Tales Between the Produce
by Vanessa Yang
A flip of a switch brightened the dull bulb of checkout aisle six. Immediately, customers from the overflowing lines of checkouts five and seven rushed over hoping to be first in Miranda’s line. It was a duel between shopping carts and parents with screaming children to see who would get there before the line backed up like all the others.
Brooke’s Market was constantly packed. Everyone needed food, and because the only other grocery store in the quaint town was a fifteen-minute drive away towards the city, everyone flooded to Brooke’s.
Miranda didn’t hate the job of scanning produce all day, but she didn’t necessarily wake up in the morning with a grin on her face. After only working a few months, she didn’t quite have enough for her following year’s university tuition, but she had learned how to pass the time quite effectively.
Miranda wasn’t proud of it, but she judged everyone in her line by analyzing what they purchased. Perhaps it was less judging and more like storytelling. She created what she believed were accurate depictions of the customers’ lives. There were the obvious ones, like the health nuts who purchased protein powder and bags of quinoa. According to Miranda, they would wake up each morning at precisely 5 AM and take their golden retriever named Duke out on 3-mile runs along the lake and would then spend the rest of their day at the gym lifting weights. Next in line were the businessmen who always seemed to be dressed in tailored suits and on the phone discussing “the financial growth of the industry” and how it would ultimately affect the American dollar. To no one’s surprise, they only ever bought instant noodles in bulk. Usually after them were the soccer moms who you couldn’t possibly miss. They typically walked in with three or four children who only ever wanted to shop in the candy aisle and they somehow always ended up leaving the market with stacks of blueberry applesauce.
There were also regulars that came in every week, with whom Miranda had become familiar. The man with the large white beard and black cap who lived across the street came in every Sunday morning to pick up a dozen eggs and a turkey leg.
“Turkey’s for the dog,” he stated as it became evident Miranda was staring at the raw drumstick. Eggs were obvious, everybody bought eggs, but she couldn’t place the turkey in her already existing profile for him. Now it made sense, she thought.
“He won’t eat if there’s no meat mixed in with his dry food. A real snob,” he added in a low voice. Miranda smiled and decided he looked like a Tom. She was handing him his bag when a large crash followed by bickering was heard from the back of the line.
Without looking, everyone knew it was the old couple that Miranda had named Wilmer and Jane.
“How many more times am I going to have to be picking out your hidden meals from my cart, huh?” Jane asked furiously as Wilmer bent down to pick up the TV dinners his wife had violently thrown onto the floor. The entire market was watching them as if they were a comical theatre show.
“Why do you hate them so much? They’re fast to make, you just stick them in the—”
“They’re bad for you! Why would you want to eat those when I spend hours cooking for you anyways?” Jane yelled as she tried to catch her breath between words. Wilmer threw his hands up in defeat, hoping to de-escalate the situation.
“Alright, fine,” the old man huffed as he took the meals back to the frozen aisle.
The two of them seemed to be somewhere in their eighties and were always well-dressed. Jane came into the market wearing proper dresses, with pearls sitting around her neck, and Wilmer, in a different suit every week. Today he was wearing a grey one along with a blue patterned tie, even though Jane made it very clear last week that her favourite was the navy suit with the grey tie. Miranda assumed they came directly from morning church service, which she concluded was the best reason to justify the way they dressed.
When they reached the front of the line, Miranda scanned through their groceries, more discretely this time, and was in the middle of trying to reach some kind of new observation when her thoughts were interrupted.
“I’m sorry, but how much did you charge for the rutabaga?” Jane asked while squinting at the pricing screen.
“Five dollars and thirty cents,” Miranda clarified, “It’s a dollar ninety-two per kilogram.”
“And how much is that in pounds?” the woman questioned.
“For goodness sake, leave the poor girl alone!” Wilmer yelled from the bagging station, clearly upset. Jane sighed, paid, and the two of them continued bickering as they walked towards the parking lot.
***
The night before Valentine’s Day was usually busier than most. The stream of people buying last-minute gifts never seemed to end, and Wilmer was among them this year. He spent nearly half an hour examining each delicate bouquet of flowers and finally showed up to checkout with an array of pink and white chrysanthemums.
“I need another opinion on these flowers, do you mind?” Wilmer asked with nervous eyes when he approached Miranda. From all the fidgeting he was doing, she could tell he was anxious.
“Well,” Miranda started as she inspected them, “is it for Valentine’s?” Wilmer nodded. “In that case, chrysanthemums might not be the best choice. Some people associate them with death and mourning.” Wilmer glanced down at the bouquet he was holding and began chuckling.
“I haven’t done this in a while. My wife and I have this tradition,” he took a breath, “we never do presents. Instead, every year on Valentine’s Day we go to the diner, but I called today to make a reservation for our booth and they said they were under renovation.” He looked up at Miranda and gave her a sad little smile. “I figured I’d have to get her something.”
Wilmer walked back to the flower arrangements and spent another fifteen minutes there. When he was back in line, ready to cash out, he was holding pink roses, a nicer choice, Miranda thought.
Wilmer and Jane never broke their pattern of grocery shopping on Sunday after church, which is why it was unusual that they hadn’t shown up for three weeks. Miranda assumed they were on a cruise, maybe to the Bahamas. They would spend their mornings on the beach watching the orange sunrise while they sipped piña coladas. Jane would eventually get mad at Wilmer for drinking too many. Perhaps they would spend their afternoons in dance classes and eat all the pastries they could possibly consume. In the evenings, Wilmer would make reservations at the fancy Italian or Japanese restaurant as they reflected on their lives, while downing glasses of fine pinot grigio.
So it was odd to see Wilmer come in by himself on a Sunday night wearing slacks. His face seemed to droop more as his eyes stared directly at the over-waxed tile floor. It was a different sight compared to what Wilmer was usually like. Although he was checking out in aisle three, from afar, Miranda could see the piles of TV dinners he was buying. Beef stroganoff, lasagne, and multiple packages of chicken penne. He took his heavy bags and trotted out the door.
The next morning, Wilmer appeared through the automatic doors wearing the classic navy suit with the grey tie. Miranda found this interesting as it was early Monday morning and there was no church service at the time. She studied him as he padded hesitantly towards the flower display and picked up a similar bouquet to the one he nearly purchased back in February. Pink and white chrysanthemums. Suddenly, the air conditioning in the market seemed too harsh and the whole place became still for a second. Miranda turned stiffly towards the cash register as Wilmer slowly but surely made his way to checkout six. With knowing eyes, Miranda focused on the small man as she scanned his flowers gently to not disturb a single petal.
“She’ll love these,” Miranda said in a hushed voice, passing the bouquet over, “I know it.”
Wilmer’s gaze left the floor as he looked up. He gave a small yet confident nod and clutched the flowers in his hands, close to his heart. Wilmer didn’t say a single word, and he didn’t have to. This was all part of the job, Miranda thought. She enjoyed being an observer on the outside who, despite the small role she played in the customers’ lives, could watch each of them as they journeyed through the welcoming store and out into the realities of the world.
As Wilmer walked towards the sliding doors, he looked back to give Miranda one more glance before turning around and sauntering out the doors.