The Runaway Grocery Cart

“Often things you think are just beginning are coming to an end.” John Dos Passos

The day slid sideways for Marcel. Things ‘got away’ from him. Again. His horoscope warned, “Beware of moving objects.” The flashbacks returned. Something had happened to traumatize him.

Today he blamed the grocery list. And his wife. Blame has no boundaries with PTSD and agoraphobia. These fears feed in fertile fields…neurosis is a fact. Panic often gripped him.

Since ‘that day,’ the sight of wheels gave him the willies. Today it was a grocery cart with tiny wobbly wheels. The stalking horror of ‘the event’ was vivid in his memory. This was his first public appearance since ‘it happened.’ The past squeezed him in its vice.

His hands trembled as he maneuvered the cart down the aisles. “Idiots,” he muttered. “What boobs did the floor layout? I can’t find anything.” He cursed them while wandering aimlessly among the aisles. He was not alone.

Grocery shopping is not exactly a man’s sport. There were others, men with grim, lifeless faces. They appeared lost, disoriented like zombies. They wandered apathetically along the aisles, grabbing this, snatching that. Frenetic shoppers they were, frequently distracted by the free, left-over fragments of food---cheese, ham, melon---postponing the inevitable. Misery loves company. He felt at home.

There were also women, the wary shoppers, serious bargain seekers, decisive, focused, coupon-clippers and label readers. They had time. After all, shopping is innate in women. But not in men…get in and out, get it and go, don’t linger long.

He finished shopping and wheeled the wobbly cart to his car. He scoffed at his horoscope’s advice…but laughed too soon. “Damn, the trunk’s locked,” he said. He released the cart, reached into the car and popped it open.

He looked around, the cart had vanished. Huh? What? He gasped at what he saw…the cart was careening madly across the parking lot, gaining momentum, speeding towards some distant disaster. He sprinted, grabbed it, and jumped on the lower crossbar stabilizer, riding it, trying to stop it. No luck. His flip flops failed as brakes. It sped faster, vacillating wildly and uncontrollably across the lot. Then he saw her.

She was crossing the lot in a wheel chair, an elderly lady, in no hurry. Suddenly a flashback of ‘the traumatic event’ lit up his brain. It was that day on his inline skates, the day he felt invulnerable to the forces and physics of nature, macho, fearless, a day to push the envelope. He once read that no one had exceeded 50 mph on inline skates. He wanted to be the first.

The hill sloped twenty degrees, smooth pavement, traffic-free. He shoved off, crouched low, using the slipstream posture of racing bikers. Faster and faster he sped…20, 30, 40 read his hand-held speedometer. At 43 mph an ominous grinding emanated from the wheels. Smoke poured out. What’s this? he wondered. He soon found out.

He was functionally ignorant in physics, failing to comprehend the connection between gravity, friction, kinetic energy and the limitation of ball bearings. But now he knew…bearings fail when kinetic energy exceeds the bearing’s design capacity. The ER doctor explained this to him a few hours later.

And now here he was, captive on a runaway grocery cart. His future flashed before him…law suits, judgments, confiscation of all material benefits, possibly jail time. Or death. All because of a grocery list.

Ghosts of events past raced through his mind…the GPS-remote lawn mower experiment that ate the neighbor’s dog, the unfortunate insurance incident with the Lexus self-park gizmo. Things that got away from him, things he rode blindly into cataclysmic consequences. What was I thinking? Why does my reach always exceed my grasp? he wondered.

The cart sped furiously. Helpless spectators stood there, frozen in fear, gaping at the lunacy of the scene and anticipating the impending catastrophe.

No brakes, no steering. What could Marcel do? He screamed hysterically, “Move, Move.” Nothing moved. Not even the wheelchair. Marcel clutched the cart in hopeless resignation.

Split seconds before the disastrous conclusion, Marcel heard music…a concerto in B minor maybe, he couldn’t recall. Violin strings screeched maniacally, soaring higher, higher, suspended on the orgasmic crescendo of E8, the highest note possible, while horns announced the spectacle to the beat of kettle drums. Then abrupt silence. Cellos concluded the concert with a slow, mournful dirge.

It’s easy for things to get away from us sometimes. Which leads to an incontrovertible truth: we control little, if anything. So, buy the ticket, take the ride. Remember…grocery shopping is woman’s work!

Bud Hearn
June 17, 2013