I’m standing in the bread and soda aisle. It’s Friday evening and the mayor has warned us to get ready. I am far from alone. Ahead of me is a young woman loaded up on beer and what appears to be the ingredients for margaritas. Behind me is another young woman with botanica candles and chips. I’ve burdened myself with a bag of apples, a loaf of bread, small jar of peanut butter, and the components of beef stew.
My plan for the weekend was to get up Saturday and stroll through the thrift furniture and antique shops of Park Slop and Boerum Hill in search of a bench or table or chair. Anything that is the appropriate mix of rustic and charming and cheap that will look rustic and charming but not cheap in the corner or by the door or under the window.
But since Irene is on her way and the MTA is shutting down at noon on Saturday, it looks like I’ll be spending the weekend indoors.
So, on Friday evening, I’m in the Associated Market along with the rest of my neighborhood. Buying enough non-perishables to make it through a day or two or however long these things last.
The grocery is full. Much fuller than I’ve ever seen it. Certainly fuller than I expected. The baskets and carts all taken, I am glad that I have my canvas shopping bag. Every time I drop an item in the bag I wonder if I’ll be accused of shoplifting. I try to do it with an air of ease that suggests I don’t care if anyone sees me, but just aloof enough that asks ‘I don’t think I’m shoplifting so why do you?’ In goes a bag of potatoes as I look the other way and study the cantaloupe display. The bananas all look picked over, so I pass them by. The yucca and plantains are a mystery to me so they too get left behind. A can of tuna fish goes in the bag. The mayonnaise is left behind.
My mind wanders to a near future that has me passing the days in jail waiting for a court to convene so I can clear any charges the store might level against me.
I’m surprised at how civil everyone is. Maybe not surprised, but pleased. ‘Excuse me’ and ‘can you reach?’ My neighborhood is largely Caribbean, and the mixes of English, French, and Spanish create not a cacophony but a gentle rocking. I imagine they all possess a calm from experiencing this before. Not here in Brooklyn, but in the islands. The other islands. Hopefully the gentle rocking their voices create will be the same as Irene’s.
I consult my stew list. It includes marjoram. Which I’m having trouble finding. I think it’s a spice, but can’t locate it on any of the spice racks. The store has three spice sections. The regular spices, the Creole spices, and the Goya brands. No marjoram. I make a mental note to research it online before excluding it from the recipe.
I think about buying a package of lunch meat. I decide against that and grab a can of peanuts. I bypass the yogurt and search for some hummus. Not wanting to be a cliché I skip the hummus and put a small jar of peanut butter in the “not shoplifting” bag. I’ve decided to be a different type of cliché.
And then I pick an aisle to wait in. The six cashiers scanning methodically, and the store becomes six long lines of pleasantly shopping survivalists.
Luckily I’m in the bread aisle, so I pick up a loaf. Under normal shopping conditions I would search the labels of several loaves of bread looking for the highest fiber content. I’m nearly 40, so fiber content is important. This time I’ve apparently found the final loaf of whole wheat in the store. It sits amongst a shelf of hot dog buns and raisin bagels. In the bag it goes.
And I wait. Behind the party girl, ahead of the candle girl. We make casual jokes as we stare down a display of Keebler cookies. Party girl grabs a six-pack of Magic Hat. Candle girl explains her candle choices. “They were the biggest. I don’t know who the saints are.” She has recently moved from Los Angeles and was amused by our earthquake and now concerned about Irene. I tell her that it will probably be just a lot of rain and maybe a few days without electricity. I’m from Ohio, what do I know? Tornados last a few quick devastating minutes and then the sun shines again.
But here I am at the Associated with a heavy shopping bag on my shoulder, one gallon of spring water in hand, trying to resist a box of Cheez-its. If I had landed in the women’s hygiene aisle I would have less to tempt me.
A woman with a shopping cart overflowing with juice boxes squeezes by. Candle girl and I make eye contact. “How long do you think she’s planning for?” I ask. Party girl is on her phone asking someone if they need Bloody Mary mix.
Finally I get to the register. I make small talk with the cashier and bagger, asking if they’ve seen anything unexpected. “A few things I didn’t know we sell” the cashier says. She doesn’t elaborate. I wish them well and head home to wait.
