her lips, and saluted Melda and me by raising her right arm, extending three fingers, trident style, just like the heroine in the The Hunger Games films.

I was awed. Katniss raised a Super Big Gulp cup that she somehow now had half-hidden in her cart.

"God the amount of sugar in that cup must be sending her into a walking coma," I noted to Melda and Lanita.

"I wouldn't know, mister. What’s blondie's problem anyway? If you axe me, I think she's got a bad attitude," Melda snorted.

"No biggie. That was just a badass gesture to another one. Admiration maybe,” I replied but knew that was not true.

"So, so thanks again and . . . wait a minute!" I said loudly. "You said You were not surprised to hear that my basket was lost?"

Lanita snickered again.

"No, sir. Not at all," Melda said politely. "Happens a lot. But don't you worry you-self none. Carts, they get lost (she makes exaggerated air quotes with her fingers as she declares lost). Seems like every day. DDD. Ditched, dodged, and dumped we call 'em. It was pleasure to serve you, sir"

"Yeah, I guess Saturdays are bad. Lots of folks, lots of carts needed, everywhere," I complained.

"No again, sir," Melda scowled, but she was just playing me. "Now it do be busy at Kroger's on weekends. But with all the old old folks comin' to us on Thursday for Senior Day, I'll tell ya the truth. Just wait till you see Senior Day – it's a nightmare.”

Lanita nodded eagerly. She was missing two front teeth. "Night-mare, senor."

An old man in a wrinkly red vest came up. His badge read Thurbert Bumfield. World's Oldest and Longest Kroger employee.

"Caught yo'self' another runaway did ya, Mel?" Thurbert asked with childlike glee.

Melda, Lanita and he laughed strangely. He had touched a nerve of some sort.

I went on to the checkout lane. All the self-scan lanes were busy. I would wait in line for a human.

Darius the SnowBird, as I call him (Darius flies south each year to escape local winters), would be my checkout guy. He calls me "My dog, Mister Valued Customer" or and fist-bumps with me after scanning my Kroger discount card.

A few departure lanes away I spied the not cool, nosy female with the Virginia Slims shirt. She was a caustic specimen: You know people just up and walk'n off with your stuff -- just like that. I searched for her hunk of Velveeta cheese Grands. No worries. They were gliding down the scan belt.

I was so done for now with Krogering. I was open to some different kind of hunt.

Darius got busy scanning my stuff. Over the loudspeaker came a voice with a strange but recognizable feel. The words boomed this time. Ms. Melda Plumb with the red vest said:

"Attention, Kroger Valued Customers. Thank you for Kroger-ing today
at our superstore. Listen up now please. Announcement. Announce-
ment! We've got a lost little child, a young boy, at the FRESH MEATS
counter. A real handsome and polite little boy he is. He is missing his
family. He say he came with someone named "Mommy," and that you, Mommy, are lost. This boy's name is Efraim. So, if Efraim is yours
please come now. FRESH MEATS counter. He won't make it far on his own."

After a moment of reflection, before the electronic beep, beep, boops began again,
I called out for all to hear.

Members of the Kroger Valued Nation. Listen up! Time to unite! I who
have lost much in this life know this truth. We get by when we help
each other, seek what each other needs and values. Another child
has gone missing. It's our duty, not a game, to help him, Efraim,
find his future now. Listen to me! How many more souls must be lost?
How many more must not go missing?

I extended my arm, three fingers pointed upright, trident style. I bowed my head like Katniss in the movies.

The checkout zone grew hushed. A handful of shoppers looked down. Many pretended nothing had happened and just went on.

I noticed the muzak track was playing a song throughout the store. It was The Citizen Cope's "Let the Drummer Kick." As in kick that bad habit.

"Word, my serious white V-I-P and Valued Customer. My dog," Darius the SnowBird whispered.

We fist-bumped. I replied, "Truth."

The Velveeta Lady and the curvy barrister in the Lacey outfit continued about their business. Darius finished my bagging.

I rolled my packed-tight Traditional to the sliding doors to exit. Shoppers made self-scanning machines go boop, boop, beep. Strangers murmured to each other. Cellphones chirped, like agitated bluejays, throughout the store.

'That Melda. What a cut up,' I mused. She aims between the eyes.

Elvis Parsley began to sing his syrupy rendition of "I Did It My Way."