“Can I have some gum?”
“Yes,” I said. I didn’t want to fight. You could have offered to sever my finger to speed up the process and I would have agreed. It’s like an innocent man breaking down and confessing after eight hours of relentless interrogation. I wish I could have just settled down and enjoyed the time I had with my kids no matter where we were, to not treat excursions like this as one more goddamn obstacle in the way of getting the day over with. But I couldn’t. The people around me were less people than they were faceless enemy combatants. Giving myself some arbitrary time record to break was my only way of turning it into a sport instead of a grueling ordeal to be endured. When you’re single, you don’t think twice about going to the store. It’s nothing. But for someone with kids in tow, it’s an expedition. It requires planning and equipment and detailed strategies. It’s as daunting as a paralyzed man attempting to dress himself.
My daughter pointed at a small bag of sour cream and onion chips.
“Can we have those chips too?”
In they went.
“And can we have some M&M’s?”
In they went.
“And can we have some Golden Oreos?”
In they went. Ten minutes left. Every minute you wait in line at a grocery store takes four hours in perceived time. It’s like being high.
Finally, the amateur in front of us was finished and I whipped out my scanner to show the rest of the store how checking out was done. Everyone was gonna be in awe of my speed at the register. Managers would salute me. The deli guy would hand me bonus ham.
But my scanner thingy didn’t work. The cashier needed the key. Why she couldn’t have had the register key on her at all times was beyond me. Eight minutes left. Hope was fading. I double-checked the list one final time and saw the word “STAMPS” in block letters surrounded by a tasteful double border. Stamps were easy to forget because they came at the end of the grocery run, after the main items on the list were already obtained. I was not in the mood for stamps. Fuck those stamps.
We finally had everything paid for and bagged and I got the kids back across the Parking Lot of Death and into the car. The girl demanded her gum and I tore through the packaging with my teeth to get her a stick of Trident as quickly as possible.
“You guys were amazing,” I told them. “We CRUSHED that trip. We SLAYED it. We CRUSHSLAYED it. Now hold on to your butts because I’m driving fast all the way home.”
I spied the clock and had a scant six minutes to go. The idea of getting across town that quickly was foolhardy. But screw that. I would get home under the wire and have my record and the whole world would bow at my feet. We were going to do it. The record was mine.
Then I pulled out of my spot and a ninety-year-old woman in a Crown Victoria blocked the way for ten minutes.
“Guhhhhhhhh.”
“Dad, that woman is blocking the way,” said my daughter. “And that’s not fair!”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Can I have more gum?”
“No.”
We broke free and when I finally got home, I began to unload the bags and bring them into the kitchen, dejected but proud of the children for helping with the effort. We’ll get them next time, by God. Once the last bag was inside, it was all over. No more store. Not for a few days, at least. My wife began sorting through everything.
“This isn’t the right yogurt,” she said. “And where’s the half-and-half? And the stamps? Did you use the coupons? Why did you buy Golden Oreos?”
“Because I earned them.”
“WHAT’S UP, FUCKFACE?!”
FUNLAND