Caught Between a Rock and the Potato Cart

At Hannaford, we used to carry some generic multi-department products called Hannaford Inspirations. These ranged from hotdog buns to processed deli meat. Customers seemed to dig them. I never went out of my way to try them. Now, what was once the Inspiration line has been replaced and changed into the My Essentials brand. To my knowledge, My Essentials is distributed by the same entity that originally carried the Inspiration. It’s the same product. However, now under a different name, it can be marketed by the Delhaize Group, which owns Hannaford, but also a handful of other chain stores. I used to have a keychain with their lion logo on it. My manager gave it to me. It almost felt significant. Without the Hannaford name on these products, they can now be carried by the other stores owned by Delhaize. A good business move, I guess.

What does Essential signify to the buyer that differs from Inspiration? Essential implies the necessity of the item. In most cases, I believe that we as customers have the cognitive strength to see the product beyond the word juxtaposed on a clean, white background. But I think marketing really considers trying to get a foot in the door of the relationship we have between our body and our mind. Both negotiate what is essential with what is possible. From what I understand in my studies of literary theory, language not only dictates reality, but embodies it. Consuming food is essential. Seeing a product with the word Essential on it might shake up the nodes in our brain and build an association. But across the store, from the hot ovens in the bakery to the cold walls of produce, nobody really cares in this wasteland of apathy.

I’m happy for the new product. Not enough to buy it, but it takes the word Inspiration out of my time spent on the floor. Inspiration is a dirty word. I don’t use it lightly. It’s used to charm and destroy. The act of inspiring is beautiful; when one is able to tap through our membranes of indifference, anxiety, and the warm prejudices we wear to truly motivate another. But I feel it’s become something different in language. A stencil. An example. A drawing that book that encourages the young to trace the lines they can see through the paper. And settle.

The department is shifting this week. We have an associate leaving, an associate joining, and customers trying to find the perfect bag of limes to go with their Memorial Day Coronas. Standing beside the mess of our potato cart, I see it all. We’re falling behind the rush. The banana shrine is running down faster than we can fill it.

Here at the store, my past follows me. This statement is generic. The past follows all of us at all times. It’s nothing new to write about. It’s a shadow cast by the stance we take in the light of the present; what we see and what we let ourselves see, it’s almost an art. Like shadow puppets. But here in a grocery store, an essential establishment, I see the faces of old friends, coaches, and teachers. Some are more welcoming than others.

Pricing up some 5lb bags of California White Potatoes, my old guidance councilor approaches me. Our eyes meet and she calls out to me. She moves in close, really close. It’s as if she’s expecting me to hug her. I stand awkwardly and I smile. What face should I be wearing?

“Hey!” I say in an attempt to find the right pitch. My voice is loud, indifferent, and comes out with a mumble. I sound like a jackass. This is the individual who found the program I’m currently enrolled in for me. You’d think I would be more appreciative.

She begins asking about my semester, stringing together bits and pieces that she’s heard from my siblings. She says that I have an excellent GPA. I don’t tell her that it dropped. Among a few other things, my mind is on potatoes. Not college.

“Very nice,” she says to me, trying to cut through my stuttered words. “We have two students enrolling in the fall semester there. Now that we’ve seen what your program can do—”

Two. What this program can do? I tell her that it’s expensive. I tell her that it’s not for everyone. I tell her that it’s a very different environment for each student. I’m doing just the opposite of what I should be doing. I’m trying to turn her off of to the college.

“Well,” she says. “All roads lead to the same goal.”

All roads? Same goal? All bluntly evokes a sense that there are more than one and for the sake of this ‘same goal’ it throws a cloak of safety over everybody and their lives. Like they all have merit or something. Like they’re all capable of attaining this ‘same goal.’ But what is the ‘same goal?’ How can we see it? If all roads are leading to it, then we should just look to where a few of these roads are leading. But leading is different from being followed. The word projects its binary opposite. Not mislead, but ignored. We can’t trust all examples if we know some travelers are deliberately going the wrong way. At what point can we trust any story? Maybe there’s signs or symptoms to the mislead life. Like the hives of deception, or anybody with bad knee can be diagnosed with the unenlightened path. I’m thinking way too much about this. I mention loans. I always do. It’s like an embarrassment I can be proud of.

“You can’t measure it all in time and numbers.” I hate this phrase as soon as it leaves her mouth, but I know I’ll be quoting it later.

I talk briefly about the idea of going for a Masters, or even a PhD, but my words are unsure, or maybe just afraid. I once sat in her office and told her I wanted to be a writer, despite what my academics told of me. I wish I retained that certainty. She rewinds the conversation, as if the anxiety and tension were just the bad parts of a movie. We talk about the two students coming into the humanities up in Vermont. We talk about how helpful it can be for some to have the smaller environment and what it can cultivate. And, as my eavesdropping coworkers huddle beside our green bean display, she says, “You’re an inspiration.”

I think I’m going to be sick.

We exchange some goodbyes and I pull my crooked produce cart back into the freezer. I shiver a little while I throw some boxes of summer squash on top. The conversation is resonating like sugar crystals melting into a hot cup of coffee. Reflecting is the only way to taste if you’ve used enough. I think I’ve been drinking it black lately because I don’t trust anybody but Dunkin’ Donuts employees to put the right amount of sugar in. Especially not myself. Okay, maybe I do have a few issues.

I pass one of my coworkers on my way back out to the floor. He’s trimming bottoms off of some Romaine Lettuce, and then leaving it in some water to prep. The cold water opens the pores for the greens. Through this method they retain a level of hydration a few times a day. But we have to shave bits of the vegetation’s heart off every time we do it. Sometimes one will get too small and we simply have to cull it away.

Back on the floor, I zigzag around customers. I’m not a people person, and it leaves me caught by the potatoes again, waiting for a few carriage-pushers to finish what they’re doing. A man with dark hair that falls down to his shoulders is finding the eggplants a bit too interesting. And he has every right to. When caught, I’m too quick to anger. Even if it is just internal, it’s still anger. A potato that’s rotten on the inside is still rotten. And just like that, looking into the russet potatoes, I embrace the consequences of the path I took and walk on to the squash. Or at least I try to. Another man cuts me off.

When the Red Sea of customers parts for me, I sneak my cart up against the wall. It’s not a parking spot. I can’t stay there forever. So I hurry a little. The cardboard of the boxes are covered in wax. They can’t be disposed of with the regular recyclable cardboard. In a tug, no different from any I’ve ever made in the past, my knuckle is caught on a staple. I feel the skin peel off. It’s cold. The first moment of every cut has a bitter w chill until it bleeds.

I ruin a single piece of summer squash with my blood. Only one. Seeing the plasma cling to the hard, yellow surface is a little disturbing. It’s bad news to spill blood by fresh vegetables. It’s bad news to bleed in front of people. Embarrassed, I try to hurry and clean up.

I reach with my bleeding hand for a roll of paper towels left above a nearby flower display; courtesy of our one-person floral department. I frequently knock over her flowers and spill water out onto the floor. To be fair, they buckets were in my way. I’m trying to wrap it so I can walk back to our prep-room and snag a Band-Aid. My old guidance councilor walks by again. She’s holding a circular tub of something that she probably snagged from the deli wall. It looks like blue cheese. I think I’m allergic to blue cheese. She notices me again and looks a little disturbed. She asks if I had a little accident. It happens, I say. She holds the cheese up and says that she forgot all about it and walks off into the otherworldly path of aisle one. Something like this would happen. This isn’t the first time that she’s seen me bleed.

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Snowman

It’s snowing. No. Not snow. These are little death-crystals descending from the sky. They exist only to slash up my face. I’m seeking shelter in the health service office with a friend, trying to keep out of the storm.  A few days of sunlight and fair weather perverts the senses. Winter’s grasp is here still—tightening.

 

I take a small pamphlet from the wall beside the transparent bin filled with brightly colored condoms. The pamphlet is smaller than a playing card. Each picture and text box is a light shade of purple. The target audience doesn’t need to be questioned. The title fits clumsily on the purple, stating If someone in your life is hurting you… you are not alone. Buzz phrases like it’s not your fault spark images of a frail female caught in a violent situation. It’s easy to sympathize, but impossible to identify.

 

I flip through the first few pages, watching it break down abuse into three categories: Physical, Emotional, and Sexual. Can you break a person or a relationship into three categories? They’re too vague. Is there no physical or emotional investment in sexuality? Are there no physical or sexual stimuli to somebody’s emotional condition? And are there no emotional or sexual catalysts that determine our physical actions? They’re more like three primary colors of a relationship, not categories. Or maybe I just don’t get it, or can’t get it. I’m a man, I think, and this pamphlet isn’t for me. The affiliates tell all: WomanSafe, Woman Helping Battered Women, and Woman’s Crisis Center. Each one gives me a different story, a different horror that I’ll never know and understand.

 

I’m drinking a cup of Blueberry Coffee. It’s delicious, but I could get away with dumping some more sugar in. I pocket the pamphlet, taking it back to my room to dissect. I consider how much information I’ve already gone public with. I’m not out to ruin anyone’s character or compromise secrets. I save those in folders scattered throughout my computer

 

When the sun sets I turn back to the pamphlet when I should be taking notes on the final acts of Hamlet. I think I’m looking for an answer or something, but it isn’t here. Like literary theory, it only proposes questions, not answers.

 

Has your partner been physically abusive?

I take a black pen from my pocket and start circling different bullet points. Patterns. I enjoy patterns in books, patterns in writing, and patterns in art. Not life. I can sit in class and argue about Hamlet’s mother and how through her patterns of speech, we can see is being manipulated by Claudius. Claudius speaks through her the way Polonius speaks through Ophelia. These aren’t only fictional characters, but they’re not males. No, the role of the male in this pattern is the abuser—the disruption of harmony in their partner’s quest for self-actualization.

 

Has your partner been emotionally abusive?

 

I remember sitting on one of the flimsy tables in one of the classrooms, whispering secret screams. Guilt, maybe shame, held my words back.

“Society,” my listener responded. “Makes it more challenging for a male to identify an abusive situation.”

But that’s part of Masculine identity, right? The challenge—the conquest?

“We need to talk somewhere you feel comfortable crying.”

Crying. Cry. CRY. cry C-R-Y c. r. y.

Three letters that form a symbol. A pattern is a measurement, maybe an attempt, to comprehend the reaction of these symbols.

Cry: verb (used without object)

1. to utter inarticulate sounds, especially of lamentation, grief,or suffering, usually with tears

Where is cry in the pattern? Recurring.

“Man up,” she said. “Stop Crying.” Cry = An absence of Manhood?

Man doesn’t inherit the role of the tear-bearer. It challenges masculine identity.

Has your partner been sexually abusive?

 

I still continue to type out (maybe obsess over) the patterns. This, I considered, is writing for self. Nobody has to read what I have to say.  I isolate moments in the pattern, kissing them with the bitter twist of memoir.

“If you can’t give me what I want, I’ll get it somewhere else.” And she did.

What is the role of the insufficient man?

 

Man: –noun

1. an adult male person, as distinguished from a boy or a woman.

Oedipus provides the sphinx’s riddle with the answer ‘man.’ That which what he embodies becomes the answer. Can we solve our problems with who we are?

In Symphony of the Night, Count Dracula proposes the question of what is a ‘man?’ This prompts the protagonist to consider an answer that doesn’t humanize that which he sets out to destroy.

 

But the pattern writes back. I lie through my teeth. I haven’t been too busy to drink—too busy to think. No, this is writing against self. In the safety of public, I can write these musings on the pattern. But in the documents I find little messages from one self to another, reminding me that this descent is my fault.

 

If each of these categories is part of the same origin, somewhere in the muted pits of self, then when they’re damaged they probably each retract there. You can’t heal one by trying to satisfy the other. The answer, had there been one, is at the core.

 

 

I’ve told friends that abusive situations are more about the individual wrestling with themselves more so than the partner. With this, I’ve also stapled phrases about trusting each other with ourselves. If you try to wrestle your insecurities alone they will consume you. Our insecurities are many, in all of us, like white blood cells trying to protect the body from a risky contaminant. We need them, but we have to understand them. Or something.

 

Grace. Reconciliation. Peace. I won’t find these in a bottle of rum.

 

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