Her voice grabs me as soon as I roll the grocery cart into the store, her life stories wafting up and down the aisles mixing and mingling with the aroma of fresh baked pies, cookies and cakes.
No matter where she is in this vast store, I recognize her voice. I work to avoid her. When I fail, I avoid eye contact.
She zips her motorized shopping cart up and down the aisles, quickly pressing the brake when she encounters a likely suspect. Other shoppers aren’t as wise or as lucky as I am. They get caught and, I suppose of out politeness, they stay and pretend to listen. The really uninitiated offer small comments, trapping themselves for more.
Bless her heart. She must be so lonely that shopping at Kroger is her social event of the day. Some days, grocery shopping is my big event. But I don’t stop everyone I see and tell them my life history. I speak only to friends and to my favorite cashier, people I’m sure are interested in me. Understanding where she’s coming from doesn’t compel me to become her Kroger friend. Instead, she goes into my idea file.
I’m not a fiction writer, but if I do become one, I’ve amassed a wealth of material in the aisles at Kroger.
Another example jumped out in frozen foods. Two women were standing in front of an door open with cold air swirling above, around and below them while one offered her definitive opinion of some man. “He’s no good. He’s never been any good. And he never will be any good.” (Those words are copyrighted by me!) A whole novel smolders within these words.
One of my favorite novels is Homer and Langley by E.L. Doctorow. Two elderly brothers, one suffering from being gassed in World War I and the other going blind, live together. This makes an unbelievably gripping story. I regularly see Homer and Langley at Kroger on what once was Senior Citizen Discount Day, two elderly men shopping together. I don’t know if they are brothers, friends or partners, and their names are certainly not Homer and Langley. But to me, that’s who they are, and as I shop, my mind takes off, creating a world for them, wondering about their true story.
One day in the dairy aisle I realized I was in the middle of a pick up—and it wasn’t for a quart of milk. An older man to my right was talking to a somewhat younger woman on my left, or rather he was peppering her with questions—what did she do? Did she have children? Did they live with her? (Hum!) He did offer one bit of information about himself. He was retired, but he wasn’t really that old, so he said.
Making my own dairy selection took a while because I wanted to stay in this novel. She gave him her phone number. And no, her children don’t live with her. But I don’t know how the story ended.
Panic unrelated to writing hit me. Is this what finding dates comes to for the elderly? I’m married, but what if I were not? How would I find dates, assuming I wanted them? And anyway, I’m not that old.
Oh, dates are on Aisle 6 with all the canned fruit. Or maybe just search throughout the store?
If I ever write fiction, I’m going to hang out everyday at Kroger. Or maybe I’ll check out some other chains and a few independents. Wonder if you get better stories, fresher stories or more for your money at other stores?
Leave a Reply