Karmamarket

As I approach the coolness of the refrigerated goods, I see a woman about my age with very grown-out highlights juggling four rambunctious children, three of whom are tearing through the towers of Yoplait arguing over which flavors are the best. I pity and envy her at the same time. I bet she is exhausted with all those kids so close in age. I drop a strawberry Greek yogurt into my basket as I watch her struggle to hold her cell phone between her shoulder and left ear while tossing some cream cheese into her cart behind the chubby-legged baby sitting in the front. I wonder if she has to work too, or if she gets to stay home with them. I am undecided if that would be a nightmare or something pleasant for her. The three kids finally make their flavor choices and throw an array of containers into the cart when one little boy runs to the opposite side of the aisle to look at the cookies. He knocks over a whole display of Krispy Kremes in his hurried mission. Passerbys stop to look, then continue on with their shopping. One older lady just shakes her head and does not hesitate to stop. She must not have ever had children of her own. Of course, neither have I, but I am not so intolerant to simply shake my head at the mother and walk away. One man acted as if he did not see it at all. Polite inattention can be so rude sometimes. The mom hits a button on her cell phone and throws it into her red purse next to the baby, and with an exaggerated sigh, runs over to the clumsy kid while simultaneously yelling at the other two to help her clean up the kid’s donut mess. I hesitate to help them, but there’s so much activity going on in that area that I might just make things more difficult. I push my cart to continue past when I see a younger teenager with sagging basketball shorts, hoodie, and a red face anxiously looking at the baby. Why would someone be wearing a hoodie in this hot weather? Teenagers aren’t very logical anymore, it seems. He doesn’t have any groceries in his hands and doesn’t seem to be looking for any either. Actually, now that I look at him, he is standing frozen in the middle of the space between the donut mess and the lady’s cart. Maybe he gets too cold in this refrigerated area, literally freezes in place, and that’s why he needs his oversized sweatshirt. He takes a half step forward, hesitates, then starts walking toward the baby after taking a quick side-glance at the family to his right. What is he looking so intently at, I wonder? Is this an older, fifth child of hers? Why is he acting so strange? I notice then that his gaze is not fixed on the baby that is now drooling all over the handle of the cart, but on the wide open red purse sitting next to it. My hands get cold and sweaty when I realize his intent, and hope that the mother turns around to check on her baby, but she doesn’t. He quickly pulls up his sagging shorts and stumbles forward toward the cart, and starts to reach out his hand that I can see from here is already shaking. My heart does a quick thump, and I push my cart aside with a force I forgot I even had and dart toward the drooling baby. The teen’s gaze is so intently fixed on his prize he does not see me coming, and becomes visibly startled when I assertively slam my hand down on the red purse. He jumps for a moment and looks up at me wide-eyed with his hand still out toward the purse, barely touching the strap hanging over the edge.

“This is not yours!” I say in a voice I do not even recognize as my own, followed by two deep breaths to catch up from my sprint. He lets a squeak escape from his throat as his eyes dart toward the donut catastrophe.

“I wasn’t—I was just checking—” he stutters, obviously panicking, as a bead of sweat forms above his bushy eyebrow.

“I think you’d better leave. Now,” I say a little louder, not moving my hand from the purse. I watch him pull his hand back slowly and begin to walk backwards while he mumbles some sort of apology before turning and literally running away from the cart. The baby is looking up at me, scared, and looks as though it’s about to cry. A string of drool hangs from the baby's quivering chin, and its shiny pink lips begin to pucker. I pull my hand away, walk away to retrieve my own cart, which was facing completely sideways in the center of the aisle, and glance back at the family. I sneak a twenty into her purse. The mom finally stands, brushes off her knees, and scolds her children while turning around to face her baby. The baby bursts into tears as she jogs toward him, cooing and shushing. The mom retrieves her cell phone from her purse and swears. I push my cart toward the front of the store, forgetting the bread, and check out in the fast lane.

As I exit the store, the sunshine makes me sneeze. Anxious shuffling to my left suddenly goes still. It's that bratty teenager attempting to fish his keys out from the storm drain using a marshmallow roasting stick with a sales tag still attached. He cowers, waits for me to say something.

I put my groceries in the car, and drive off.