Dearest Rachel –
There’s a passage in Piers Anthony’s On A Pale Horse in which Zane, the mortal who has inadvertently assumed the role of Death by killing his predecessor in the position, is summoned to meet with the woman who serves as the incarnation of Nature. To get to her, he is required to travel through three different paths; one under his own power (like walking), another via motorized transport, and a third on a hybrid of manual and mechanical power (like bicycling). On each path, he encounters – and nearly collides with – individuals using each of the other two means of transport, leading him to express annoyance (to put it mildly) at them for their carelessness. Only when he arrives at Nature’s home is he informed that she had effectively put him through a Moebius loop, and the supposed ‘idiots’ he had nearly run into were his other selves.
Such are the thoughts that went through my mind as Daniel and I made our way to the Costco across the street from church, as he was keen on collecting on a “rain check” from last week. Yes, he was in a mood for Costco pizza; I’m not sure if I should say ‘still’ or ‘again’ about this particular craving. But this meant that we would be required to deal with the masses of other folks who would take the opportunity afforded by the weekend and the weather to go shopping at the place; compared to most trips I take here, this was a madhouse to deal with.
Granted, compared to the walking I do for exercise, the trip from any space in the lot is nothing serious. But for whatever reason, I still want to get as close as I can to the store entrance as possible, regardless. Of course, this is an attitude I share with literally everyone else in a vehicle, meaning that I have to pass through aisle after aisle of vehicles, rather than settling on a spot on the other side of the perimeter road and walking a few extra paces.
While I’m driving, the shoppers who have already found spots and are filing into the store (or have completed their errands and are pouring out) come and go seemingly nonstop. If one were to stop at the crosswalk to wait for each pedestrian as they crossed, one would be sitting there waiting for hours; each shopper thinks that the fact that one of their fellows is already on the zebra stripes gives them license to proceed themselves (“what’s a few more seconds to this guy? He’s already stopped, after all, and he only weighs two or three tons to my hundred-and-fifty soaking wet”) in an interminable procession of back and forth. Likewise, as they find their aisle and make their way to their own car, they seem heedless of the fact that they’re being followed (whether deliberately – for a driver determined to ‘vulture’ their parking spot – or not, because the driver is just looking through the next aisle to hopefully find an opening somewhere), as they appear to wander through the middle of the aisle.
Of course, that’s the perspective of a driver. Add to this the frustration of escorting a friend through the crowded aisles; I passed up an empty space so she could park in it, only to have her appear to pass it up in turn. It turned out that she was only doing so in order to back into it, but by doing so, she basically signaled to the car behind her that she was uninterested in the spot. Naturally, the car behind her pulled in before she could do so, to her surprise and irritation. Such are the unwritten “rules of the ‘road’” when you’re in a parking lot.
Comparatively speaking, the store itself was a relatively tame adventure. Sure, there were passages that were three and four carts across – one wrong turn had me guiding the cart into an oncoming phalanx of three carts abreast before I could veer it aside where they could safely pass me (or vice versa) – and it was hard to maneuver without running into another shopper, but at least we were all evenly matched, in terms of size, and since it was in no one’s best interest to crash into each other, such collisions were scrupulously avoided by all.
The food court was a little more challenging, at least at first. We pulled our cart by a table and went to order our meal, but by the time we had done so, the table we had ‘reserved’ was occupied. Our fault, I suppose, for all three of us going to the kiosk to order. I left Daniel and Kerstin to await the order (his pizza, being a half-and-half order, had to be prepared specially – which at least guaranteed that it would be hot out of the oven) while I went to seek out and hold a table myself; by which time, the only table that was available was the furthest one out. It was a relatively good place for an agoraphobe (who wouldn’t be at Costco in the first place, but never mind), but mostly because it was right by the automotive department. The smell of new tires isn’t exactly conducive to a pleasant meal (although I suppose it would make the food sufficiently unpleasant as to be a bit of a diet aid. Then again, what’s ordered had been ordered already).
However, given the time required to freshly prepare Daniel’s meal, another table was freed up, and I quickly moved to claim it even before he and Kerstin could turn to find me. So we didn’t have that fragrance to deal with along with our meal, and everything turned out pretty well…
…until it was our turn to be the pedestrians, making our way back to the car, and dealing with an aisle that had cars both coming and going in either direction. Daniel was carrying the box with his leftovers (well, you didn’t expect him to finish an entire pizza on his own, even after having fasted since Friday night, did you?), while I was pushing the cart ahead of him and Kerstin, swerving to stay out of the way of both directions of vehicular traffic.
At one point, though, a bright yellow truck passed me rather close for comfort; too close, in fact. I hadn’t realized it, but Kerstin heard Daniel’s yelp as the back tire apparently rolled over his boot toe. He claimed not to have been badly hurt – once we got home, I convinced him to remove his sock, and he hadn’t seemed to even be bruised – but there were impact marks on the boot, and he did admit to having felt it. Kerstin confronted the driver – an elderly gentleman (however loosely that term might be applied) with a vacant expression that reminded me of someone famous – after he parked and got out of his car, and he offered a perfunctory “sorry” before turning his back on us and heading for the store.
The entire trip home, he kept expressing his shock as to how casually the guy took the incident, when he would be apologizing profusely were he in the older man’s situation. I’ll give him credit; as annoyed as he was for me when I was driving into the lot, he understands how he should behave in either case, whether as driver or pedestrian. Heck, I could imagine you slapping the truck as it passed by had it happened to you, like you used to if you stubbed your foot on a table or chair; he shows more restraint than either of us, honey.
And now that I’ve told you about that, I should probably ask that you keep your eye on him and wish him luck (and maybe healing, while you’re at it). He’s needing it more than me right now.
Letters to Rachel 