striking the match

I don’t care for grocery stores. Crowds of list-driven shoppers stress me out, and the plastic shopping cart handles are slick with germs. Plus, my first trip to a Boston market resulted in confrontation. When I reached around a woman’s son for a cup of yogurt, she turned and shouted, “Just tell us to move! You don’t gotta reach over us!” I rarely buy yogurt anymore.

Because I’m more or less alone in Boston, I’m spending Thanksgiving more or less alone. Grandma phoned me a few days ago. She’d ordered a “Dinner for Two” at the local Stop & Shop that would be ready for pickup on Wednesday afternoon. Sweet, generous Grandma, the woman who wants to get matching tattoos this December.

The Stop & Shop is located near Andrew Station where I wait 22 minutes for the 17 bus. The wind’s been frigid and suffocating, coming in hard and horizontal. Instead of reading on the bench, I stand huddled against the wall, my chin buried in my scarf.

The store’s yellow lights are warm and inviting, and after I jam my gloves into my bag, a security guard directs me to Deli for food pickup. The shoppers have full carts, carts brimming with spices and turkey and bread and beer. A dozen people wait at the Deli to be helped. I don’t make a move to the ticket machine. I don’t do anything. Just stare.

“Hon, you got a ticket?” asks the woman next to me. She’s got light brown eyes and a green headband keeps her curly hair from her face.

“Oh, no. No, I don’t.”

“Well take mine. I didn’t need it.” She smiles. “They’re at 181 now, so you’re next.”

My refusal to take the ticket doesn’t work, so I thank her, take the ticket, and wait.

When the man in an apron calls number 181 I give him my name. He returns with a green tote carrying turkey, mashed potatoes, butternut squash, and a pumpkin pie. We exchange smiles and he says “Happy Holidays.”

The checkout lines don’t call for much assessment: they’re all long, all crammed, and all backed up into isles of food, making the boxes of Kix impossible to reach. So I set my food at my feet and nudge it an inch or two every couple of minutes.

The time on my phone reads 5:36, and before I drop it into my purse, it buzzes with a text message from my sister. It’s a picture of us. The image is blurry, a cheap phone’s picture of a picture, but I can make out the two of us: me 5, K 2. The long half of my mullet us pulled into a ponytail, and K is wearing a white shirt with black sweats. Holding her tight, five-year-old me is giving K a big, sisterly kiss. The caption reads, “That’s us! Hahaha!”

My body suggests emotion not appropriate for grocery store lines: misty eyes, mouth pursed tight. I catch a glimpse of US Weekly and laugh at my own stupid sentimentality and slip the phone into my pocket. When I look up, the woman ahead of me waves me forward and says, “Come ahead of me.”

I thank her and tell her I’m happy to wait.

“Don’t worry a bit. You come right ahead. I’m waiting for my daughter anyway.”

She moves her flour, sugar, and celery to make room for my goods, and I’m through the checkout line in a blink.

I can’t attribute these women’s kindness to the holiday season. It would disregard the general character of a person. I think the women I encountered at the Stop & Shop are likely good, solid people. And I got lucky.

So thanks to these four ladies.