Eventually, the two kids sorted it out and came trailing behind me. I got a text from my wife asking me to also get half-and-half for her coffee. I texted her back that I would and then instantly forgot that I had to get it. If it wasn’t written on the list, it was doomed.
I went to the deli first because the deli takes forever and my kids wanted ham. I tried using the digital ordering kiosk but it was broken because of course it was fucking broken. God forbid the most convenient amenity of the entire market be operational. Both my kids came running up with their carts and took thirty numbers each from the electronic deli number dispenser. We were next in line behind an old woman who was buying an eighth of a pound of everything in the case. I redirected my children to the produce section, got everything on the list, went back to the deli, and by this time my children were so starved for lunch meat that I was prepared to cut off a shank of my own thigh, cure it in brine, and feed it to them.
Finally, the deli guy called one of our sixty numbers. He gave us our pound of ham and I quickly handed slices to my kids, who then promptly dropped their slices, picked them up off the floor, and ate them. While they were eating filthy, germ-ridden floor ham, I double-checked the list to make sure I had no reason to go back to the produce section, because the produce section was worse than South Sudan. We were good. I still had twenty-seven minutes to work with.
“We’ve got all our fruits and veggies. LET’S GO, DUDES,” I said.
We got away from the deli and the produce section. The next thing on the list was a box of organic alphabet cookies. I had no idea where they were. They could have been anywhere. They could have been in the cookie aisle. They could have been in the natural foods aisle. They could have been located merely in my wife’s imagination. I scoured the aisles, searching for the box while trying to keep an eye on both children, who were now openly racing their little green carts up and down the aisles. I came by a box of organic alphabet cookies, but they were CINNAMON and not VANILLA. Would that matter? Would my children, who were pickier about food than a dying Steve Jobs was, notice the difference and cry? Or was it better to get credit for securing everything on the list? Fuck it. In they went.
I ticked off the other items: the sugar and flour and cereal and chicken. Seventeen minutes left to break the record. So close I could taste it. My daughter asked for a bag of potato chips and I relented.
“Can we open them now?” she asked.
“I have to buy them. Then we can open them.”
“But you took that Coke and opened it and drank it.”
“That’s different because I’m a grown-up.”
I had three more items left: cheese sticks, yogurt, and milk. I checked the list again just to make sure I wasn’t wrong. We were nearly done and nothing traumatic had happened. We hauled ass to the dairy aisle and I looked at the yogurt. There were fifty-seven different varieties: tubs and tubes and little four-packs of Greek yogurt, Dannon yogurt, whipped yogurt, plain yogurt, and Danimals, which are not actually yogurt but rather yogurt-like drinks forged from buffalo drippings. I was baffled. All the list said was “yogurt,” which was bullshit. It may as well have said, “GUESS THE YOGURT ASSHOLE HAHAHAHA.”
I grabbed the first tub of vanilla yogurt I saw, then the cheese sticks and the milk, and we were done. Twelve more minutes to go. We could still break the record.
I got to the SCAN IT! line and there was one person in front of me who was clearly using his little scanner for the first time and was in need of assistance. But he didn’t go looking for help. He just stood there, waiting for the magic grocery store fairies to appear to solve the mysteries of the self-checkout for him. He had enough groceries to survive a bioterrorist attack.
My kids began to mentally break down while waiting in line. They had yet to understand the concept of lines. Why do we have to wait? Who are these other people? Can’t they just die? This isn’t fair. They began pushing their carts into each other and crying. I told them to stop. Then my son rammed me with his cart.
“Please don’t hit Daddy with the cart. You guys are doing such a great job right now and I’m so proud of you, but now Daddy’s shins are bruised and he’s losing valuable time. Can you help me out here? Can you wait patiently?”
“Oat-kay.”
My daughter pointed at the candy display and gave me her best “I’m smiling because I want something” smile.