I discovered a Key Foods grocery store only a short walk from my apartment the other day. This is noteworthy since I had a back busting adventure recently on the subway stairs with “carty,” my little laundry/grocery cart. So I rolled on over to Key to buy my staples (fizzy water, turkey, Amy’s organic honey bunnies, <other items requiring no cooking whatsoever>).
I get in the check out line with one person in front of me when the universe grinds to a halt due to some special coupons from the shopper ahead. Like every other narcissist on the planet, I engaged in a short soliloquy, “I always pick the wrong line.” Inside, I was thrashing as if I were a three-year-old mainlining pixie sticks. My face, however, was the picture of calm, like sleepy Gulf coast waters. Grocery chi.
Finally I moved up, but the woman in front of me was lingering. She kept looking at my groceries and the cash register. At first, I felt slightly violated. Maybe I don’t want a total stranger to know that I own a kitchen magnet that says, “If it fits in a toaster, I can cook it!”
Then, she repeatedly asked the check out clerk the amount of my bill. Comparison shopping? Surely no one eats like me. Then, she says, “Don’t worry, I got it.” She swipes her credit card before I realize I’m having a fairy godmother moment. “Why?” I asked in complete shock. “Because you had to wait so long,” she replies. “Who are you?” She would not tell me her name as I stood there flashing a smile to the space station. I thanked her profusely.
Gives the expression, “only in New York” new meaning.