We are creatures of habit, after all, so it seems natural to have a basic supermarket shopping routine. When it’s time for the big weekly resupply, most of us start at one side of the store and work our way to the other. Do we not? This can lead to repeatedly crossing paths with other patrons. Those entering the store around the same time and who then shop at more or less the same pace will find themselves browsing the same sections and departments, persistently tracking one another. The two parties will cross paths, overtake one another…will end up standing side by side before an imposing array of salty snacks, perusing fresh vegetables, or trying to locate that godawful sugar-coated cereal the kids like. Which in turn gives rise to a curious social phenomenon: if one makes the mistake of initiating small talk toward the beginning of the circuit, from then on both parties will be required to look away whenever they see the other approaching or at least make a concerted effort to avoid eye contact. Because there’s really nothing more to say. (Other, more sophisticated cultures likely have a name for what I’m describing.) Here’s how most of us deal with these situations: if the party in question is visible up ahead but facing away, hold your position, maintain a safe distance, and quickly look away if they glance back. In more serious cases of avoidance, it may be necessary to turn left at the end of the aisle if they turn right, then double back and wait to visit Aisle 12 until after they’ve moved on. All of this is further complicated when the person you’re dodging is a casual acquaintance or co-worker…someone who needs to be treated civilly. One stipulation: both parties are allowed to exchange one (or at most two) sheepish grins but after that, must completely ignore one another—it’s the rule. And just pray you don’t end up standing in line together.
I once experienced an unusual variation on one of these awkward-situations-in-the-market-that-deserves-a-name. This one was noteworthy given that we never spoke. Our eyes never met. In fact, we never even saw one another. The entire “encounter” consisted of me inadvertently overhearing several unfiltered, rather personal exchanges not intended for others’ ears.
I was wending my way through a Trader Joe’s, plucking items off shelves and tossing them in the cart with an impulsivity that, as all Trader Joe’s patrons know, is a central feature of the TJ’s shopping experience. As mentioned, I never saw these folks—a family of three. We ended up trailing one another through the store but were always in different aisles, separated by fully stocked center dividers. Still, when it was all over, I felt like I had a good sense of who these people were. There was a spoiled child of about three who, from the sounds of it, was randomly pulling items off shelves. “No, we aren’t buying that—put it back.” (Infantile declarations of grievance.) The next aisle over, this: “No. Stop it! Put it back.” (Sniveling.) Farther down the line I heard, from just across the way: “We aren’t getting those. Cut it out!” (Muffled protestations.) Finally, the parents transfered the little villain to the jail-like confines of their cart with what sounded like a struggle. (Whimpering.) The kid carried on with his whiny weaseling, testing the parents’ resolve, pushing his luck. Evidently, he managed to pluck one more item off a shelf. This proved to be The Last Straw. Furious, dad lays down the law in a stifled snarl: “If you don’t quit it, I’m gonna take you out and lock you in the car!” And this is where brats of the kid’s age class employ a tactic that seldom fails—crank up the volume! So when the boy began to wail in earnest, in order to forestall yet another humiliating public meltdown, the parents surrendered. They caved. To mollify the miniature tyrant they consented to purchase some thing the kid had to have now. On the other side of a virtual wall of non-essential foodstuffs, frozen in horror, I stood listening to a clichéd parody of a performance we’ve all seen (and heard) before. And thanked my stars, one more time, that I steered clear of parenthood.
Our paths diverged. But then, minutes later, I heard those voices from across another divide. This time the boy was silent; maybe they’d locked him in the car after all. There was one last brief exchange, with bleak existential overtones as regards family life, the institution of marriage. Their words are seared into my memory—
Husband: “Oh, don’t get those. They’re bad for your butt.”
Bad for her butt! Good lord, he actually said that! I was stunned. Judging solely by tone, this appallingly tactless piece of “helpful advice” sounded as if it were well intended. But no…something else was at play here. In truth, the husband’s remark was right up there with some of the most demeaning things a man can say to his spouse. He said it so nonchalantly. In such an offhand manner (like, I hear these are good or The other brand is on sale). I felt myself recoil, instantly in the grip of a full body-cringe, anticipating the invisible wife’s blistering retort. It was coming. I could feel the mounting pressure. But wait, there was build-up: a stony silence…a short-lived pause marking the proverbial calm-before-a-storm. Her flawless textbook pause was of a perfect duration—full of import, theatric, masterfully gauged to convey greatest emotive effect. A thing of beauty. I held my breath, waiting.
“Bad…for my butt?” Those four syllables, slowwwly and oh-so-clearly enounced, bore a distinct scent of menace and an explicit warning. Odd, but I have no memory of any further repartee. Sensing danger, perhaps the husband knew better than to take this any further and went silent. I may have blocked out what ensued or, more likely, fled the scene to escape what might follow. The whole deal made me feel queasy.
I’ve never quite understood why this fly-on-the-wall encounter was so disheartening. (Certain things seem to bother me more than they should.) It probably had something to do with never seeing faces or expressions, of relying instead on my imagination in lieu of a host of highly informative visual cues to fill in the blanks about what this family’s world was like. I hope I’m wrong, but they all seemed to despise one other.
More than a few times now I’ve told this un-funny story to friends. And each time, tried hard to truthfully re-enact the woman’s tone, to convey the potency of that extraordinary pause. And failed. But it was a thing to behold.
©2020 by Tim Forsell 7 Mar 2020
