Exactly fifteen minutes after class ended, Professor Smith neatly packed up his briefcase and made his way to the parking lot. He drove a foreign-built car; American would not do because Americans were lazy and made inferior products.
He drove to work early each morning so he could park in the same space. The space was in a corner of the lot; only one car could park next to him, which meant less chance of a thrown-open door scratching his perfect car.
The professor did his weekly grocery shopping every Tuesday after class. Tuesday was the least busy evening of the week to shop at his store of choice; he knew this because he'd scientifically experimented with crowd sizes while his current lifestyle was taking shape.
He picked up his items in the same order as always: apples, bananas, and oranges in the produce section, and then bread as he made his way to the frozen vegetable aisle. He got the same amount of meat, freshly cut by the butcher, before heading for the drinks and snack aisle, where he let his imagination wander. Chocolate and butterscotch would blend well with ice cream, he thought with a smile.
Every checkout line was full, which didn't surprise him since he'd been constantly dodging customers. Great! Must be a convention in town or some type of sporting event. He analyzed which line would move the quickest, based upon past experience and particular looks of customers as they waited. The first line was backed up by three full shopping carts and a checkout clerk who seemed nervous and unsure of herself. The second line was the express, but was so backed up that several customers had to make a break in line for passing carts. The professor was not eligible for this line since he had much more than the twelve-item limit.
You ignorant sons-of-bitches! would have been heard by anyone able to read Professor Smith's mind. The sign explicitly says twelve items or less, and you obviously have more than twelve items. I bet you'll use a credit card, even though it says cash only. It was thoughts like these that kept him from feeling a need to interact with peers. Some days were worse than others, and he could even give himself headaches over the strain these thoughts produced.
Aisles three and four were no better, five was closed, and six and seven had no bagger, meaning that the checkout clerk would have to bag groceries as well. This would be much too slow for the professor.
Goddamn it! Where the fuck did these people come from? Don't they have homes? Every Tuesday it's the same: people, people, and more people! I must get home and relax. Of course it was not like this every Tuesday, but the professor was not to be convinced, and he was known to occasionally generalize his observations.
He finally chose the checkout line that appeared to moved the quickest; there was a bagger who was sure to speed up the process. Professor Smith remembered the clerk from past experiences, and felt she'd be quick at snatching the food from his cart and passing it through the electronic scanner.
Immediately after finding his place in line, the clerk requested a price check over the intercom. For God's sake, just scan the damn thing. It's electronic, so why do you need a price check? Fuck! In accordance with Murphy's Law, the professor had chosen what had become the slowest line. He knew better than to change because past experience taught him that his new line would then become the slowest.
Five minutes into his eventual fifteen minute wait, a heavy-set woman with two undisciplined children got into line behind him. She had two carts loaded with a two-week supply of food, and her children were certainly an exacerbation to her situation.
Professor Smith had seen her coming out of his peripheral vision, and kept saying to himself: Oh, great! Please don't get behind me. Keep moving, keep moving...Fuck! Why me every time?
"Sit still, Michael," the woman yelled. "Put that back, Stan. You're not getting it."
"But Mommy," Stan cried. "It's Spiderman."
"I said put it back! Sit still, Michael! You're not getting out of that cart."
Stan threw a temper tantrum. Professor Smith could feel his temples begin to throb and his eyes starting to hurt. Beat his ass! Would you just beat his ass?
The commotion became the center of attention for waiting shoppers, and for some reason, the woman in front of the professor decided to confide her thoughts to him.
She turned around and said, "I can certainly feel for that woman. I've got three kids myself...two, four, and five." She then went through her purse, and pulled out a book of government-issued food stamps and a stack of coupons clipped from different magazines.
My God! Will it ever end? I'm surrounded by trash...I've got to get out of here.
"Do you have any children?" the woman continued. "I can tell you this...bring 'em out in public and they go wild. It's like they have this need to embarrass you."
The professor said nothing, choosing instead to stare elsewhere.
"Sir?" the checkout clerk said. "Sir, it's your turn."
"Oh," Professor Smith muttered. He'd blacked out on one of his tangents, a myriad of thoughts crumpling in upon themselves that had no translation.
Stan kept crying the entire time. The professor could have related to the little boy's wants had he desired to, but these feelings had been repressed long ago. What kept him from cracking was the knowledge that he was currently being checked out and would soon be free.
Freedom was what he called his condo. He'd bought the building and would build up equity, but he didn't have to do the yard work. Renting was a waste of money, and a home with a yard was a waste of time.
Go to Part Three
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