The Shopping List

The guy in the car behind me is leaning on his horn. He wants the empty space next to me, but there's a car in front of mine so I can't move forward. If he'd back up, I could reverse and take the spot myself.

Trapped, I look at my rear view mirror and give a dramatic shrug. His horn stops. The car in front of me moves, and I finally pull forward.

Happy holidays to you too, I mumble to myself as I watch him yank his car into the slot.

I turn on the radio and continue my circuit around the block-long parking lot. The announcer sounds cheerful. "So tonight's going to be good for watching a movie with a blanket and a cup of hot chocolate, folks. The snow shouldn't get here until dark, so if you have any last minute places to go, you'll be okay until then."

I would really like to be at home right now with a blanket and a cup of cocoa instead of looking for the last parking space in this block-sized parking lot. Christmas Eve is not the time of the year I like to be out shopping.

Instead of turning down the next aisle, I head toward the perimeter rows, hoping most people would rather wait for the front spaces. The theme song for the evening talk show trumpets through the speaker as the news correspondent introduces the local police chief. They start chatting about the local drug scene, but I'm only half listening because a woman with three kids are heading towards a minivan down the row. The broadcast turns serious as the chief explains how drug dealers from other states are recruiting locally in anticipation of the upcoming legalization of marijuana. He notes that the trend in states where pot was legalized was for the illegal trade to grow exponentially.

The man's voice sounds sad to me. "It's especially concerning to us during the holiday season," he says. "A lot of people look for ways to earn extra cash, and these recruiters use that as incentive to develop a network. Sometimes it's not just pot they're selling. Meth is still a problem, and heroin. Worse yet, they want dealers who look and act like solid members of the community."

"So your next door neighbor could be selling drugs illegally?" the female host prompts.

"Well, hopefully you know if you're in a neighborhood where that kind of activity is prevalent. But you can't be too sure. The best thing to do is report any suspicious activity to the authorities."

The minivan finally backs out and I zoom in. If I hurry, I can still get home before the snow starts.

The inside of the store is dim. The aisles are crowded with extra merchandise and people with shopping carts. I'm blasted with Christmas music as I pick up a hand-held plastic basket. Experience has taught me that it's best to be mobile in situations like this.

I head to the cereal aisle first. Fortunately, there are only a handful of people in the row, and I'm able to get to my brand right away.

I throw a box into my basket, but as I turn to go, a cart with a screaming toddler blocks my path. I offer a small smile to the obviously frazzled mother, but she ignores me and continues on. Squeezing between a cart and it's elderly owner, I see the end of the aisle is momentarily clear. I'm striding towards the syrup when I see something on the floor.

It's a folded piece of paper. Curious, I pick it up. Black scrawls are lined up neatly to one side. "Somebody's shopping list," I mutter, and turn around to see who dropped it.

At the end of the aisle, a bright blue coat disappears around the corner.

"Hey, I think you dropped your list!" I call. Getting no response, I race down the aisle and look to the right, but there's no sign of the person in the blue coat.

A man and his wife are at the end of the next aisle. I'm in their way, but I stand there and peer down the row anyway. They glare at me until I move aside, and I wonder if I should just go get my stuff and throw the list away. Does it really matter if I find the owner? They probably wouldn't be grateful. It's my luck to spend an hour looking for them and then discover they were done shopping and hadn't needed it.

I glance at the paper. The script is small and cramped, and the list fills the page. It's a lot of stuff to remember. Having no ability to recall more than five things at a time, I'd be screwed if I lost a list this long. And the writing looks kind of like my grandmother's. It probably belongs to an elder, someone whose memory is taxed worse than mine.

And it's Christmas.

My conscious tells me to find the list's owner. Renewed with determination, I turn down the next aisle.

A lot of people are buying juice and canned fruit, but I don't see anyone in a blue coat. I clear my throat. "Excuse me, did anyone here lose their shopping list?" I raise the paper above my head.

A couple of faces look up, but no one seems interested. I push on.

An employee in a blue smock is stocking cake mixes on the end shelves. The smock's color is almost exactly the shade of the coat I'd seen. Doubt fills my mind. Maybe the blue coat person isn't the owner. Maybe I'd seen an employee leaving the aisle.

A young man blocks my path with a cart full of meat packages. I stop and glance at the list again. Maybe I'm going about this all wrong. It stands to reason that the owner would remember some of the things on their list. I should look for the list's owner where this stuff is in the store.

Now, I really look at the piece of paper. The top is decorated with a hemp leaf motif. I know it's hemp because I recently bought a mug for a friend that I thought was decorated with Japanese maple leaves. I found out that the shapes of the two plants are very similar when my friend thought I'd given them a cannabis mug.

That's not something you easily forget.

The paper was probably from the new hemp store. On Saturdays, they hand out free goodies like shopping bags and post-its, which are decorated with hemp leaves exactly like what's on this list. I don't mind using the free stuff if it saves me from having to buy my own bags and post-its. So it doesn't surprise me to see an elderly person's shopping list on hemp paper.

The writing's difficult to read, but I figure out "milk" at the top. That's an easy one to remember, so it's a good place to start.

But no one in the dairy section is wearing a blue coat. A quick glance across a case of refrigerated hams shows me that no one's looking at the frozen corn, which is next on the list. Next up, a scrawl that looks like... munchies?

My definition of munchies is party mix with peanuts. But it could be anything from chips to candy. I screw up my mouth in frustration. "Munchies" were in just about every food aisle of the entire store!

I make haste to the chip aisle. It's packed with carts and people waiting to get to their favorite brands. I'm looking carefully now, because it suddenly occurs to me that the list owner might take off their coat and put it in their shopping cart. I accidentally bump into an elderly lady looking at the pretzels.

"Excuse me," I mumble.

"Oh, don't worry," she says, but she sounds a bit stressed. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

I stop, plastering a look of impatient tolerance on my face.

"Have you ever tried these?" she asks, holding up a bag of pretzel knots. "My grandsons are coming over for Christmas Eve and I'm not sure what they'd like to have. Are these good?"

Having two sons of my own who are not fond of pretzels, I point towards the cheese doodles close by. "My kids like those better," I advise. Then a thought occurs to me. "The knots are good for dipping in chocolate, though."

Her eyebrows pop up. "Oh, I never thought of that. Thank you!"

"You're welcome," I reply, slipping between the members of a family of five.

When I reach the end of the row, I look at the list again. This is taking forever. The owner has probably finished their food shopping by now, but I scan the items anyway. I see a strange word listed two thirds of the way down.

Suphedrine. Isn't that a controlled substance? I vaguely remember hearing something about it on the news. The stores were taking it off their shelves because people were buying huge quantities to make meth. I think it's supposed to be a decongestant.

But the pharmacy is clear across the store. I heave a mental sigh and decide to take a short cut through girl's clothing.

There's a long line for prescriptions when I get to the pharmacy. No one in the line is wearing a blue coat. "Did anyone here lose their shopping list?" I ask, and again wave the paper near my head. A couple of murmered "no"s, and one man shakes his head. I run a quick check through the cough and cold aisle, then turn and go past vitamins as a precaution.

But there's no one here who resembles the person I saw leaving the cereal aisle.

I'm getting hot, and the plastic basket with my cereal box feels like it weighs twenty pounds. I'm starting to question my motive for finding the owner. Am I doing this because I really want them to have their list back? Or is this just to make myself feel better?

The clock behind the pharmacist's counter shows I've already wasted fifteen minutes looking for the mysterious list owner. I could've been done with my shopping and on my way home by now, and so, too, the list owner could be on their way home. Without half the items they needed for Christmas dinner. Because I didn't get their list back to them.

Maybe it's not late. I look at the next item on the paper.

Pot.

Ohhhkaaaay then. No, I'm not going to be judgmental. But I know you can't get pot at this particular store.

Next on the list is...coke. I bite my lower lip and continue reading. "Liquor" and "syringes" finish the list.

Why didn't I see this before? Do drug dealers make shopping lists? I suppose their memories aren't any better than the rest of us, maybe even worse for having taken all those drugs. Now what do I do?

I'm not excited about meeting up with a drug dealer and giving them their list back. I should've just thrown it away when I found it. I don't intend to become part of illegal activities. Wouldn't that be like aiding a criminal?

Disgust is slowly creeping up on me. I stare at the piece of paper and shake my head. Is this what our community is coming to?

I should report this to the authorities. The manager should know who's coming here to buy groceries.

With a self-righteous nod, I set out for customer service.

A lady behind the desk listens while I explain the situation and show her the list. She calls the security guard over, and I go through the explanation a second time. He takes the list, thanks me, and tells me to go on my way. He'll take it from here.

It sounds like he doesn't care. I wonder if he'll do anything at all.

Doesn't he know about the drug problems in our community?

I'm frowning so hard that a young woman with wide eyes ducks out of my way as I leave the service area. I just stand there for a minute, watching harried cashiers run merchandise over electronic scanners with kids running amok amongst the shopping carts. Then I hear an announcement break through the piped Christmas music. "Attention shoppers. A shopping list was found in the cereal aisle. If you've lost your list, please come to customer service."

Ah ha! So they are taking it seriously! I feel a small, Grinch-like smile forming and put my head down. My curiosity is peaked. I want to see if the old lady in the blue coat is really a drug dealer.

A teenager on the bench next to the restroom puts her cell phone in her pocket and walks away. I quickly take her spot before someone else sees it. My box of cereal bangs against the side of the basket as I plop it by my feet.

I've already wasted nearly half an hour. What's it matter if I wait a few more minutes?

Customer service is a busy place, but I've got a good view of the people coming and going. For a few minutes, the security guard simply stands near the entrance and watches the activity. Then the lady behind the desk calls him over.

I watch as he talks to an elderly lady with a big hand bag. It's the woman I talked to in front of the pretzels. Why would someone that fragile carry such a heavy purse? I'd bet anything she has drug paraphernalia with her. Will the guard check it out?

No. She's smiling at him, holding out her hand. And he's handing her the list!

I huff, thinking it's obviously not the list owner. She's not even wearing a blue coat! Maybe the real owner sent somebody else to get it, someone he thought would appear innocent. Dare I find out? Isn't it my civic duty?

I stand up and accidentally kick my plastic basket into somebody's cart. "Sorry," I say to a young man as I run to get it. When I turn around, Pretzel Lady is leaving customer service.

I smile as I approach her. She has her shopping cart parked against the wall, and I see a bag of cheese doodles inside. "I see you decided not to get the pretzels," I say innocently.

She's flustered, fussing with the handbag as she puts it into the baby seat of the cart. "Yes...I mean, no, I didn't get the pretzels."

I try to look as friendly as I can. "Was that your list? I found it near the cereal. I was hoping it wasn't too late to return it."

Her eyes widen. "You found it?" Her shoulders drop. "I'm so relieved you turned it in."

I'll bet, I'm thinking, pondering how I'm going to get the guard to come over without her noticing.

"You don't know how hard I tried to remember everything I'd written down. I was sure I was going to forget something." She beamed. "My memory isn't what it used to be. The only things I could think of were the munchies for the grandkids and my decongestant. My nose won't let me forget that one," she divulges.

I nod. The guard isn’t paying attention to us, and I'm starting to wonder how a nice lady like her could be involved in drug dealing.

Oblivious to my response, she's looking at her list as she continues. "Oh, yes, I'll need the new pot to replace the one my daughter took. And my husband would've been very upset if I came home without his soda.” She looks straight at me. “He only drinks Coca Cola now, won't touch the other flavors. The doctor doesn't think it's good for him, but he drinks it anyway." She shakes her head. "Oh, and I forgot all about picking up the liquor on the way home. I can't make my pork glaze without rum."

The smile on my face is now genuine. I'm feeling relief, and a teensy bit ashamed of myself for thinking this nice grandmother was a drug dealer.

Then I remember the syringes. "Uh, should your husband be drinking Coke if he's diabetic?" I venture.

She gives me an odd look. "My husband's not diabetic. Whatever gave you that idea?"

Was I right after all?

"Oh, well," I shrug, staring at the bag of cheese doodles. "I saw you had syringes on the list. I know diabetics use them for insulin." I watch her carefully from the corner of my eye.

Her smile is suddenly patronizing. "Bless your heart! Those aren't for my husband, they're for the kittens. See?" She opens her handbag and turns it slightly in my direction.

I peer inside. On top of a wadded blue piece of fleece are three tiny kittens curled up in a ball. "Awwww!" I hear myself say.

"Their mother was hit by a car on the road in front of my house. I didn't know she had kittens until I heard them mewing under my porch. I couldn't let them die," she added, closing the bag. "So I went to the pet store and bought some kitty formula for them. The man at the cash register said they wouldn't have any baby bottles for a few days and to get some syringes to use in the meantime."

I'm so ashamed of myself I can hardly stand it. All I can do is tell her what a thoughtful person she is for going to so much trouble.

"Oh, it's no trouble, the grandkids will love helping me," she assures me. "But the kitties will need a home when they're old enough. My husband won't want three cats in the house." She looks at me slyly.

I leave the store half an hour later with my box of cereal and a few other groceries. I would've been out sooner, but I had to make a trip through the pet aisle to pick up a litter box, cat food, and a few toys that a kitten would like. Mrs. McElroy promised to bring me my new pet right around New Year's Eve, a time I definitely don't like going shopping.