I realized that strange things happen in grocery stores and that these silly stories might well bring joy to others, and so I think from time to time, I’ll pen a Grocery Store Diary satire piece all in good fun, in the hopes that somewhere out there it sparks a smile.
This post is to dispel fresh rumors that I have developed an inappropriate relationship with the fish counter attendant at my local grocery store, which is simply not the case.
Point of fact, it is my daughter that is enjoying a much more intimate relationship with the lobsters that live at the fish counter than I have with the attendant. She’s gone so far as to name them and act surprised by subtle changes in their Sunday afternoon behaviors.
A few feet from the counter, she takes off ahead of our cart to be the first to greet them.
“Oh my, they’re sleeping today, mommy. They must have had a late night yesterday.”
“Maybe so,” I say as she points to the largest one named Larry, and I observe that she is far more connected to these crustaceans than I have ever been with the Sunday afternoon fishmonger.
Although, he nods when he sees me arrive. Often compliments my blouse or shoes. And we do inquire after each other’s families, of course. Him being the youngest of four brothers. And after all, these sorts of pleasantries are part of being polite, are they not?
After we’ve exchanged cordialities, I ask about the origins of several pieces of seafood in his display case. He often tugs on his apron as he answers in his best English. I tell him it’s alright to say it in Spanish if he can’t remember something.
True. There’s pointing, blushing, turning filets over, and then the careful process of selecting. As he often confides in me in a hushed tone about which fish he thinks is most worthy of purchase. This week it’s the salmon.
“Is this alright? He holds up the pinkest piece in the case.” So polite.
“That will work nicely, Juan.” And then he always acts surprised that I know his name, although I’ve said it many times before, and it’s written right there on his name tag.
He takes his time weighing the piece, while we discuss the weather and what’s happening this week. And when the filet is a bit over, he always offers to trim it.
But I tell him no worries. What’re a few ounces among grocery store friends?
We’ve grown accustomed to each other. Sunday supper, an easy transaction, yet with the masks, I’ve never seen his actual grin.
“Nex Sunday, miss?” He winks at my daughter.
“Absolutely. Thank you again, Juan.”
And he hands me my parcel. It’s such an innocent exchange. Transparent, all of it, really. You see, these fishy rumors are all lies.
© 2022 | K.Hartless