Thinking Out Loud

By Gerard Meister

I have problems shopping. Not any kind of shopping mind you, only when I'm at the supermarket. Seems that there are a host of people lurking in the aisles waiting for me. The other week I was in New York and decided to help my daughter with the marketing. The first thing in the store that caught my eye was a hand-lettered sign over a bin of canned tuna, which proclaimed: Special $4.00 Dollars!

"Oh my God," I said to no one. "Tuna is four dollars a can in New York?"

"No," a woman answered me. "It's three cans for four dollars and that's a good price for Bumble Bee," she added.

"Phew," I said with a smile. "I was worried there for a minute," and continued walking. Unable to locate the next item on my list, I asked a passing stock-boy where I might find the Saltine crackers?

"Uh, … aisle two," he answered.

I turned to see which way I had to go, when the tuna lady popped up out of nowhere: "No, it's aisle seven on the bottom, on your right," she said, pointedly.

I really didn't want to hurt the kid's feelings, but no way would I cross that woman. "Okay, young man. Have to go with experience," I said and turned toward Aisle 7, which, of course, was exactly where the crackers were. Next I was standing in front of the fish department, deciding whether to buy jumbo or large peeled shrimp. "How much is the large," I asked, "and about how many in a pound?"

Before the clerk could answer that voice popped up again: "The unpeeled is half the price, and it takes only a minute to peel them!"

This time I was startled, clearly the woman was stalking me. "Yes, I know," I said. "But I really don't have the time, lady," and wheeled my cart away.

"You're so spoiled," she said, as she turned on her heels and headed toward the door.

And it's not just women who accost me at the supermarket; the guys are there for me, too. The other day my wife was making a meatloaf so I nipped over to the market for some sour pickles. I was ogling a couple of jars and had finally made up my mind to go with the garlicky half-sour over the New York style dill. As I was putting the dill jar back on the shelf, a guy sidled over behind me and in a dramatic stage whisper succinctly proclaimed: "That stuff is 100% salt you know."

I turned to see a sixtyish, corpulent gentleman with a knowing look on his face.

"Yes, I do know," I countered. "But my doctor wants me to increase my salt intake. Do you think I'd be better off with the dill?"

"Geez," the guy said. "Your…your doctor wants you to eat more salt?"

"Why yes," I explained. "He feels that that's the only way I'll be able to maintain my goal weight," I explained, patting my forty-three inch midriff.

"Geez, my wife has got to hear this," he said. "Hold on, I'll get her," he shouted back to me as he started running down the aisle, shouting, "Lillian …..Lillian!"

Of course, as soon as he was out of sight, I dashed over to the express checkout, paid, and bolted through the door. In a way I was sorry I missed the scene when he confronted his wife, but I couldn't take the chance that he was married to that tuna lady. Still, I would love to be a fly on the wall of the doctor's office when he goes for his next check-up.