Friday Afternoon at Albertsons
“Kung Pao if you’re looking for men, teriyaki for women. Sweet and sour if you swing both ways.” Phoebe is idling in front of her KitchenAid stand mixer as it pummels fresh cookie dough into a creamy goo. “Not the little plastic hot sauce bottles,” she adds. “You’re looking for the bigger glass bottles.”
She switches off the mixer and scoops a dollop of dough into her mouth, swallowing her finger to its hilt. “Not that I’ve dabbled, Tate would murder me,” she garbles, batting her lashes, index finger still lodged in her mouth. “Ish only on Friday afternoons, so shtart your engines ish you’re intereshted shweetheart.” She sucks the rest of the dough off her finger and buries her chin in her neck, leering at me like she’s done something naughty. “Not that I’m shaying you would be. Godblessh you and Trevor.”
I sleep on it and wake up next morning twisted in sheets, full of that same urge I’ve had for a long time now. Trevor is “getting in a quick nine holes with Tate,” Phoebe’s husband, which means he won’t stumble in until well after dark, breath flammable. I think about him beating off on the couch in the dark living room, not as quiet or controlled as he thinks he is. He always does it left-handed and I wonder if it’s because his wedding ring is ribbed.
That afternoon I find myself cruising Albertsons, the child seat of my otherwise empty shopping cart toting a single 14 oz. glass bottle of P.F. Chang’s Sweet & Sour Sauce, tipped over on its side so its label is clearly visible to passersby. My Adam’s apple feels like cement in my throat as I wheel through “Frozen Foods,” then out into “Poultry” where whole raw chickens lay sprawled out like wet supermodels, twisted into supine poses that would give Jim Perdue a tentpole hardon. ‘84 coke-zenith Elton beebops a zinger soundtrack for shoppers as I mosey along, trying to look both nonchalant and all-business.
I’ve never been so intensely aware of the grand pantomime of a grocery store. Everyone is up to something — hefting melons to gauge ripeness, sniffing at big bundles of cilantro like browsing cows. At the Thanksgiving gourds I pause and wonder for a brief moment if I’ve found myself on the ass-end of a joke, and maybe this isn’t even a thing people do, but then a cart swings in front of me and suddenly I’m eye-level with two rows of stained yellow teeth, turned into a grin. There’s a stray menthol tucked behind his ear and he’s breathing heavy. I clock a bottle of Teriyaki sauce in his cart.
“Sorry,” I say, angling my cart away from him.
“Sweet and sour huh?” at the exhale of “huh” he leans in and I can smell gutter-cheap beer. His exposed stomach is rising and falling, a whole ’nother appendage with its own pulse.
“For a, uh, a watch party later,” I stutter, taking a wide berth to avoid eye contact. I shuffle my cart past an overflowing table of green bananas and round into “Household Supplies,” feeling a little sorry but not sorry enough to turn back around. I wheel halfway down the aisle and stop in front of the fabric softener, running my hands idly over the lavender and pansy yellow plastic bottles. A cart squeaks to a halt at the end of the aisle behind me and I can hear the labored breathing of my ill-fated suitor. He performs a grumpy little throat clear and when I don’t turn around I hear the cart roll away.
Some teenager is on the PA system, “Hey Rowan, can you come up here and, um, give me your keys?” The microphone is still on and someone is giggling. Clear on the other side of the store I hear “YES CHEF!” followed by bounding footsteps.
I side-eye three carts passing by me in quick succession: a harried blonde woman laden with all manner of mind-melting snacks — chips, the whole Hostess library, hard candies shaped like daggers; an older man in Crocs with an empty cart, whistling the hook to “Who Wears These Shoes?”; and a stunning, college-aged girl in hoop earrings, glass bottle flagging me down on the child’s seat. Teriyaki. Bingo!
I hiss a whisper, “Hey. How do we do this?”
I bite my lip a little. She turns up hers, “Ew, get away from me,” then breaks into a long stride, trundling her cart down the aisle, around the corner and out of sight.
Feeling suddenly jilted I retie my ponytail and correct my posture. It’s definitely no biggie. She was definitely just embarrassed. I’m definitely not going to show up on one of those turbo slop YouTube channels, the ones that debase hapless strangers who do idiotic things like stick their hands inside Looney Tunes holes that say “FRƎƎ MONƎYS” and scream when they pull out a dildo or a startled rodent.
I leave “Household Supplies” and wheel into the color-wheel shelves of condiments, noting the empty “Taste of the East” section. Where this pack of suburban smuthounds emerged from I do not know, but the P. F. Chang’s rack is gutted and blowing dust bunny tumbleweed. I make my way down the aisle, past a hunched woman who looks too old to be involved. She has six P. F. Chang’s Beef & Broccoli frozen dinners, and I wonder if maybe this is part of some OT VIII-level menu I’m not even aware of yet, or maybe she just has a bunch of hungry grandkids at home.
I scan the aisles: mustard, relish, mayo. Olives. Are olives a condiment? I round the corner and nearly crash my cart into an oncoming shopper. I look up and Trevor is piloting the cart opposite, sporting the green golf polo and khaki shorts he was wearing this morning when he left. It’s already far too late to wipe whatever stupefied expression is on my face off my face.
“I thought you were at home!” he says, loud enough to turn some heads.
“I am. I was.” I’m falling uphill. “It’s Asian night. We needed sauce.” There is a long silence as the fridges hum over in “Frozen Foods.” I finally gulp the cement apple down my throat and say, “I thought you were golfing with Tate.” I look down in Trevor’s cart and see a bottle of sweet and sour sauce.
The teenagers are giggling on the PA again, “Rowan, somebody needs to use your keys one more time.”
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