5:12 PM – Laura was in a hurry when she jumped out of her car and quickly strode into the supermarket to pick up some eggs.
5:15 PM – With a carton of large brown free-rangers in hand, Laura darted for the express line. But the half-dozen shoppers already assembled had the same idea. No problem. Laura chose the shortest available queue. With two ahead of her, both carrying baskets, she felt good about her choice.
5:26 PM – The same elderly woman checking out ten minutes ago, was still digging into her purse trying to find the loose change that would complete a cash payment. Laura knew that this could be her in fifty years, but nonetheless was shooting eye darts at the oblivious old girl. With no end to the coin hunt in sight, Laura moved over to a younger-looking row.
5:45 PM – Price check! But unfortunately not one employee, including the manager knew what raw catfish nuggets cost. Catfish nuggets? Was this for human or pet? After asking everyone but the security guard, still no answer. As Laura’s patience was wearing thinner than her grandmother’s hair, she noticed the self-checkout stalls were wide open. Never having the self-check knack (too many keypad instructions) she was nonetheless anxious to end this frustrating shopping experience.
6:15 PM – The machine ate her credit card. The manager told her they had to wait for the technician who was on a lunch break. Lunch at 6:15? Who eats lunch at 6:15? “We close at ten”, was the snooty answer. Upon flinging a bevy of sarcastic one-liners at the manager, Laura realized that the guy was born without a sarcasm gene.
7:17 PM – With recovered but deformed credit card in hand, Laura was now third in line, feeling she had an edge on the suckers occupying the other four long rows. The front customer was paid up and ready to go, when the cashier noticed a broken egg in her carton. Before the poor bagger could take off for the other side of the store to get a fresh dozen, Laura, in desperation, offered the woman her carton of eggs in exchange. Her nemesis, the manager suddenly appeared with “But then, someone would have to get you a new carton.” Laura’s solution was asking for her place in line to be saved while she gets the damn eggs herself. A deal was struck. Laura beelined for the dairy department.
7:20 PM – Laura returned with a new carton to find that her line was not only gone, but a chain prohibited entrance to the now checker-less station. It was as if she’d never been born.
8:31 PM – Having suffered through a twenty-minute shopper-checker familial conversation (“How’s the family? Sorry about your COVID. You have to see my vacation photos.”), a coupon-crazy man and the old changing of the cashiers ceremony, Laura was tantalizingly close to pay dirt, but hopping around on one leg, seconds from peeing in her pants. Unable to hold it in, off she ran.
8:33 PM – Of course there was a line at the bathroom door. Why not? And a keypad that needed a punch code. Really? Wtf is this a Wells Fargo bank vault?
8:56 PM – Finally, the last person before Laura came out. What was she doing in there for seventeen and a half minutes, taking a shower? Unfortunately, she let the door close. When Laura asked her for the code, she said she forgot it. “Get it from the manager.” Laura was ready to do harm to the woman, but calmed down. After all, she’s not a monster. Her next thought was maybe she should just go home without the eggs and pee in the comfort and safety of her own bathroom. But wouldn’t that be like admitting defeat?
9:03 PM – Back with the code and a urine dam that was ready to burst…the effing numbers weren’t working. Laura ran back to the manager, who said with a sarcastic smile “Oops, I gave you yesterday’s code. Sorry.” Now he understands sarcasm?
9:14 PM – Laura exits the bathroom relieved, but realizes she left the eggs inside and dives for the closing door, but a hair too late. As she began to punch in the code again, the bubble over her head said “Bathroom eggs. No thanks, I’ll get another carton”.
9:35 PM – The next person up on the only open checkout line, Laura noticed an extremely old human, struggling behind her, arms loaded with groceries. Of course our heroine motioned for the fragile senior citizen to get in front. She’s not a monster. And in appreciation, the damn geriatric took forever, writing a check.
9:57 PM – Eggs finally paid for, Laura marched for the exit, wishing a good night to the worker doing the closing time floor-mopping, and made it on through to the other side, free at last. Heading for her car with a spring in her step, Laura tripped on a parking lot speed bump, involuntarily flinging the egg carton into the air and watched helplessly in slo-mo as twelve large brown free range ovals simultaneously exploded onto the blacktop and formed into a yellow Jackson Pollock-like collage. A passerby commented, “That’s pretty.” Laura’s fist balled-up, ready to throw down. But then her fingers slowly retracted. After all, she’s not a monster.
Moral: (this one’s easy) Instacart.
