Nephropidae's Waltz

Nephropidae’s Waltz

            It’s uncomfortable trying to converse with someone when the tribes of customers crowd the grocery store’s aisles around you; they push and nudge fighting towards bags of chips, cookies, and apples like malnourished, greedy goats. One of them, without fail, mindlessly embodies the animal’s distrusting, profoundly confused expression. They look like they’ve been spun around before hitting a piñata. They preen their head and imperceptibly move it side to side while choosing between the prospective bonuses of consuming parsnip chips or tuna salad, which, coincidentally, have been sitting in the “Grab’n’Go” section for eight hours; I stocked them earlier that day. Make a choice, you’re taking a shot in the dark here, or should I say swing in the dark, and after all, it’s only tuna salad. Other than the unruly customers, and the constant, nagging feeling that I’m a piece of meat being vacuum packaged for consumption at a later date, I’m fine with the job. Really, I promise, I’m fine.

            It’s Tuesday. I’m scuttling down the snack aisle; brown leather boots, kneepads, crew shirt with hibiscus flower, and gloves (the thumb and forefinger of both removed for increased dexterity) surreptitiously make me look like a lobster. The red shirt doesn’t help. I generally avoid wearing it to sidestep the comparison, but I didn’t have any alternatives; everything else I owned was dirty that morning.      

            Anyways, I see this girl looking at dog treats, and she has this beautiful, geometric tattoo on her forearm. I drift her way, avoiding the customers that bog down the aisles like glass bottles and wood left stranded on the beach after high tide.

            “You finding everything oaky?” I ask. Her eyes are cotton candy blue, ocean blue, sky at the fair when you’re whirling around on the “Yo-Yo” blue. I regret my decision immediately as the pressing sensation of the vacuum sealer closes in around me. I have a rubber bouncy-ball lodged in my throat. There’s a vague, unavoidable itch on my lower back and inner, left heel that I’ve never noticed before.

            “Yeah, thanks. I’m just grabbing a few things while I’m on my break from work.”

            “Nice, where do you work?” my voice asks. It only cracks a little; it’s about small victories.

            “Just across the parking lot at the coffee stand actually.”

            “Oh, nice,” I reply. I have immense trouble figuring out what to do next; ideas rearrange and shift faster than I can follow them. “Has it been busy for y’all? It’s crazy here today.”

            “Yeah, definitely. Although, no one has been tipping me,” she replies.

            Here’s where things fell apart. For whatever, ill-advised reason I started thinking about Wedding Crashers, and that line where Vince Vaughn says something about just the tip. I started wondering if there was any way I could work it into the conversation; it could make her laugh, maybe she’d have seen the movie, maybe she’d give me her number, although, it could be a bad idea, she might not think it’s funny at all and slap me, or she might leave. Honestly, It’s shocking that she didn’t walk away sooner because I suddenly came to the realization that I’d been overthinking the entire situation.

            I’d been unconsciously channeling “goat-face”, staring at her in unacknowledged, uncomfortable silence for forty-five seconds. I had to break the quiet with something interesting enough, captivating enough, or worthy enough to redeem the ridiculous amount of time I’d stood like an idiot gawking at her, so, I blurted out, goatishly, the first thing that came to mind.

            “That’s bananas!”

            I said it extremely loudly. Instinctively, seeing as it was the only option left to me at that point, I turned away and retreated down the aisle back towards the relative safety of the crew break room. Shockingly that is’t even the worst interaction I’ve had this week.

            Whatever - I’ll keep shuffling through the aisles stocking mayonnaise, kneepads making my skin sweat, hoping that one of these days I’ll bump into another lobster out there. Lobsters do mate for life, right? If I’m not mistaken, they affectionately intertwine their big, bulky claws and stroll around their tanks for hours. Wouldn’t it be nice? Undoubtedly.

            Until you’re plucked from the tank, plopped into a stainless steel pot, and boiled alive to be enjoyed with a large side of pasta.