Essays

Words have meanings, although not always the ones you want them to have at the time you use them, or hear them. I was reminded of this, just tonight, when I warily approached the cash register at my local supermarket. I say warily, because I am never sure whether my tally will jibe with the cashier’s, or, more correctly, the store’s computerized abacus. On more than one occasion, I have been told that my coupons were past date, outdated or they applied to figs, not dates. I have been informed that I misread the shelf label, advertising circular or the special offer. So I am more than a little suspicious when I finish my sojourn among the aisles, see my basket bursting with foodstuffs, and have a reckoning of 27¢. Yes, I am optimistic about all the specials, sales discounts and rebates, optimistic to the point of rationalizing rather than realizing. Costs, that is. Real costs. I see signs and I believe them. So I didn’t buy all twelve of one item; can’t I still have the discount for the measly, dented, torn and crushed one I scrounged from the rear, bottom shelf? Pleeeeeease?

Tonight, however, I avoided embarrassment at the last minute, though I still crept up the register, owing more to the fact my fly was down, the zipper being broken. Hunched over, no one could tell. (I covered this with, “I’m playing Quasimodo in the local production of Hunchback of Notre Dame, and I need to be in character as much as possible”.) As for my trying to avoid self-humiliation – again - I was perusing the specials in the flyer, when I walked past the HUGELY BIG LARGE SIGNAGE, LOUDLY WRITTEN IN BLACK INK ON WHITE PAPER: ALL DETERGENT $2.99. Now, while I am not a total imbecile – after all, nobody’s perfect – this time, I saw the sign. There it was it, an actual poster, proclaiming I could launder my lacy unmentionables for pennies on the load. All the detergents were a mere three bucks, minus a pence. I checked my person, making sure English was my first language, walked over to the sign, felt its crisp, sharp edges, was then told not to fondle the sign by the manager, and, having satisfied myself I was not - at least at that moment – being delusional, dove right in.

I spied the largest, heftiest most zaftig containers on the shelves, and heaved one after another into my cart. It was all I could do to push the darn thing, it was so overloaded with unscented freshness. In fact, I could barely squeeze in my weekly chocolate fix with almonds; I almost had to eat it right there in the candy aisle. Thank goodness for the quick-thinking employee who pitched me a hand basket for the candy bar.

As I made my way toward the inevitable humbling by a high school-aged neophyte who was bound to tell me my coupon for pickle relish was confined only to the synthetically-tinged green version, and not my favorite faux-red, I passed by two ladies, aged somewhere between 60 and 245. As I am walking with a cane these days – the result of flying down the refrigerated aisle, neck and neck with a local café owner, both of us of intent on grabbing the last of the two-for-one cheese specials, and my winning it, while spraining my ankle – I overheard Gertie, that was what her friend called her, telling anyone who would listen, “I always use Tide for the laundry, but All is good, too. Especially at that price!” I stopped, looked skyward and knew I had done it again. In my greed and lust for the ultimate bargain, I had not stopped to think that ALL® is a brand name of a name brand. Schmuck!

As I was obviously bound for the checkout, an expediter cheerily pointed me to an open register. I mumbled something about having forgotten my day-old, discounted, jelly-filled croissants, and headed back to the other end of the store. When I was near enough to the detergents’ aisle, I merely found an empty cart, and put into it all the non-ALL® I was buying, which amounted to the aforementioned chocolate, a tube of Brylcream – there’s a brand name you’ll never confuse with an adjective or pronoun – and a roll of toilet paper, which was very nicely hidden, thank you, by all the non-ALL®. (If you’re like me, and God forbid that’s true, you don’t like to advertise your purchase of toilet tissue. Everybody buys it, but why flaunt it, right?) So, then…

Like King Arthur’s bier being set in motion by the gentle zephyr of the fates, I gently propelled my overly-laden wheeled carrier toward its final resting place, which, at that moment, happened to be the rear end of a frozen food salesman, stocking his wares. I gracefully turned away, ignoring the expletive emanating from the waffle case, and eventually made my way home, sans humiliation. Words. You can have ‘em. As I drove home, I was reminded of another embarrassing moment, involving a word, a misunderstanding and a supermarket. That time, there was no hiding my shame, but at least it was confined to only two people, both friends.

Some years back, I was invited by my newly-married former assistant to visit him and his wife in a Washington, D.C. suburb of northern Virginia. I had no experience in that region, and, as this was before cell phones, I stopped at a payphone and called them, asking for specific directions. After telling him my current location, my friend said, “Take the first right, then left at the second light, at the giant food store.” Seemed simple enough at the time. I mean, how many really big, huge food stores could there be in the vicinity? Turns out, none. I spent the next twenty or thirty minutes – time just sort of melds into the future, y’know? – searching for that darn, big food store. Finally, about three days later, I knew I was licked. I crawled to another payphone, and sheepishly told my former employee that the years had done nothing to improve my sense of navigation, and also, I had not seen a big food store. I knew I was in trouble his tone. “A what?!” I repeated that I had seen small convenience stores only. “No!”, he shouted into the receiver, “Not a big store, a Giant store!” Noting that I still failed to grasp the semantics of his rant, he finally explained. “It’s the name of the store, GIANT! Not a big store, a Giant store.” Who’s on first?

This explanation, while thoroughly lucid and helpful, still did not mitigate my navigational conundrum, ‘cause the next thing he told me was just as confusing: “OK, you see it right, the Giant store?” I said I did, and what should I do next? “Take the key bridge, then go…” Key bridge? Aren’t they all important, I thought. Why is one key? Here’s the thing: I’m from New Jersey, a place where, when you ask for directions, you’re more likely than not, to have two fat Italians, or Jews, or Poles or the denizens of whatever ethnic neighborhood you happen to have wrongly invaded, start arguing the merits of this highway over that route, and whether right and left are the same difference. (They don’t have to be fat, but I always seem to find Sopranos look-alikes.)

This time, though, I outsmarted my friend. I did not call him, sniveling about which bridge was more vital, and how could I tell? I did the only reasonable and logical thing: I stopped at a fire station, where a barbecue was in progress. I calmly walked to the to the big, red engine, atop which sat a girl in a bikini, gnawing a drumstick, and asked where the key bridge was. She said she was only visiting, and had no clue. I stood there a while after she answered, thinking, how often does this opportunity come along, bikini-clad girl and food, all in one place? After about three or minutes, a firefighter approached, and asked if I wanted to eat. Not wishing to offend, I said sure, why not. It was a community cook-out, and, as everyone knows, free food tastes better. Of course, there is always some cost, no matter how trivial, even if it is not financial in form. “I just moved in to the area, just a couple days ago,” I lied, when asked where I lived. I felt it was not good form to be truthful when so much good, fresh food was stake. I felt compelled to do my part. Truth was, I had driven around the neighborhood so often in such a short span of time, I knew most of the street names by heart, and which homes were for sale.

When I had sated my need for barbecue sauce and slaw, I asked a fireman about this important bridge, this key bridge. “Which one?” he asked. Thinking quickly, I blurted out that I was heading south to northern Virginia, hoping that would put my request into perspective. Seems there are two Key bridges, named after that poet laureate of the War of 1812, Francis Scoot Key! He replied that, given my then-current location, either or both would be suitable. That did it. I discarded my chicken bones and plastic utensils, and made a mad dash for the closest pay phone. I confessed to my friend that I needed things spelled out, literally. Fine, he said, and offered to come to me and have me follow him home. I demurred, and asked to try one more – last? – time. I finally arrived, emotionally scarred, but otherwise unscathed. Just to put things into perspective, you should know that for years, I have driven all over this country, and think nothing of making a two-thousand mile drive on the spur of the moment. However, being invited to ‘pop over’ to a friend’s home for Sunday brunch only a couple of blocks away, strikes fear into my soul unlike anything else. Navigating little streets and byways is in no way anything like taking to the open road and plying Interstate-40 from coast to coast. (Hey, I use Mapquest just to find my bathroom!)

Anyway, all that’s behind me now. My friend and former assistant, and his growing family, now live in San Francisco, a city I love, but loathe to drive about. As for me, well, suffice it to say, I pay more attention to words these days. Being a writer is one reason, but also, I do not want to risk offending anyone. Like last weekend, when I was visiting a friend who lives at the shore, right on the beach. Beautiful place. I was up early on Sunday, cup of steaming tea in hand, admiring the waves coming in. Peaceful, tranquil, calm. What better way to catch one’s breath? As I stood there, at the big bay window, I heard her scurrying about, stripping beds and readying laundry. At one point she inquired, “Have you seen the tide?” With somewhat smug satisfaction, I said I was looking at it right that very moment. She sidled up next to me, an armful of linens almost concealing her face. “Where?” She asked, from beneath the mountain of cotton percales. I pointed to the waves, coming in, almost close enough to dip a toe into. She became vexed, mostly at me, but I also suspect somewhat at Mother Nature, for the calming effect the undulating waters were having on me. “That’s not funny,” she tartly replied, and resumed cleaning. She knows how domestic I am, and appreciates my willingness to always pitch in with any task. Thus, she again asked about the tide, and this time is hit me: “No, I haven’t seen the Tide®”. But I have seen All® on sale.