Full Moon Over Pathmark

Late last night, FBB and I found ourselves in need of some basic provisions. Reprising my hunter/gatherer role, I grabbed my car keys, wallet and spear (just in case I came across an ornery wooly mammoth) and headed out into the night.

Typically, I shop at one of the smaller, local stores. Or, if I'm in need of a larger, supermarket-type retail outlet, I head to Shop Rite. However, at that time, the only place that was still open that had what we needed was Pathmark.

Not a big deal, really. I've been to that store on several prior occasions and emerged unscathed, with the desired provisions in tow.

Last night was different.

For starters, there was a weird vibe about the place, which I noticed within about 60 seconds of entering the store. I think it was the people. Looking around at the other people in the place, I began to wonder if some sort of traveling carnival/freak show was in town. I imagined that there must be some rickety, psychedelically-painted bus out in the parking lot. Inside, a man known only as Mr. Zweeb would be twirling one end of his waxed mustache, and saying to a monkey seated next to him, "Gee, Pepe, I sure hope they have the Oreos with chocolate cream."

I'd never seen quite an assortment of strange-looking people in that, or any, store. Making matters worse, quite a few of these folks were store employees. It was creepy, and I'll admit that it was starting to scare me a bit.

Now, I don't scare easily. When I was a kid, many of my friends were afraid of the dark. On the other hand, the dark was afraid of me. But even I was getting a tad uncomfortable last night. I carefully avoided making eye contact with anyone.

Luckily, I found what I was looking for easily enough. I was actually pleased with the speed with which I was able to round up the few items I needed. Feeling pretty good about myself, and America in general, I navigated my cart toward the checkout aisles.

That's where the trouble really began.

As I got to the checkout area, I noticed that only one line was open, and there were more than a dozen people in front of me.

Note to ownership: There's nothing heroic about keeping the store open late if you're not going to have anyone there to operate the cash registers. If it's going to take me that long to get out, I'd be just as happy if you weren't open at all.

The self-checkout area was no better, with about 20 people waiting to use those machines. Unfortunately, those machines tend not to work as smoothly as they should, causing great delays. They seem to have a mind of their own, which is more than I can say for the store employee assigned to provide "assistance" to the poor souls who attempted to use the self-checkout machines. To be honest, I can't blame the machines alone. Sometimes, people are the problem. Let's just say that there wasn't exactly a MENSA convention taking place in that area.

One guy was having a problem figuring out how to swipe his credit card. "Where do I stick my card?"

Receiving no reply, he asked again, "Where do I stick my card?" Growing more frustrated with each passing second, he began to chant, louder and louder, until he was practically yelling his mantra, "Where do I stick my card?" By this time, I actually had a very good idea of where he could stick his card, but I decided to keep it to myself.

Meanwhile, the self-checkout area monitor (I'm not sure if this is her actual title) was beginning to lose it. She was scurrying around to all four machines, which seemed to be malfunctioning simultaneously, muttering "I'll just shut the whole darn thing down. All of 'em. I swear I will." This lady (I use that term extremely loosely) was a price-check away from a full meltdown.

At this point, I had to make a choice. Stay on the regular checkout lane, behind 20 people who had apparently been told that a blizzard of epic proportions was bearing down upon our town, served by a cashier-in-training who was giving her best "oh, we sell milk here?" looks as she desperately tried to grasp and scan the customers' items with her massive, meaty paws? Or, head over to the self-checkout area, where by now, credit card boy had pulled out his library card, and was frantically waving it in the general direction of the machine, pausing every now and then to lick it, in order to remove the "static magnetism" that was causing all of that interference(I think that's what he was saying)?

I decided to try my luck at the self-checkout line. For one thing, if the monitor was going to actually melt down, I didn't want to miss it. I needed a front-row seat to that show. Plus, the bearded lady and the sword swallower were in the regular checkout lane. Like I said, they made me a bit uneasy.

So I moved over to the self-checkout line, and time abruptly stood still. Or, so it seemed. I was backed up all the way into the "arts & crafts" section, and my head began to fill with all sorts of crazy thoughts:

(1) Would it be possible to write a suicide note on silly putty, using a permanent marker?
(2) What would be the best way to actually kill myself in that store? (How's that for "self-checkout?") Peering down the aisle, towards the deli area, I spied what appeared to be an enormous ham. Perhaps I could lie on the floor, positioning myself under that display case, shove it a bit, and the ham would land on my head and do the trick. ("Cleanup in Aisle Three.")

However, I began to think of my family, and I decided against it. I could picture my poor, grieving parents. "Okay, so he had to kill himself. It happens. It was a long line, and it wasn't going anywhere. But, did he have to use a HAM?! He couldn't find a nice 25lb. turkey? What are we going to tell people?"

Then the police would come by to investigate. I imagine that the conversation between the two detectives, Jones and Smith, would go a little something like this.

Jones: You think this was a suicide?
Smith: Yeah. Looks like he left a note. On silly putty.
Jones: Okay. Let me have a look. Where'd you put it?
Smith: I stuck it on that newspaper over there. On the comics section. (Oops.)
Jones: Alright. Let me see if we can still read the note. (Peels silly putty off the newspaper). Nope, there's nothing that looks like a suicide note here.
Smith: Let me see that.
Jones: Here you go.
Smith: You're right, there's no note here. (Closely studying the silly putty) Hey, you know what, I could really go for one of those Dagwood Bumstead sandwiches.
Jones: (Looking at the silly putty) Yeah, me too. How does he even fit that whole thing in his mouth?
Smith: Anyway, there's nothing here. Waddaya say we head down to the diner, to see if anyone saw anything?
Jones: (Rubbing his belly). Good idea. Let's go.

(3) Maybe I could just bypass the entire checkout process. The old five-fingered discount. The Winona Ryder special.
(4) I could easily outrun that security guard. Although a series of minor ankle and knee injuries (and a bad hip) have definitely robbed me of some of the blinding speed I possessed in my youth, there's no way that guard would ever catch me. Besides, that motorized cart he's riding can't make sharp turns. Piece of cake.

(5) Before anyone freaks out, let me clarify. I wasn't considering stealing anything. I was going to pay for it. Pay extra, in fact. The total value of the merchandise in my cart was a bit more than $10. Having only a 20-dollar bill in my pocket, I would've just left the $20 there and left with the stuff. At that point, it was worth it.

(6) If I had done that, and they'd have caught me (a freak thing, really. As I was dashing across the parking lot in zig-zag fashion, the security guard in hot pursuit, I tripped over a monkey. Said his name was Pepe. "Clumsy" is more like it), an interesting court case would've ensued.

I imagine it would've gone something like this:

Judge Brown: I find you guilty as charged. You are hereby sentenced to 30 hours of community service. And here's your change.
Me: Point your browser to icebergcarwash.blogspot.com, Your Honor. That's a real service to the community right there. And keep the change.
Judge Brown: Are you trying to bribe me?! Bailiff, take this man to prison.
Me: Dang!

Obviously, considering the possible outcomes, it was best for me to stay put, and just patiently wait my turn.

Fortunately, it didn't take much longer. Pretty soon, it was my turn at the self-checkout machine. I was able to work it without incident, although out of the corner of my eye, I saw the monitor giving me the Evil Eye. This bothered me. I'm not superstitious in any way, shape or form. Rather, the look was really unpleasant, aesthetically speaking. It was quite disturbing, actually. Shaking it off, I hastily completed the transaction, and looking down at the floor, quickly slipped out of the store, barely pausing to look at their wonderful assortment of Super Balls. (I will perhaps deal with my unfortunate, 25-cent-a-week Super Ball habit some other time. Addiction comes in many forms, my acquaintances).

I ran to my car, and, tires squealing, zoomed out of the parking lot, barely pausing to look in the rear-view mirror, where I saw a monkey hungrily licking the cream out of an Oreo cookie, while a mustachioed man sternly admonished, "You've got to eat the cookie part too, Pepe."