Rubber-Made

I have discovered a new hobby while visiting grocery stores. I consider this a vitally important skill in the development of one's character, as I regard grocery stores to be, for the most part, soul-stealing purveyors dealing exclusively in boredom.

I understand this may sound harsh.

Yes, grocery stores allow the everyday farmer to sell his crops and make the money he needs to survive. As the son of a farmer, I can appreciate this. I have experienced first hand the tragedy that unsold products can bring. Why, I can still recall childhood holidays, my family gathered around the table for the Christmas Feast. The gifts of wood shavings and misshapen rocks that had filled my brother and sisters' stockings scattered about the floor, thrown there in the frenzies of joy we had experienced upon receiving them. And over this, the soft aroma of the Holiday Spam, yielding under the gentle pressure of my father's carving spoon. Ah, memories...

Ok, I know that it is completely irrational to believe that a farmer- a man whose entire existence revolves around the production of food- would fail to have access to a roast, ham or, God forbid, at least a baked chicken. But that story wouldn't have worked with good food. So be quiet.

You don't know me.

So farmers- that's a point in the grocery store's favor, I guess. And then there's the whole "buying food" part. As a guy who usually leaves a first impression of general hugeness, the sheer brilliance of collecting so much food in one location is not lost on me.

But even taking all this into consideration, I still maintain that there could be a better way. I’m not a fan of the straight lines, of the neat, perfect shelves. I mean come on people, these places stack cases of Dr. Pepper next to Coke! What sane person does this!?! Do you arrange a picnic lunch for Willie Nelson and Buckcherry? Do Microsoft and Apple get together for morning scones? No!

This is AMERICA! We believe in a little something called FREEDOM! And if you can't accept that, then you can just get out. (Of course, if my theory on subliminal robotic mind control turns out to be correct, than this is all a moot point.Just a heads up.)

To review, let me reiterate: if you don't agree with my views on the organization of grocery store items, then you are a Communist. Shame on you! Your father fought in the war! He would be so disappointed.

Perhaps a lottery system is the answer. Every person in the world would get a ticket. And then at 8:00, Tommy Feldwetter will approach the ball machine, his hair fluttering as the wind moving the tiny plastic spheres blows through his very cheap, very obvious hair-piece. The family assembles around the TV, gathered together in governmentally-forced closeness, as he starts plucking the numbers that will decided tomorrow’s menu.

The quality of food would increase with the amount of numbers matched. One number corresponds to a can of pinto beans. Two gets you a pound of hamburger meat. Three nets the family some pork chops, and so on. The powerball winners get their choice of swordfish, prime rib, or ostrich (extra high in protein!).

I realize that the randomness of it all might seem a bit daunting. It's true that the culinary merits of a ration consisting of seven prunes, a head of cabbage, and twenty pounds of chicken gizzards may not be immediately apparent. But this is the nation addicted to Iron Chef! If they can succeed with such odd ingredients- in front of a live audience, no less!- then surely we can persevere.

And if not, well, obesity is one of America's biggest problems. So a little hunger might not be such a bad thing. And isn't it about time that some low-income homes finally got a chance to taste filet mignon? The Food Lottery- America's Great Appetizer Equalizer!

Alas, the world is not a perfect place, and we have only the everyday grocery store to sustain us. And like all other similar types of chain stores, the people who shop there can be fairly easily stereotyped. This is how I amuse myself.

When I go to Walmart late at night, I play "count the curlers and moo-moos." Sometimes I ask to write a check for more than I buy, then time how long it takes the cashier to add the numbers. The current record happened when I asked for $20 more than $13.57. After five minutes of watching the lady add on her fingers, I finally broke down and told her. Exactly $23.57.

After that I go outside and laugh at the high schoolers pretending to be gangsters, speaking in horrible Ebonics while drag racing their '97 Impalas.

Then there's Target. I like Target. It's slightly more high-brow than the local Walmart. And by "slightly," I mean in the sense that the food at On the Border is slightly better than that at Taco Bell.

The people at Target are actually attractive. They have pretty cashiers. The girls putting clothing on racks are pretty. The ones shopping are pretty. And noboday smells like vinegar! If I had the skill to pick up random girls in random stores, I'd probably shop at Target much more often.

But my newest form of entertainment comes from watching a specific group of people buying a very specific item: condoms.

I've heard that there are many things that bring out a person's true self. Fear. Alcohol. Impending death. But I contend that the only way to see the deepest inner workings of a person is to watch them buy condoms.

Everyone has their own little methods when it come to getting these. First comes the approach. Some go for a straight-forward drive-by, pushing their cart as fast as possible and grabbing the items on the fly, trusting on speed to avoid notice. Others prefer to scope out the area, circling the aisle in question until they're sure that the coast is clear. I take a malicious pleasure in quietly tailing these individuals, only to pop out just as they reach for their chosen brand. The look on their faces as they pretend to reach for something else is beautiful. But that's nothing compared to the look they get upon realizing that they've grabbed a bottle of K-Y Jelly, the only other object that shares space on the condom shelves.

In my town there are two popular grocery stores: an HEB and a Kroger. The HEB is at least 3 times larger than the Kroger. It has a much bigger selection of food at cheaper prices.

Yet I shop at Kroger. Why? Because I have a Kroger Card. And every time I spend $100 at Kroger, I can use my card to get 10 cents a gallon off one tank of gas. I recently did the math, and discovered that this amazing discount saves me a grand total of 83 cents a month.

But the Kroger does something that HEB doesn't— it keeps all the birth control products locked in a glass case at the front of the store. I'm not sure why. Maybe people were just too embarrassed to be seen checking out with the stuff, so they started stealing it. I don't know. But for whatever reason, they decided that the best idea was to lock them up. And now, when I am extremely lucky, I get to see guys sheepishly walk up to the manager, then slink guiltily behind as he opens the glass case, removes a box of Trojans, and hands it to the unfortunate individual in front of the entire store.

And for that, this particular Kroger is more precious to me than any number of HEB's.

But if watching people merely grab condoms is funny, then watching them check out is simply brilliant. Especially if this is done in the middle of the day, where the culprit can be surrounded by as many of the elderly, infants, Girl Scout troops, and- by the grace of God - clergymen/nuns as possible.

No Father, those aren't mine... I'm just holding them for a friend.

It's important to note that, on rare occasions, it is possible for the reverse situation to occur. Sometimes the tables turn, and the innocent person handling these objects can become the center of more embarrassment that the person actually buying them. Accomplishing this feat requires certain personality quirks: a complete lack of shame, for one. Supreme self confidence. A deeply misplaced sense of righteousness. And finally, total obliviousness to how things may appear to others.

I have a friend who fills all these qualifications. We'll call him Bob. One day, I ran into Bob at Walmart. We were both picking up every-day necessities. I had a shopping cart full of things like toothpaste, t-shirts, light bulbs and the like. Bob had similar things, chocolate syrup and whipped cream being the two items that stick out most in my mind. He mentioned that he was going to an ice cream party and had to pick up some stuff. Then, in one of those "Eureka!" moments that occasionally happen, he exclaimed "condoms! I almost forgot, I need to pick up some of those too." With that, he walked back to the pharmacy section, while I, somewhat shaken from having the word "condoms" yelled at me in the middle of a crowded Walmart, proceeded to head to the check-out line.

Fate appeared to be on my side, because as I neared the crowded lines, I saw a new counter open immediately in front of me. A middle-aged man stood behind the counter. He didn't give off the typical Walmart-employee look; he had combed hair, a clean button-down shirt, even a tie. Before I had even placed my first item on the conveyer belt, I had him pegged. He was an old-school kind of guy; a grandpa with a large dash of southern religion thrown in for seasoning. If he wasn't a deacon at his church every Sunday, I'd eat my shopping cart.

Just as he set my last carton of Easy-Mac in the bag, handing it to me with a final "have a blessed day," I saw my friend Bob approaching.

Time literally stopped.

I turned to the cashier, his ultra-conservative face frozen in the moment, the years of church-going shining in his eyes. I glanced back at Bob. I remembered the contents I had seen in his basket earlier. I thought about the most recent addition now among them. Something clicked into place.

A part of me refused to accept what was about to occur. This was the good part of me; the part that makes me open doors for girls and stops me from beating up small, annoying people. That part of me was yelling, and the words coming out of it were along the lines of "NOOOOOOO!!!! You will not allow this to happen!"

But then another voice spoke up. This was the voice of my darker, more humor-oriented side. And, unfortunately, the side that takes over my motor skills in times such as these. And this side said "Oh yes. Yes yes yes Yes YES! You are most definitely allowing this to happen."

So, with what I now know was a rather sinister smirk, I waved Bob to my line, which was still miraculously free of anyone other than myself. Here, I felt the presence of a higher power. For, as Bob began to stack his goods on the counter, I knew immediately which three items would come first. There was no question; the order had been chosen before Bob ever arrived at the store. And of course, sliding up the moving belt, impossible to separate, came the three objects. Three simple things which, when grouped together, formed a whole much greater than the sum of its parts.

Can of whipped cream? Check. Chocolate syrup? Check. Condoms? Check.

I couldn't make myself stay for Bob's entire checkout. The cashier's hands had begun to shake, the holy water in his veins reacting against the demon objects they were forced to hold. His eyes glazed as the puzzle solved itself in his mind, and the full potential relationship of the three objects made itself apparent in his imagination. The evil voice was losing control, and I knew it was imperative that I left as fast as possible.

But as I turned away, I couldn't resist throwing at least one line into the chaos I had just forged.

"Hey Bob. Have fun making that special sundae tonight."

I heard the thud as a carton of eggs fell from the cashier's twitching fingers.

How 'bout that, I thought to myself, the smirk now a full-fledged evil grin. I guess I should have stayed after all.