A Meditation, In Two-Parts, on an Encounter at Trader Joe's

Part-One: My Thoughts Upon Encountering an Old Friend at Trader Joe's

Did somebody just call my name? That guy walking over to me looks exceptionally comfortable here. He carries himself with a sense of belonging that I’ve always imagined having myself. I'll probably never achieve it. I’m useless.

Why isn’t he carrying anything? No cart? No basket? Why do I always feel the need to shop while I’m here? Why can’t I just be? I have so much to learn from him.

He looks so much like… is that Itchy? From high school? Why is Itchy wearing a tie-dye shirt? And why does his tie-dye shirt have the Trader Joe’s logo on it? Does Itchy come here so often that he bought a shirt? Do people do that? I bet the shirt is well made and priced fairly. Of course I don’t buy Trader Joe’s apparel. I don’t do anything to truly express how much I love the things in my life that bring me joy. I’m a joyless person.

Why is Itchy wearing a nametag? And why does his nametag say “Isaac?” It, too, has the Trader Joe’s logo! Has Itchy elevated to such a degree of self-actualization that he's dressing entirely in Trader Joe’s? 

Nope. No. Okay. Itchy works here. 

We haven’t spoken since Itchy graduated nursing school. He chose an expedited program and finished in two years, during which time I barely saw him. I heard it was a particularly difficult period for him. Something must have gone terribly wrong. Do I remember hearing that his parent’s got divorced. Or did I hear that his father died? Shouldn’t I remember?

He thinks I’m judging him for having a graduate degree and being employed by a grocery store. The truth is, I’m jealous. Everybody knows I lack the interpersonal skills to ever get hired by Trader Joe’s. Itchy has always been so gifted.

He’s asking me why I’m shopping at this particular location. My reason is so boring. I really don’t want to think about it.

Itchy is proud of himself. He tells me that this job was the beginning of getting himself "back together." He shares some insights about what works for him and what doesn’t. These are things I learned many years ago, after a long period of my own suffering. Anxiety and depression are so often discussed openly now. But not when I first discovered mine. It was a nasty secret. I admit to him that I suspect I’m addicted in some way to being depressed. To escaping. To disappearing. He understands what I mean. I tell him that he looks good. He knows I mean it.

I so very badly want to ask Itchy where I can find tumeric. I expected to find it with the other spices, but for some reason I can’t. It’s possible Trader Joe's doesn't carry tumeric. Some locations carry items that others don’t. Is turmeric a universal kitchen item? Itchy would know. But I must wait to ask until he’s done telling me about his profound loneliness. 

Time for this conversation to end. I can find turmeric where groceries are sold by employees who I don't know. Also, my hummus flavored ice cream is melting. I don’t understand why this flavor of ice cream was developed, or how it can possibly taste good. But II'm eager to find out and I trust Trader Joe’s. I trust Itchy. I trust myself. 

Part-Two: An old Friend's Thoughts Upon Encountering Me at Trader Joe's

This is where I belong. This is where I’m needed. The aisles are wide and clean. The products are organized, but not neatly enough to intimidate the customer. Without me, customers might find the item they need. With me, they certainly will.

When my father left my mother, I forgot why I had worked so hard for my nursing degree. Probably, it was to feel normal. To one day have a home like the one where I grew up. Now, I suppose… Wait a second–

Is that Michael? From high school? His hair is not doing well. And he’s fat. As fuck. I feel quite sorry for him. Some judgement about his appearance might do him well.

He’s walking over to me. He needs turmeric. How do I know this? I couldn’t explain it to you. But when you spend as much time in Trader Joe’s as I do, you learn these things. 

I tell him about my journey. He tells me about his. I can’t remember the details. Something along the lines of how feeling sorry for himself gives him a perverted sense of superiority. God, he's unbearable. Fortunately, he ends the conversation. He didn’t say it outright, but I know it has something to do with hummus ice cream.

Great. Here comes Leo. The "manager," quote unquote. Michael would make a good manger. Not because he has especially evolved interpersonal skills (he doesn’t), but because he loves to feel like he’s in charge. Just like Leo does.

Case in point, here goes Leo– again– asking me take off my nametag.

I ask Leo where it says that only Trader Joe’s employees can wear Trader Joe’s nametags while in the store? He rolls his eyes. Fucking Leo. He still owes me money. Having this tiedye shirt made was not cheap. Leo claims that it was my decision and it has no bearing on the conversation we're presently having. I disagree. He promises to review my application for employment if I promise to leave the premises. 

I win. Again.

Outside, I help collect the wagons from the parking lot. I’m good at it. Much better than Alfonzo, who says he doesn’t like being called Fonz but I don’t believe him. Fonz doesn't mind the help. We're a good team.

It’s chilly out tonight. Fall is coming. Shorter days and longer nights. Before I know it, it’ll be Winter and the very thought of another season alone, in my apartment, without a plan, fills me with dread.

I remind myself to stick to the plan. It isn't Winter yet, and Trader Joe’s doesn't close for another 45-minutes. So, for now, I will collect the wagons.