Costco Cowboy

Costco Cowboy

“This town ain’t big enough for the both of us, pardner,” Jeremy announces with all the authority he can muster..

“This isn’t a town,” responds Shelby, his babysitter. She’s glaring at the three-pound bag of Kirkland in-shell pistachios she has under one arm, her eyebrows pinched together. “This is a Costco.”

It is, indeed, a Costco–– but it is so much more than that. It is wild, untamed terrains, vast deserts of deals, plateaus of palettes, and valleys of bountiful bargains, and Jeremy–– his Party City cowboy hat sitting snugly on his head, his Little Tykes plastic pistol gripped tight in one sweaty, ravioli-fist–– is ready to conquer it all. 

Jeremy perches in his shopping cart steed, his head on a swivel, surveying the warehouse landscape for possible threats–– ruffians and treasure thieves and the unforgiving disasters that the natural landscape is wont to spawn. Shelby pushes Jeremy along, one hand gripping the handle, the other grasping a grocery list. She pauses frequently to add to Jeremy’s bounty–– oversized bags of coffee beans and plastic-wrapped paper towels in bulk piling around him. Jeremy feels as if Shelby is building a shelter that surrounds him, a sandcastle of toothbrushes and breakfast bars and family-size boxes of Cheerios. 

“There’s gold in them hills,” recites Jeremy reverently when Shelby deposits a box of Ferrero Rochers into his greedy mitts. 

“Yeah, okay,” allows Shelby.

She navigates the shopping cart down the aisles, nimbly weaving between other customers that turn to caricatures before Jeremy’s eyes: the tired-eyed woman cooking meatballs on a fun-size griddle becomes the saloon-keeper, the folds of her apron transforming into flowing skirts and sly smiles; the customer wailing about coupons and shouting obscenities about her expired deal on Oreos becomes the town crier, reporting inequalities to all who can hear; the employee stocking shelves becomes the sheriff hanging wanted posters, the law incarnate in all his name-tag-turned-sheriff-badge glory.

“Jeremy, I need you to get out of the cart,” Shelby says, a six-pack of La Croix in her hands. “I gotta put the La Croix in there.”

How dare you, thinks Jeremy, fire igniting within him, tracing paths of ire down each limb, turning his fingers to claws and his toes to talons. This is my homestead, my property, thinks Jeremy as he surveys his cart. From the highest peaks of the powdered lemonade to the frigid valleys of the frozen shrimp, all I can see, all I can touch, belongs to me. 

He turns his gaze to his challenger. She is ill-prepared for battle–– her red hair is loose, prime for the pulling, and her chest bears no armor, only a tee-shirt screen printed with the words Mesa High School Seniors 2018!

Jeremy, however, is ready to do battle. His throat is raw with anger and the imagined taste of moonshine, and his light-up Sketchers bear unreal spurs. Jeremy is a cowboy, an outlaw, and he has chased the ecstasy of revenge, of violence, for all of his six long years. 

“Put ‘em up,” Jeremy says, wielding his plastic pistol. “Put ‘em up or I swear I’ll shoot.”

Shelby rolls her eyes and swiftly, like he isn’t even worth breaking a sweat, grabs Jeremy by the armpits, lifts him from the cart, and places him gently on the concrete floor.

Jeremy is enraged. To have his invitation for a standoff scorned in such a way–– why, it doesn’t even bear thinking about. To express his undying rage, Jeremy kicks Shelby soundly in the calf. 

“Ow!” protests Shelby, hopping away in pain. “Why, you little––” she cuts herself off, composes herself, and then says, “If you don’t behave, I’m not giving you a fruit roll-up in the car.”

And now she’s really done it–– threatened Jeremy’s livelihood to ensure he behaves in the wicked way the wench wants. How barbaric. How downright unforgivable. How could she jeopardize his love–– his fruit roll-up–– in such a manner? How crass. How gauche. 

Jeremy seeks justice in the only place he knows to: he seeks out the law. While Shelby sifts through spiked seltzers, Jeremy slips away. He scurries over to the sheriff he saw earlier, the one he spotted hanging wanted posters. 

“Sheriff,” says Jeremy to the bored-looking service worker. “I must report a rogue to you. You have to arrest her. She stole my homestead, and now she’s coming for my fruit roll-ups.”

The sheriff has two eyebrow piercings and a silver stud through his lip, and he does not look inclined to aid Jeremy in any meaningful way. “What,” he says. 

Jeremy twists up his little mouth in a frown. Of course, the law is no help to him. Isn’t that just the way in the Wild West–– justice will have to be dispensed by Jeremy’s own hand. 

“There you are!” exclaims Shelby as she rounds the corner with the cart. “You can’t run away like that, Jeremy!”

Jeremy tries once more, clinging to faith––  “She’s the rogue! Arrest her!”

“I, um,” mumbles the sheriff. Jeremy can see flashes of silver where his braces peer out from between his teeth. “I don’t, like, have the authority to do that.”

“I’m his babysitter,” explains Shelby. She reaches down and grabs one of Jeremy’s ravioli hands. “His dad dozed off with the TV on and Jeremy here ended up watching too many Spaghetti Westerns last night, didn’t you, bud?”

Jeremy sticks his tongue out definitely in answer. 

“Why’s there spaghetti in the westerns?” asks the sheriff/service worker. 

“What? No, it’s… it’s a genre,” explains Shelby.

“Oh.”

“Anyway, so sorry to bother you, won’t happen again!” coos Shelby as she drags Jeremy and the cart away. When they’re safely a few aisles away, surrounded by craggy mountains of throw pillows, Shelby turns to Jeremy and hisses, “What did I say about behaving? You’re really putting your fruit roll-up in jeopardy here, buster.”

Jeremy’s blood roars in his veins, heating to an angry boil, but he keeps his mouth shut. 

“You want your fruit roll-up, don’t you?”

Jeremy does want his fruit roll-up. He wants it very badly. He nods. 

“Okay. Then you’ll behave until we get to the car, and if you’re good, you’ll get the roll-up. Pretty sure it’s one of those Blue Raspberry ones.”

Oh, Blue Raspberry–– the height of luxury! Jeremy knows that Shelby has him in her clutches now.

Jeremy does behave as they finish their Costco run, helping Shelby grab sundries from the shelves and narry even distributing another righteous kick to the shin, but under the surface, Jeremy plots his revenge.