David’s Grocery Trip
The patter of David’s firehouse red Keds sneakers are audible only to himself as he trots around the tile floor of the Save A Lot grocery store in Coffeyville, Kansas. The store is bustling with adults fresh from their nine-to-five office jobs; the clacking of their dress shoes out-perform David’s as their tired eyes glaze over boxes of instant mashed potatoes and gallon jugs of skim milk.
David’s fingers reach out towards the barrel of bright, buoyant oranges on his right, and he giggles when his finger brush against one of them. On his left, David’s dad pushes the bulky silver shopping cart. One of the wheels turns in all different directions and nearly catches one of David’s scuffed shoelaces as it wiggles around, making little skidmarks on the floor.
David’s stomach growls and purrs while his eyes wander all around the produce section, first towards the piles of ripe roma tomatoes, then at the bundles of bananas. He even glances towards the misted black shelves of broccoli, zucchini, and leafy greens which are usually force-fed to him by his mother. Today, though, his mother stays positioned at home adding spices to a bubbling pot of gumbo.
“You’ll need to do the grocery shopping tonight, Kev,” she had said, the corners of her plump red lips curving down. David’s father sighed, his breath a mixture of a store-bought onion bagel and cigarette smoke.
“Oh,” his mother continued, “and take David with you, please.”
David didn’t mind the distraction. However, he did wish he was at home sneaking spoonfuls of boiling broth while his mother chopped away at celery stalks instead of at the store where all you could do was look at the food. He can already taste the savory juices that surround the tender bite of the baby shrimp.
David’s father nudges David around the corner towards the checkout lanes. Choosing the one closest to them, David’s father veers the shopping cart with its wonky wheel towards the conveyor belt. David watches the curly-haired woman behind the register slide a plastic tub of sour cream, two tin cans of sweet corn, and a plastic-wrapped ham across the scanner and into a white plastic bag. Her fuschia fingernails tap against the metal counter as David’s father’s fiddle around in his wallet. His worn hands shake as if the gears inside of them are in need of a wash of oil. They finally grasp at two wrinkled ten dollar bills, and he places them in the woman’s soft hands. David grabs at the handles of the plastic bag and carries it at his side.
His father spins his keychain around in one hand and fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette in the other as the two walk towards the glass sliding doors, their black Subaru a mere fifty feet away. David turns his chin upwards to face his dad and focuses on the gray patches of his stubble. At the same time, two metal thunks sound to his left. Turning away, David finds the tub of sour cream and plastic wrapped ham on the floor, a ripped plastic bag still clutched in his hand, and two metallic cans of sweet corn rolling back towards the curly-haired woman. His keds patter against the floor again, this time quicker and louder as he grasps at the escaping cans. Shoving the cool cans into his sweatshirt pockets and lifting the ham and sour cream from the tile floor, David turns around to see that his father has already made it outside. Unbothered, he stands on the sun-bathed pavement with a cigarette shoved between his lips flicking at a silver lighter.
David shuffles towards his father and, already a little frazzled, bumps into the glass sliding doors, letting the ham and sour cream slip from his frail arms. David’s father, cigarette now emitting a trail of smoke, watches David bend down to gather the twice-dropped groceries while the glass door slowly creeps open. David stands in the opening and the two make eye contact, the young boy’s plump, freckled cheeks lift to form an embarrassed smile and the man’s lips part to sound a chuckle. The glass doors slowly come to a close while they share this moment, slabs of glass stopping once the two panes reach David’s tiny figure.
The doors make a buzzing noise, crushing against David’s ribs, both the glass and the boy stuck in their unconventional position. His dad gasps in shock, and a clump of ash enters his windpipe. Immediately, David’s dad hunches over, hands on knees as the dust trails into his lungs, his throat contracting into large, bellowing coughs. While he leans over gasping desperately for clean air, David remains stuck between the closing panes. A woman in a pants suit and an elderly man pry at the glass to try to open it and dots of purple and red enter David’s vision. He believes he can hear his bones pop out of their sockets, and through the purple and red dots he barely makes out a white pickup truck barreling towards his dad who kneels on the pavement.
At home, David’s mother hoists the hefty, hot pot of gumbo off of the gas stove and shuffles to the dining room table. Her mind wanders to the whereabouts of her family, hoping that the local grocery store was open, or that the black subaru didn’t break down on the way there. She ponders her worries, underarms sweating from the weight of the pot. The bottom of her soft bare foot lands on a toy firetruck.
The door to David’s home swings open as David and his father step in, each carrying half of the bought groceries. On the floor, David’s mother mops at chunks of carrot and celery floating in a pond of brown, speckled liquid.
“What took you two so long?” she asks, eyes still averted on the floor.
“What happened to the gumbo?” David exclaims, ignoring his mother’s question, eyes fixated on the juicy baby shrimp resting on a nearby rug.
“Lucky it didn’t land on me,” David’s mother chuckles, now facing David’s father, leaning on the wooden mop.
“Yeah,” David’s father responds with a croaky voice, “seems we’ve all had a little help from luck, today.”
David’s mother tilts her head and furrows her brows. David smiles to himself and unloads the cans of creamed corn from his pockets onto the kitchen counter.