Excerpt

Upon arriving home, I begin to unpack the groceries from the car, but something is missing. Where’s the cat litter? The bagger at the store was young, and more interested in talking to his friends than doing his job.

Did he put the litter in someone else’s cart? I double check the trunk, no litter. There’s a Necco Wafer on the wheel well, and I eat it. Nutrition is important to me.

Did the bagger leave the litter on the checkout counter? The incompetence makes me furious. Calling the store, they don’t even give me a chance to talk before putting me on hold. There’s no recorded music available, so I hum to myself. Mom always told me that I was adaptable, or was that adoptable.

Finally someone listens to my problem, puts me on hold for a second time, and goes to check with the bagger. When the customer service person returns to the phone, I am informed they questioned the young man, but he doesn’t remember any cat litter. This is not the response I was looking for.

The friendly representative explains how the manager will be happy to reimburse me, if I return to the store with a receipt. I slam down the phone. It’s no longer about the cat litter, it’s about the principle, and you have to pay interest first.

Scooter gazes up at me questioningly, and I yearn to squeeze her tail. While stoking her sway back, I apologize and attempt to explain about the missing litter. If the bagger had not packed my Fruit Loops it would have been acceptable, but my cat is innocent.

After obtaining my claw hammer from the basement, I get in the car and drive back to the supermarket. Looking through the window while parking, I can see my favorite employee is still working. Is this fate or karma? Who the fuck would work at a place called Piggly Wiggly anyway?

The bagger has red hair, and it will be a darker shade of that color soon. Both of my sisters had red hair, and that’s why I’m glad they weren’t around when I was growing up. They are half sisters, from my fathers first marriage, and they were grown and on their own before I was born. My father is on his fifth marriage, the previous four wives are dead. One of my sisters is dead, which makes her easy to locate. The other sister is in California, and someday I will find her.

Red hair on humans is an aberration of nature. Baboons have a red ass, and so do Irishmen, proving that opposable thumbs do not necessarily make us better.

While waiting for the bagger to get off work, I wander the aisles of the store, and pick up a roll of duct tape. You can use duct tape to repair your car, or to fix life’s problems. Justice is not that hard to come by, unless you live in Alabama.

When I rub my fingers along the vegetables in the produce section, the celery feels like the varicose veins in the backs of my legs.

I grab a box of garbage bags off the shelf, making sure they are the heavy duty brand. The box holds ten, which is probably more than I will need, but it’s good to be prepared. This may be my opportunity to earn another merit badge.

Putting another bag of litter in my cart, I make sure its fresh scent. Scooter is sensitive about odors.

I open a bag of chocolate chip cookies, and begin munching on them while pushing the cart. Sometimes, I like to show off my coordination. Eating the cookies is not stealing, it’s a way to momentarily satisfy my hunger. If a lion snaps off your arm and devours it, is that stealing? No, the lion is hungry.

My face is reflected back at me from the glass door of the freezer section. I look just like Richard Simmons without the hair, and this depresses me, but not to the point of suicide. Tossing the rest of the cookies into the freezer, I make my way to the front of the store. My hunger has turned to other things.

Checking out at the same cashier as before, my eyes remain fixated on the young bagger. This time he puts my litter in my cart where it belongs. I forgive him for his earlier transgression, but I’m already out of the house, and the mission must be completed.

In the parking lot, I wait patiently in my car until I see the red headed fellow coming my way. I suddenly feel the urge to dance. The bagger’s work is done, and now its hammer time.

My car is small, but it has a spacious trunk, and during the drive home the moans echoing from it mix well with the Jackie Wilson song playing on the radio. This was one of my favorite tunes, but today it sounds really special. It was probably digitally recorded.

Arriving home, I enter the house through the cellar door. Mary respects my privacy, and I respect my wife.

After taking the groceries upstairs, I start four large pots of meat boiling on the stove. It makes the kitchen smell just like Haiti. The meat makes its own gravy, and this should be enough to feed Scooter for several months.

Placing some of the meat in her bowl, I watch carefully as Scooter sniffs and samples. She likes it, but later she will have gas, it’s not her usual brand.

I would like to taste the concoction myself, but most pet food is not fit for human consumption. There’s a large freezer in my cellar where I will store the excess meat.

For some reason this day has left me exhausted, so upon completion of this journal entry, it’s off to bed for me.