‘Checkout’ by Vanessa Baker-Murray
Back then we fell in love on Tuesdays. By Friday, our imaginations were so exhausted, the names worn down to meaninglessness on our tongues, that it didn’t matter if the number of words actually exchanged scarcely reached double digits. These were feelings too powerful to withstand real life and so, come Sunday, we’d toast to broken hearts and fresh starts over value wine and past-date pie.
We’d buy the pathetic items like tampons and Weight Watchers frozen dinners on Mondays, forgetting things that make us look normal, like eggs, bread, and broccoli.
I could hardly contain my excitement each Tuesday as Khadija and I descended the three storeys to street level and cut around the back of our apartment building to the Foodland parking lot where, through the window, we triumphantly confirmed that the universe had answered our pleas: there was, waiting inside, a fresh crop of stock boys for us to feast on.
Some would give up after a week; most would work for the summer, then disappear to colleges across the country. A few would be promoted to cashier, working their way up through the ranks to shift supervisor and, if they were really unlucky, assistant manager. But whatever happened, we knew we could count on a new shipment of eye candy every week.
*
Mondays faded to Tuesdays and I’d find myself en route to another day of photocopying and coffee fetching at my summer internship, sneaking inconspicuous glances in the supermarket window, distracted by the reflection of my own greasy roots and hips too wide for a pencil skirt.
Five o’clock would free me and, stomach rumbling in protest against a coffee and cigarette lunch, I’d see it, a beacon in the downtown jungle and, before I could coax myself to resist, I’d feel the freezer air hitting my face, teasing out goosebumps on my arms.
*
The maze was one I could navigate blindfolded: a beeline for the bakery with a brief pause in dairy on the way, skipping toys, cards and housewares, then ending in frozen foods, my arms growing heavy with the few items I’d picked up – not enough to warrant a basket.
I did a quick perusal, then paid for my things and met Khadija at home, where I confessed to having cheated by going for a solo viewing.
‘I didn’t see much,’ I said as she sighed with exaggerated disappointment. ‘You can have first pick this week.’
She only started coming because she got sick of my rambling and had to see what all the fuss was about. The boys didn’t live up to expectation, she insisted, yet she’d be at my side in the produce department every week.
*
Inside the supermarket, we scanned every aisle, peeked behind every counter.
I always made my claim right away, calling dibs on the first 18 to 22-year-old male spotted without a lazy eye or acne, my focus shifting to the nametag pinned to his chest before I’d even gotten a good view of his face.
Khadija was more methodical. She’d lap the whole store twice, then revisit the ones that stood out, observing how gently they treated their cans of corn, or whether they scowled when interrupted for the third time to show someone where the graham crackers were. She read their nametags like labels detailing country of origin, ingredients, nutritional value. Impulsive was never a word used to describe Khadija. Todd shows promise, she’d say, but her grandmother told her never to trust a man with a one-syllable name. I’d nod from a daydream about Dean. By the time she made her decision, I’d have planned weddings, surprise pregnancies, and adulterous divorces with at least three different specimens.
Through the course of the week, I’d find any excuse to pop in for a few items, making a point of loading my basket with wine and cheese and other sophisticated party essentials when the most delicious employees were working, and stocking up on chocolate and chips when they weren’t. Occasionally, I found the confidence to comment on the weather or inquire about some mundane detail, but mostly, our interactions were limited to, ‘Would you like a bag?’ and, ‘Have a nice day.’ Then I’d return to the apartment to gush to Khadija about how Joey’s hand lingered when handing over the change or the inflection of sincerity in Trevor’s voice when he said, ‘See you later.’
*
But that all changed with Chad.
He was Khadija’s. Well, technically I saw him first. She’d gone for dinner with her parents, who were visiting for the weekend, and I, exhausted from a reality TV marathon, ventured out in my sweatpants for a nibble.
Of course, the only open lane was manned by a tanned, blue-eyed fox. I didn’t make eye contact, just willed myself invisible the way one does when buying a cake alone at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night.
I never told Khadija, and when she spotted him, I pretended to be occupied ogling the new deli attendant. It was just a game, anyway. I’d go first next time.
Before long, we knew Chad’s schedule better than MTV’s and hardly minded the lines sprawling out in front of his register, easily twice as long as those for any other till. During slow hours, he’d take the time to bag our groceries for us, and even closed his lane once to carry an old lady’s things to her car.
When he commented on what I was buying, it never felt condescending or judgmental. ‘The Snickers cookies are really good,’ he said once, like he hadn’t seen me buy three bags of them a week earlier.
*
One day, I stood in line with Khadija for fifteen minutes, congratulating myself for resisting the call of sugary cereals and freshly baked cheese buns while mourning the firing of my deli boy following an excessive sampling incident. When Chad gave Khadija incorrect change, she consulted the receipt to find his phone number at the bottom in smudged black ink. She crumpled the paper up in her palm and tossed it into her purse, cheeks glowing as she hightailed it out of the store without bothering to return for her dollar.
It was only at my insistence that she texted him four days later. She argued that this would complicate things, that the game would be ruined if we started fraternising with our prey. But if I couldn’t win, I would at least live vicariously through my roommate and so pleaded that she do it for the two of us.
They made plans to see a movie the following weekend. Until then, she refused to set foot in the store, leaving me to fetch her groceries, struggling to ignore the stares of judgmental patrons who likely thought both boxes of ice cream sandwiches were for me.
*
The night of their date, I made Khadija change four times, rejecting job interview outfits and parent-approved party dresses before forcing her into a skirt I had buried at the back of my closet, the very thing I’d imagined wearing if ever asked on an actual date. I fastened the garment to her tiny waist with a belt despite her protests that, at two inches above the knee, the hemline was uncomfortably scandalous and could give Chad the wrong idea.
With the apartment to myself, I awaited her arrival with a pizza and a library book. Around midnight, my eyes grew heavy as I reached for the last slice.
*
I awoke on the couch to the sun rising and the sound of the shower running. When the water stopped and the bathroom door opened, I rushed to meet my roommate in the hallway.
‘I didn’t hear you get home last night. You should have woken me. How was it? Tell me everything,’ I said in one breath.
‘Alright,’ she said, looking down at the water dripping from her hair and forming a puddle on the hardwood floor.
‘Did he kiss you? Are you going to see him again? Can I be maid of honour at your wedding?’
‘No, I don’t think we’ll go out again.’ Her porcelain voice sounded as though it might break.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ She fidgeted with the towel wrapped around her body. ‘He just … I don’t know. It wasn’t like I thought. I told you it wasn’t a good idea.’
‘Why? Did something happen? Are you alright?’
‘Yeah, no, it’s fine. I don’t really want to talk about it. It isn’t a big deal. Next time I’ll listen to my gut instead of your fantastical ramblings.’
‘What’s wrong with you? I didn’t force you to go. You could have said no.’
‘I wish I had.’ She closed her bedroom door behind her and came out an hour later wearing sweatpants, her eyes puffy.
‘Are you going somewhere?’ I said as she grabbed her keys and wallet from the table near the door.
‘I just need to go to the store for a minute.’
‘Can I come?’
She shook her head, then seemed to change her mind. ‘Yeah, I guess.’
*
A hungover-looking boy in a green polyester vest unlocked the door as we approached. Khadija handed me her money and hung back inspecting cough syrups while I spoke to the pharmacist, almost believing myself when I said it was for me.
The outline of the baby blue box was visible through the white plastic bag. When we got back to the apartment, I handed it to Khadija. I wondered if I would have cried.
*
We never mentioned Chad again. Khadija altered her shopping schedule to avoid him and, on her lead, we began frequenting female-operated tills.
The following Tuesday, I resisted the urge to treat myself to a sneak peek and went straight home from my internship. When I suggested we go pick up something to make for dinner, Khadija said she’d rather order a pizza.
After my remark about a stock boy’s forearms a week later was met with a glare that halted me mid-sentence, I started keeping all observations about the staff to myself.
‘He’s just doing his job, Courtney,’ Khadija said with a sharp roll of the eyes. ‘It’s not like you’re going to marry any of these guys.’
*
The next time I knew Chad would be working, I went to the store on my own, braving the wall of people extending from his till into the aisle. When I handed him the money for my apples, he didn’t make eye contact. I wanted to explain that whatever happened with Khadija, it hadn’t tarnished my opinion of him. I needed him to know I wasn’t like her, that I was ready. If he’d chosen me, I wouldn’t have freaked out.
None of this was even Khadjia’s idea to begin with and now she’d messed everything up and I’d never get my chance. She didn’t get to call game over; I’d seen him first.
‘Do you need a bag?’
‘No.’
‘Have a nice day.’
‘You too.’
Before dropping my receipt in the garbage, I glanced at the bottom, the emptiness in my gut surprising me, though I knew there’d be nothing there.
*
Summer ended and Khadija and I moved to an apartment near campus to live out the remaining three years of our degree. We do our shopping at the small supermarket down the road run by the old Japanese couple that owns it. The meat shipments come fresh on Wednesdays, and we plan our trips accordingly.
From issue #2: spring/summer 2016
About the Author
Vanessa Baker-Murray has masters degrees in creative writing and law from Trinity College Dublin. She is passionate about women’s rights and reproductive justice, and loves exploring these themes through fiction and non-fiction. She lives in Ottawa, Canada.
