photo IMG_1630_zps3522fb86.jpg
A grocery store. A woman in a motorized shopping cart.

What’s that? (I can’t get this thing to turn. Why do I go shopping by myself. Why don’t I have children. Why is it that Agnes couldn’t walk ten minutes out of her way to meet me at the Harris Teeter to grab a basket full of groceries. I’m stuck. Fuck. God, get me out of this elevator and I’ll believe in you.)
Be careful, I’m right behind you.
What are you doing?
Selling wine.
Oh. (I don’t know why grocery stores have wine tastings. I have never enjoyed a bottle of wine I’ve purchased from the grocery store. You think someone in the marketing, or sales team would have gathered this ground breaking information by now and—)
Be careful! (I’m having a really big reaction to this.)
Just trying to back up—
You’re going to hit my table! (Who puts a motorized cart in an elevator?)
Sorry. (You’re shitty wine. Tragedy. Who are the producers of that wine. Barefeet? Barebond? I need my glasses. Where are my glasses? I can’t drive this cart out of the elevator.)
Excuse me, miss. (Just what my day needed. Stuck in an elevator because grandma Harley Davidson can’t operate a golf cart.) You’re making the elevator’s alarm sound.
Oh. (Fat pig. You demon fat pig. I’m handicapped. I’m in a fucking doggy cart trying to get groceries, and you have to be uppity with me?)
Hey, miss. Can I help you? (I’m such a good person.)
Oh. Yes, please. (He’s handsome.)
Allow me. (Fuck yeah.)
Can you drive this thing?
How hard can it be? (I’ll smash into that wine table, and nobody will care because I’m helping the needy. When you help the needy you can do get away with almost any social faux pas—She is needy, right? Shit, she might just be old).
Here you go, young man. Let me get my cane.
Yup. (An old woman; still counts)
Sir? (This has turned into a farce. I’m going to uppity the fuck out this little shit. Thinks he’s doing good by helping people? He’s breaking the elevator.) Can you move it out of the elevator, or not?
Give it a sec, lady. (Pig.)
It’s making the alarm sound.
I don’t hear it. (Is that what that blazing inferno of sound is clanging around my head?)
Hey, you got it moving! (He is handsome. And he put that pig in her pot. I don’t think I meant “pot.” I meant “pit.” Put that pig in her pit. I should introduce him to my granddaughter.)
Be careful of my wine! (It’s not my wine; I don’t know why I said that. I don’t even care; I just work here. I might actually prefer if you knocked them all down, and I can go home and have dinner with my boyfriend. Why won’t he move in with me already?)
There you go, miss.
Thank you very much, young man.
You’re welcome.
The alarm still isn’t stopping.
I can’t hear it.
Would anyone like to try some Barefoot wine?

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