Alonzo had changed into jeans and a red polo shirt, but he was unmistakable from afar with his sturdy frame and regal carriage.
“Let’s go!” I said to Yo-Yo, who jumped so vigorously out of his sleep I feared we both might tear muscles.
Cars were few on the edge of the Costco parking lot. Yo-Yo’s friskiness toggled to despair as I tied him to an empty shopping-cart rack and sliced the air with my index finger. “You. Stay.”
Alonzo’s mop top bobbed over the parked cars in the distance and stopped at a rack filled with pony packs of marigolds. Alonzo took in the unremarkable sight and threw his head back with a jolly laugh. Poets. I needed to be more like them.
Alonzo spotted something on the ground—I couldn’t see what—and leaned over to pick it up. He then disappeared into the shadowy maw of Costco.
This was my Costco, and it wasn’t like I hadn’t lost Timby in here more than once, so I’d perfected the art of finding moving targets. My secret? To canvass the place like I was drawing that house with the X through it without lifting my pencil.
I entered and jogged along the left wall, checking the aisles to my right. When I reached the top left corner, I crossed through wine and hung a left, which landed me in toilet paper. Still no Alonzo.
Last time I was here was a year ago. After an hour spent filling my cart so high it handled like a bumper car and required an arm across the top so everything wouldn’t slide off, I made my way to the checkout line. A wave of misanthropy swept over me. Why did that lady need a whole drum of Red Vines? What would someone even do with a hundred combs? Did that fatso really need a laminator all to herself? Couldn’t she just go to Kinko’s? Or that guy, what was he doing with six gallon jugs of generic scotch? And why must they all wear shorts?
Thank God I wasn’t one of them! Me with my case of highly rated New Zealand sauvignon blanc, my pound of fresh pineapple spears, my salt-and-pepper pistachios, my twelve-pack of dental floss. My items painted a clear picture of my sophistication… my superior taste… my sparkling intelligence…
I abandoned my cart in the checkout line and walked out empty-handed. I felt bad for the person who had to return my stuff to the proper shelves. I felt worse when I realized it was probably cheaper for Costco to just throw it all away.
I crossed through produce. Impossibly cheap! Good color! Firm to the touch! What’s the catch? Too many seeds. As good as it all looks on the outside, take it home and it’s filled with a freakish number of seeds. English cucumbers: dense with flat leathery seeds. Lemons: you dull your knife on all the seeds. Cherry tomatoes: jammed with tiny, slimy seeds. Not that I’d ever buy chicken at Costco, but if I did, I could imagine slicing it open and seeds pouring out.
A mob of Seahawks fans blocked the way to the bakery. Racks of cupcakes were being rolled out, a dozen to a shrink-wrapped sheet, each frosted blue with a green 12. Across the aisle, a bigger mob swarming cupcakes decorated with Pope hats, also with the number 12. The only thing you need to know about Seattle? Nobody was offended.
I arrived at the gauntlet of food-sample people. They stuck to their script without deviation and avoided eye contact, America’s version of the Buckingham Palace guards. If the Buckingham Palace guards had terrible posture and filled you with existential dread.
“Jack cheese,” said a woman. “In four zesty flavors. Stock up for the holidays.”
“Breaded steak fish,” a voice droned. “Fresh from Alaska and a perfect option for a healthy nutritious dinner. Try it tonight. Breaded steak fish…”
My attention snagged on the slight Southern accent. My head jerked back. My body turned.
There he was, in a blue apron and shower cap, manning a little counter. My poet, with a marigold in the buttonhole of his polo shirt.
“Fresh from Alaska and a perfect option for a healthy nutritious dinner. Try it tonight.”
I was jolted by the mash-up of high and low: the red plastic tray, damp and smelling of industrial dishwasher—his encyclopedic knowledge of the lives of the poets—the toaster-oven door stained brown with grease—
“Eleanor?”
“Alonzo!” I opened my arms for a hug.
He looked down: he couldn’t step off his mat.
“What’s this?” I said, picking up a little sample cup.
“Breaded steak fish.”
“I’ve heard it’s fresh from Alaska and perfect for a nutritious dinner.”
“A perfect option for a healthy nutritious dinner,” Alonzo corrected.
The whole exchange had an easy grace.
“Don’t mind if I do.” I dropped the morsel of fish on my tongue. Not my favorite.
Alonzo handed me a napkin and pointed to a trash can across the aisle. When I turned back, a man was standing at Alonzo’s station, kicking the tires, so to speak, of free food.
“What’s steak fish?” he asked.
“Tilapia,” Alonzo answered.
“Tilapia?” the man said with suspicion.