Urban Commando
Back in my bachelor days I never thought about food shopping, I just ate out. The supermarket was as dim a concept as fatherhood or retirement. Then my girlfriend Rachel and I moved in together and I became “Errand Boy”. Certain things become Darwinian and inevitable when living with a female of the species, like the delegation of errands and chores. But to be fair, if I was Errand Boy then Rachel adopted the inglorious role of “Scullery Girl”. She ran the kitchen, cooked and did the laundry, while I, in the timeless tradition of hunters, foraged out in the wasteland for our daily bread. Not only bread but many things — meat, coffee, orange juice, tampons, all became the work of Errand Boy, and boy, did I resist it.
Remember, before I was Errand Boy, I was “Bachelor Boy”, a more frivolous and fun role. Being Bachelor Boy meant all my culinary needs were met by a Chinese menu, pizza and the burger joint across the street. I used the kitchen counters to sort my mail and my manuscripts. The refrigerator was a storing receptacle for leftovers and beer. Nobody actually cooked in America, did they? That, however, was before I grew up and became part of a domestic unit.
At first I was intrigued by the notion of “home cooking” until I realized that Rachel (rather miraculously) possessed no foraging instincts whatsoever. Now she could cook, absolutely, no problem there. Slap a chicken into her hands and it turned into a fricassee in no time flat. Unfortunately, she had only half the equation. Gathering the ingredients for a meal was something of a mystery for her or at least it was something she went out of her way to avoid. It took a while for me to realize that the girl just wouldn’t food shop. Period. She would actually circumnavigate a city block, to avoid the market, the way a vampire dodges a house of God.
It suddenly became clear to me that if I didn’t buy the coffee, there was going to be no coffee. Likewise cream, sugar, pretzels or beer. So, shaking my head resolutely, I took up the gauntlet and went to the Korean corner store. I came back with two, heavy and unbelievably expensive bags of groceries. I presented them to Rachel, smiling a silly grin that soon left my face, as everything I’d bought was wrong — as in wrong, wrong, wrong! The pretzels were wrong, she only liked blue corn chips! Then there was the cream, she only drank vanilla soy milk! And what about these carrots, you idiot?! Didn’t I know she only eats organic vegetables?!
Everything I had brought into our snug little apartment on the 14th floor was in error. Rachel tore through the bags, cataloging my mistakes in detail, as my eyes glazed over. Then a familiar voice from my past returned to me, echoing in my head. It was the Georgian drawl of my former drill instructor, Sgt.“Killer” Kilpatrick of the U.S. Marine Corps. “Of course all your choices came back no-go’s, you damned fool, you’re living in the past! Get with the program, big dummy! Bachelor Boy is out and Errand Boy is in! Men and women are different animals! You’re a hunter/gatherer and she’s a nester/nurturer. You need to fall back on your military training, it’s a mission like any other!” I realized that Killer was right, it was a mission, as harrowing and important as any I’d undertaken as one of Killer’s Commandos. What I needed was briefing and Rachel saw to that.
When I left our apartment next, I was prepared for any and all contingencies. No overpriced corner markets for me, I was going downtown to the super-duper market. I had a comprehensive shopping list in my pocket, complete with emergency plans. I had a detailed map of the store, I knew exactly was needed and where it could be found. A cyanide capsule was tucked under my tongue if all else failed. Taking the elevator down, I hummed a little ranger ditty about blood and guts. I did the airborne shuffle out of the lobby and out into the street, ignoring a look the doorman gave me. I shuffled down Second Avenue, breathing in the crisp air and thinking this was a good day for Urban Combat.
As I approached my target, I remembered the final words of Rachel’s briefing. “I’m warning you, this isn’t just any mission, this is shopping in Manhattan! To make matters worse, it’s Sunday, you’re going to run into some of the worse customers of all! Young mommies, slamming their baby strollers around like Sherman tanks! Benign, smiling grandmas turning savage in the blink of an eye! And there are never enough cashiers, that’s where it really gets ugly, so watch out!” As I secured the perimeter, I kept my eyes open for any sign of hostiles. It was quiet, too quiet.
I commandeered a shopping cart and rode it into the produce section. I acquired the organics. Moving stealthily from one aisle to the next, I avoided unnecessary contact with other shoppers as they would only slow me down. In areas of congestion I left my cart at the top or bottom of aisles and proceeded on foot. I darted in and out, hugging the shadows like the Urban Commando I was, taking each objective in turn. Juice, high fiber cereal, vanilla soy milk — all were returned to the cart I now saw as the Mother Ship. This was going better than I hoped, what had I been so worried about? I ducked into the frozen section for some politically correct pizza, chuckling and feeling a little smug.
Scoffing at other shoppers with their flaccid arms and vacant eyes, I wondered how they got through life at all? Obviously, these fools had no clue what they were doing. Errand Boy is out, Urban Commando is in. Shuffling up and down the aisles, I check off items on my list, my mission nearly complete. I need only extract my purchases and return to Home Base, so I head for the nearest cashier. I was in the stretch but then all Hell broke loose. They came out of nowhere, the damned OLC or Old Lady Coalition to their friends. A moment ago I had a straight shot to freedom but now there were dozens of these notorious tricksters in my way. All with full carts, all with coupons and all too suddenly.
My mouth flexing like Kirk Douglas, I accelerated my shopping cart to ramming speed and muscled up behind it! This was what I’d trained for, the fight of my life. Despite their appearances, the OLC were as quick as ninjas in shiny, black pajamas. One Golden Girl threw her walker at me with a flick of her arthritic wrist, I ducked. Another tried to take me out with her cane but I blocked with a frozen pizza supreme. I kept moving and the battle blurred, hands, arms, legs, like cutouts from a less than spotless mind. Somehow I got out, with all my bags intact, a tiny paper receipt clutched between my thumb and forefinger.
Limping up Second Avenue I knew I’d done all right, I’d be OK. I spit my cyanide capsule into the gutter for some hapless rat to find. Rachel greeted me at the door, I could tell she was pleased as I passed her the groceries. I fell into a chair, my purple heart still beating a little hard and she brought me a glass of dry, white wine. There would have to be a debriefing but that could wait. I looked around our warm, dry apartment on the 14th floor, at the neat, folded laundry on the table, candles burning, soft music playing. Rachel worked expertly in the kitchen, humming along to Charlie Parker. I decided in the end it’s worth it, this domestic life. My girlfriend moves towards me and I turn in my chair. Her eyes grow dream and her smile opens up like a rose. I notice how little she’s wearing and smile back. Yes, it’s definitely worth it.
Scullery Girl is out. Bedroom Wench is in.
