A local non-profit asks for money and supplies. I decline in a time of decline. Most carts have a frozen wheel jammed with detritus or a freewheeling wheel spinning in the ether like an ADHD kindergartner. I grab a smaller cart - portion size- to limit the spending.
A song and dance of advertising greets us as we enter the turnstile security gates - cardboard displays of the current holiday. “Good morning,” says a caffeine-saturated employee. I say, “Mornin’” sheepishly like I’m in a Scope commercial.
We get essentials and lunch comestibles for the kids. Workers stock shelves, pushing U-boats through swinging doors. Lots of bedhead and flip-flops on Sunday morning.
REDUCED stickers on expiring poultry. SALE end cap hocks cinnamon swirls with nacreous icing. CMYK glitch on the packaging has me thinking it's a cheap outfit pumping pastries out in an unmarked warehouse. Boxes read ICING, CINNAMON, BUN MIXTURE.
If you look at the ceiling, you realize the vastness of the store: endless industrial lighting and security cameras. When humans can't go outside anymore, I imagine a world of spaces like this with connecting tunnels and skywalks. Perhaps Vegas.
BIPOC Door Dash workers clog checkout lines.
“Sorry, I’m in your personal space,” I say to an older man in front of me as I start loading items behind the checkout divider on the sliver of conveyor belt.
“No problem. I'm a retired fisherman, and I'm used to being in close quarters,” he says.
“Well, I think we need more people in close quarters these days.”
“You’re right.”
The cashier talks to us about a Baywatch reboot sans Hasselhoff. The bagger went to take a shit so I bag. An armed security guard in a bulletproof vest ✔️ receipts with a ballpoint pen.
The digital lottery machine accepts credit cards.
Unabashed America.