Saturday afternoons at the grocery store always felt like a different kind of reality. The main doors practically sighed from the constant stream of people flowing in and out. As I moved through the produce section, tidying up the broccoli and making sure the mushrooms were properly displayed – a surprisingly detailed knowledge of fungi, from edible morels to the most toxic death caps, was a hobby of mine – I watched the organized chaos unfold. I could predict the next rush, the usual choke points near the dairy aisle, and the predictable scramble at the self-checkout lines.
My eyes drifted towards the main entrance, a habit from years of working here. My gaze landed on a car parked directly in the fire lane. It was a sleek, dark gray sports coupe, looking far too new and expensive to be carelessly left in such a spot. The driver, a young man who looked to be in his early twenties, maybe twenty-three, had just stepped out, smoothing down a fancy jacket. He sauntered past the “No Parking” signs, not even glancing at them, as if the rules simply didn’t apply to him. He vanished into the store, leaving his car as an obstacle for anyone trying to get by. Some people truly lived in their own separate world, I thought, where basic safety regulations were just suggestions for everyone else.
A few minutes later, as I was arranging some bell peppers by color, a woman approached my section. She carried herself with an air of immediate dissatisfaction. I noticed a faint but noticeable chip on her left front incisor, catching the overhead lights as she spoke. Her husband trailed a few steps behind her, pushing a cart that held about half a dozen items, his attention fixed on his phone screen. She stopped abruptly near me, her voice cutting through the general store hum.
She declared that her deli order should have been ready. Her tone implied this was not a request but a firm demand. She said she had placed it ages ago, a specific sandwich with several custom additions. I mentally timed it; she had likely walked past the deli counter no more than five minutes prior, judging by the average walking speed from the entrance. I explained that the deli was quite busy, especially on a Saturday, and there was a bit of a wait for custom orders. I pointed towards the ticket system, reminding her that they called numbers in sequence to keep things fair for everyone.
She dismissed my explanation with a wave of her hand, as though I had offered a frivolous excuse. She insisted her time was valuable, more valuable than other people’s, and that she “always shopped here,” implying this granted her special privileges. Her voice began to rise slightly, attracting the attention of a couple browsing the berries nearby. Her husband just sighed, a quiet, almost imperceptible sound, but it spoke volumes about his familiarity with this particular display.
Outside, the situation with the illegally parked car seemed to be escalating. I could hear the distinct, impatient honking of a delivery truck horn. The truck was trying to maneuver into the loading dock but was completely blocked by the young man’s sports car. People entering the store now had to swerve awkwardly around the car, some grumbling under their breath as they did.
I tried to suggest to the woman that for future busy days, she might consider using our store app to place her deli order ahead of time, which would allow her to pick it up with minimal waiting. I even offered to grab her a pre-made sandwich from the cooler if she was in a hurry, though I knew it wouldn’t be the exact custom one she wanted. My words, however, seemed to only fuel her indignation. She viewed these as attempts to deflect rather than helpful solutions. Her complaints widened, encompassing the general inefficiency of the store, the length of the lines, and even the temperature in the produce section. At that point, I decided it was time to involve someone with more authority, so I calmly used my walkie-talkie, requesting that Mark, the store manager, attend to a customer needing “further assistance” near the deli counter.
Just as the woman was taking a deep breath, clearly preparing for another round of grievances, a piercing, high-pitched scream cut through the store’s background noise. It was a child, maybe four or five years old, having a full-blown tantrum near the main entrance, exactly where the sports car was parked. The sound echoed off the high ceilings and polished floors, a raw, undeniable disruption. It instantly drew the attention of several shoppers, including the woman who was talking to me. She paused, her mouth slightly open, her focus momentarily diverted by the sheer volume of the tantrum.
I saw the young man with the sports car reappear at the entrance, his face a mask of irritation. He glared first at the screaming child, then at the delivery driver who was still leaning on his horn, frustration clearly etched on his face. The woman, shaking her head at the child, quickly tried to redirect her attention back to me, attempting to resume her complaint about her sandwich.
But before she could fully restart, my walkie-talkie crackled again. It wasn’t Mark. It was another associate, their voice urgent, asking for immediate assistance with a massive spill in Aisle 7, right by the coffee display. It sounded like a shattered jar of pickles. That kind of mess couldn’t wait. I gave the woman a quick, polite apology, explaining that I had to attend to an urgent safety matter. She sputtered, mid-sentence, as I turned and quickly headed towards Aisle 7. As I rounded the corner past the cereal aisle, I took one last glance back. The young man was now getting into his sports car, still looking annoyed, the child’s tantrum still going strong, and the woman with the chipped tooth was standing exactly where I’d left her, her mouth still slightly ajar, like a fish out of water. I never did see how either situation resolved itself.
Sometimes, I still wonder what happened with that deli order or if the young man ever got a ticket for his parking job. It’s a strange thing, how some people move through the world expecting it to bend to their will. It leaves you with a certain feeling of unease, a slight worry that one day, you’ll turn a corner, and there she’ll be again, ready to demand the universe deliver a custom sandwich, on demand, just for her.
