Grocery Chaos

Our groceries were supposed to be ready at noon, but one text message after another had pushed the pick-up time further and further back.  Dinner plans had been abandoned.  Chicken, tacos, and salsa hadn’t arrived in time for our fiesta.  We were stuck with cheese and crackers and three day old sweet and sour chicken.  We were about to become victims of grocery chaos.

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A Mad Dash

Finally, fifteen minutes before the store was going to close I received a notification that the order was ready.  Slight problem: I was already dressed for bed.  I performed a gymnastics routine that would have dazzled Simone Biles getting my jeans and tee shirt on, then sprinted downstairs.

Forgetting to turn on the light, I tumbled from top step to bottom spraining both ankles in the vortex, and slid onto the basement floor, safe at the dollhouse.   I picked myself up and hobbled into the garage.

Garage door opener?  Not necessary.  Not when Pringles barbecue chips and Cheetos are at stake.  I backed right through it.  You could always repair a garage door.  Going without that crunchy cheese flavor?  Forget about it.

I stomped the gas and blew out of the driveway, ricocheting off a neighbor’s mailbox.  At thirty over the speed limit, I blew through two stop signs and a red light, but I didn’t care.  By the time I got to the store, I had so many cops behind me it looked like a funeral procession for Starsky and Hutch.

The Wait

In the Kroger parking lot, I raced down the aisle and pulled into the last remaining parking spot for pickup orders and made my call two minutes before the doors shut.  Parking space number two.  A recording promised my order would be right out.

In the meantime, Louisville’s S.W.A.T. team surrounded my vehicle.  Assault rifles took aim as a man with a megaphone asked me to get out of the car.

“I can’t,” I yelled back.  “Not till my order’s ready!”

After a short delay, he announced: “Mr. Glover, we have your mother on the phone.”

Phone Call from Mom

Rats, I thought.  “Okay, put her through.”  I picked up my phone on the first ring.

“Bobby… son… please, turn yourself in,” she said through her tears.

“I can’t, Mom.  I’m waiting for a half pound of Virginia ham and some Ring Dings.”

She sniffled.  “Were they on sale?  Did you check for coupons?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“All right, but be careful.”

“I will.  I promise.”

As soon as we hung up, the man with the megaphone blared out, “I hope you got some Kaiser rolls and mustard with that ham.”

I froze.  I had forgotten the rolls, and it was too late to change my order.  The deadline had passed.  The grocery gods had set an absolute time limit on changes to orders and I had failed to obey their commandments.  I prayed for absolution.  “No rolls,” I yelled back.  “I forgot.”

“Don’t worry.  We got it,” he said.  I could see him giving orders to one of the S.W.A.T. team members, who slung his M4 carbine over his shoulder and double-timed it to enter the store just as the grocery cart exited.

Substitutions and Missing Items

While I waited in suspense for the cart to arrive, the local news crew set up their camera.  The Fresnel lights shone into my eyes.  How much of my original order would I actually receive?

I lowered my window.  The high school girl who had stepped up pulled her headset down off her ears.  “We were missing a few items.”  She held the testament in hand, reviewing the order.

“Let me see,” I said and plucked the list from her.  As I compared what I had ordered to what I had received, my body tensed.  “There’s not one yogurt in the entire store?  Not one can of ginger ale?”

“That’s what it says.”

My eyes bulged and my nostrils flared.  “No milk?  Not a quart, pint, or cup?  Nowhere to be found?”

The man with the megaphone chimed in: “No milk?  That’s absurd.  What else is missing?”

“What else?”  I leaned out the window.  “They substituted apples for carrots, ground beef for beans, and tomato juice for vanilla extract.  And don’t even ask what they did with my Ring Dings!”

The phone rang.  Mom again.  “Son, I’ve been watching on the news.  Did you get your waffles?”

“We were out of waffles,” said the high school girl.

“I can see!” I said.  “And no, baking soda is not an acceptable substitute!”

Order’s End

At that moment, the SWATter sprinted from the store and plopped a grocery back into my open trunk.  One by one, he pulled items from the bag like a magician pulling one rabbit after another.  “Kaiser rolls.  Check.  Yogurt.  Check.  Ginger Ale.  Check.  Milk.  Check.  Good to go.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Welcome.”  He ran back to his position, crouched behind the hood of a car, the barrel of his carbine pointed at the back of my head.

“I guess that’s it,” I said to the girl.

“Okay.  Have a good night.”  She popped her headset back on and walked back to the store.

Grocery Chaos

Megaphone man approached the still open window.  “How’s it look?”

“Still missing a half dozen items, but it’s too late to do anything about it.”

“That’s a shame.”  He sighed.  “The same thing happens to my wife, seems like every week now.”

“It’s chaos.”

“I hate to do this to you, but I’m going to have to ask you to come with us.”

“What?”  I held up the grocery list and pointed at the missing items.  “Can’t you see I’m the victim here?”

“I think you’ve got a case.”  He motioned the S.W.A.T. team over.  “If it were up to me, I’d let you go.”  One of the men cuffed me and led me away to a waiting police car.

“Sir!  Sir!”  I looked over my shoulder.  A reporter in skirt and heels attempted to catch up.  “Can I get an interview?”

She thrust the microphone in my face.  “Yes.  I have one thing to say.”  I paused with gravitas.  “Tell the world that I’m a victim of grocery chaos.”

Prison Buddies

It turns out I wasn’t alone.  My cell was filled with other victims of grocery chaos, a system of indifferent high school students tasked with finding food items on shelves, an undertaking apparently so complex it rivals the assembly of an atomic bomb, the layering of integrated circuits on a silicon chip, and the construction of an aircraft carrier.

These poor children.  If only they received the training they needed.  Perhaps, some university will put aside its sociology and political science departments and offer a useful degree in grocery fulfillment?  I can only dream.  Does anyone share my dream?