Operation: Avoid Humans

I went to the grocery store at 7:03am for one reason and one reason only: there would be no people. This wasn’t a shopping trip. This was a tactical operation.

I had calculated everything. Tuesday morning. Barely daylight. Most reasonable humans would either be sleeping, getting ready for work, or standing half-conscious in their kitchens wondering why adulthood requires participation before 9:00am. The grocery store would be empty. I would glide silently through the aisles, collect my six items, use self-checkout, and return home without speaking to another living soul.

It was perfect.

I pulled into the parking lot.

There were approximately fourteen thousand cars.

Apparently everyone in town had independently decided that 7:03am on a Tuesday was the ideal time to purchase yogurt.

I briefly considered leaving. Unfortunately, I needed toilet paper, and apparently that was worth risking human interaction. So I went in.

Immediately, an employee standing at the entrance smiled and said, “GOOD MORNING!”

I panicked.

“You too!”

It wasn’t a question.

Didn’t matter.

I’d already failed.

I grabbed a cart and headed toward produce, where I spotted someone I vaguely knew examining avocados.

Absolutely not.

I performed an emergency ninety-degree turn into the bakery section. Unfortunately, she saw me.

“HEY!”

I suddenly became deeply interested in hamburger buns.

There are apparently seventeen varieties. Whole wheat. Brioche. Sesame. Pretzel. For several minutes, I studied them with the intensity of a scientist attempting to prevent nuclear war.

Eventually, the woman disappeared.

Excellent.

I continued. Milk. Eggs. Bread. Coffee. Toilet paper. Bananas. Six items. In and out.

Then I entered the cereal aisle and saw another person I knew.

I reversed the cart so quickly I nearly took out a display of Cheerios and fled into frozen foods.

That’s when I realized something.

The first woman was now in frozen foods.

Apparently she’d migrated.

I ducked behind a freezer door and, for reasons I still cannot explain, pretended to examine frozen peas. I don’t even like peas. But there I stood, holding a bag of peas and reading the nutritional information like I’d just received devastating medical news.

She passed.

Crisis avoided.

I put the peas back.

Then my phone rang.

My ringtone echoed through the aisle like an emergency siren.

The woman turned around.

I abandoned the cart.

Just left it.

Milk. Eggs. Bananas. Everything.

Gone.

I walked rapidly toward the next aisle pretending I had absolutely no association with the unattended cart I’d just deserted beside the frozen waffles.

At this point, I was no longer grocery shopping.

I was evading capture.

I waited near the pet food until the coast was clear, then circled back and reclaimed my cart.

Mission resumed.

I finally reached the toilet paper aisle. There was one other person there. A man.

Perfect.

A stranger.

Strangers are wonderful because they don’t require conversation.

I reached for my usual brand.

He reached for the same package.

Our hands nearly touched.

“Oh! Sorry,” he said.

“No problem.”

Conversation complete.

Beautiful.

Then he said, “Crazy how expensive this stuff has gotten, eh?”

Sir.

Please.

We have completed our interaction.

There is absolutely no reason for a sequel.

But apparently we were now toilet-paper friends.

He began discussing inflation. I nodded politely while slowly moving my cart away.

He followed.

Now we were discussing grocery prices.

Then gasoline.

Then weather.

At some point, I learned that his sister lives in Kingston.

I don’t know how we got there.

I just wanted toilet paper.

Eventually, I escaped by saying, “Well, I’d better finish shopping.”

This is the universal Canadian signal for: I have enjoyed our completely unnecessary relationship, but I would now like to disappear forever.

I headed straight for self-checkout.

Almost free.

Then I heard it.

“Hey! I thought that was you!”

The avocado woman.

She’d found me.

There was nowhere to run. I was trapped between the checkout machine and a rack of reusable shopping bags.

We chatted.

By “we chatted,” I mean she spoke while I repeatedly said, “Oh wow,” “That’s crazy,” “Absolutely,” and “For sure.”

Apparently these four phrases can sustain a conversation indefinitely.

Finally, she left.

I scanned my groceries.

The machine immediately announced, “UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA.”

Wonderful.

Now the robot wanted attention too.

An employee came over.

“Having trouble?”

“Nope.”

I was.

She fixed it, then smiled and said, “Have a great day!”

“You too!”

Correct response this time.

Growth.

I walked toward the exit carrying my groceries and feeling victorious.

I had survived.

Then the toilet-paper man appeared beside me.

“Hey! There you are!”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

He walked with me into the parking lot while continuing a story about his neighbour’s fence.

I learned everything.

The neighbour’s name was Gary.

Gary had apparently installed the fence six inches over the property line.

There were surveys involved.

Lawyers had been mentioned.

Families were divided.

I was now emotionally invested in a property dispute involving two people I had never met.

Finally, we reached my car.

“Well,” he said, “nice talking to you.”

“You too.”

He walked away.

I got into my car, locked the doors, placed both hands on the steering wheel and stared silently through the windshield.

I’d gone grocery shopping specifically because I didn’t want to interact with anyone.

Forty-seven minutes later, I’d spoken to two acquaintances, befriended a stranger, learned about Gary’s illegal fence, discussed inflation, heard about someone’s sister in Kingston, and been publicly reprimanded by a self-checkout machine.

Next time I’m ordering groceries online.

And if the delivery driver knocks on the door?

I’m turning off the lights and pretending nobody lives here.

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