April 2011:
I got lucky and found one of those new double-wide shopping carts in the parking lot, and buckled the baby and my four-year old side-by-side. We got some apples and nectarines and some spinach bound tight with twine. We skipped over the tomatoes and pumpkins and other things I’d grown in my suburban garden.
The sea bass was on special and they had fresh grouper from the gulf. I got them both, along with some brown rice I’d steam in chicken broth. A brick of creamy havarti and a fresh loaf, and we made it to the checkout. The girls behaved well, so I got the oldest a candy bar, and let the baby chew on my knuckle. That single tooth can be surprisingly painful.
The bags were packed by a girl half my age. I smiled and wondered if I still had the stamina. She grinned. I nearly fainted. Then realized it was for the baby.
I paid and had to send back the bacon and beer because I was ten dollars short. I gave the receipt to the baby and left.
The glass exit doors whooshed open and my cart crashed noisily over the threshold, startling a man outside. He turned and put one hand on his hip and the other on his backpack. It was army-issue. Not a plain Vietnam green, nor desert colored ink blots. It was that new camouflage with the digital pattern.
He looked right into my eyes. I’d never seen a look like that. I froze, and thought about raising my hands in surrender. But as quickly as he had turned to me, he turned back toward the parking lot. His face was as red as his hair, and he kept looking left and right, left and right. I thought he was waiting for a break in the traffic, but there was just one car and it had already turned down an aisle.
I started pushing the cart again. Slow and quiet. Thankfully, my four-year old had a mouthful of chocolate and the baby was turning the receipt into wet pulp. I passed by him. He was wearing unfaded jeans and white shoes with no grass stains. His black jacket had patches and insignias that were unfamiliar to me.
My truck was parked in the furthest space. A lame attempt at extra exercise.
A horn honked somewhere in the lot. I looked back at the man. He was walking away from the sound with his head lowered and rubbing the back of his neck.
I reached my truck. Loaded the kids and the groceries.
I took the long way to the exit and drove past the store again.
The man was still there. Pacing. Head still darting at each everyday sound. The whoosh of the doors. The crash of the carts. The cries of the young and the sighs of the elderly.
In my rearview, I saw an empty cart roll through the lot. He retrieved it and put it in one of the corrals. Then he went back to the front of the store and rolled from foot to foot.
I don’t know what he was waiting for. Maybe the bus? A taxi? Or perhaps the bravery to actually walk inside and get some milk.
I drove home. Back to the chaos. And I thought how different he and I would define that.