It's a fascinating farrago of folks. The university should commission a study. It's remarkable. Certain questions arise instantly: Is that man urinating on the hummus? Is that a real mustache on that woman? Is that a woman?
It's the tragedy of the commons, really. Any public place, open twenty-four hours with heat, overhead lighting and peanuts within stealing distance will attract the drifting damned.
The minute you exit the car, you get into survival mode, and start functioning purely on adrenaline. Aisle eight, coffee, dammit! Where's grandma? Shit, she's fallen by the mayonnaise! Let her go. She was old, and it was her time.
Meanwhile, the guy with the floor buffer who looks like he's tweaked on crank catches your eye and in that split second, your atheistic leanings solidify.
The music playing overhead is Journey, without exception. 'Who's crying now?' asks astute front man Steve Perry. Some drunken oaf has fallen into the baby food containers, and the reek of strained spinach is assaulting.
Every once in a while a balloon will pop in the party-supply section, and I'll wonder briefly why I haven't yet created a living will. The pharmacy section's a blast, too. There's always one guy who's wondering how to manufacture meth from Flintstones vitamins and KY Jelly.
They're so fascinating as to almost, almost provoke conversation. The guy with the eye patch and Care bear shirt buying fourteen boxes of Cinnamon Life cereal piques my curiosity, and I pray he's not a Scout leader.
Thursday night I take inventory. I make sure I have enough coffee, bread and milk to last the weekend. I've learned, through years of bachelorhood, that anything can be smeared on bread. Anything. I am without shame.
There's a co-op down the street from me, and get this: it's within biking distance! Nah. My life needs more excitement, anyway, and while I risk an unsolicited waxing from Toothless McMethhead, I'll continue to clip my coupons, get in my car, and sigh.
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