Live and Let Shop

Perhaps it's part of my insomnia, or maybe my social anxiety, but I find it humanly impossible to shop for groceries before 2am. I can't stand to see busy aisles full of suburban moms weighing the nutritional value of the varying flavors of poptarts. My stomach turns at the idea of productive citizens who cut coupons and actually make a list of what they want to purchase. Methodical shoppers frighten me.

My people... I say, my people are the run down fathers who have worked a 12 hour day and have been sent out for formula because their crackwhore wives forgot to pick it up. My people are the young potheads who are raiding the chip aisle and carrying out 3lb tubs of potato salad. My people are the aimless drunks who can't fall asleep without that last case of Milwaukee's Best. My people are the exhausted boyfriends who have spent the past hour arguing with their girlfriends about the emasculating effects of having to purchase maxipads for her, and now stand mid-aisle asking themselves "is she on a heavy flow day, and what are these wings?" While the faces change, the people don't. Any late night grocery shopper knows these people, the various niches that make up the secret world of us. And, although we are all essentially strangers, there is an unspoken brotherhood among us. We know an outsider when we see one.

Tonight, or rather this morning, I was strolling through the lofty aisles of my local Piggly Wiggly, and I saw my typical comrades: maxipad-bitchboy, potato salad toker, and lush with bad taste in beer. We silently acknowledge each other with a yawn and a hollow stare, as per our LNS (Late Night Shoppers) code of etiquette. Then suddenly, She comes in. She is an early 30something in khakis and a lavender sweater set. Immediately She is recognized as an intruder, a flowbreaker, a far too upbeat assassin to our routine.

You can tell a lot about a person by what they have their in shopping basket, and frankly we late night shoppers don't buy cereals that lack marshmallows, meanwhile Hers had bran in the title. We don't go in the produce section for long periods of time, and if we do,it's merely to wander if someone else is on your aisle of interest (as a rule, we like to stay away from each other). She lingered and molested every granny smith they had before moving on to the red delicious.. Everyone noticed Her, and we didn't know what to make of Her. Sometimes we get new editions to the LNS crew, but their quirks are quickly revealed to us, i.e. young doctor guy who comes to shop after his 16th hour straight of doing something more important than most of us will ever do (yet he still has the good sense to buy Lucky Charms and not stick out), single mom with mini-van full of kids in the parking lot who is whipped enough by her own kids to fulfill their 3am fruit-roll up cravings, severely older men buying their hollow looking 17 year old girlfriends doritos and diet coke under the cover of night, and a lot of other easily identifiable freaks. So what was Her problem?

At first I think maybe She's just from out of town, just visiting and utilizing Her jet lag to buy some essentials. Then I realize She's wearing one of those godawful Palmetto tree necklaces that only locals wear. Scratch that idea. So maybe She's a nurse? They work late! No, She's dressed far too nicely and looks far too alive at this hour to be a nurse. I give up. I feel defeated; I can usually always pick out the grave malfunction that makes one a late night shopper. This Susie Homemaker in her sensible shoes has broken me...

I see Her head to the check out and while her branflakes, apples, low-fat milk, and other soccer mom groceries get scanned through I linger in the distance (as distant as the napkin/garbage aisle is anyway) and wonder. Could She really just be normal? And if so, what was She doing with us? As She paid, the security guard waved to her and said "Have a good one, Chelsea." (Chelsea? She's a Chelsea? What does a Chelsea do? What is wrong with the Chelsea?) So I proceeded to check out, and as She pushed her cart out to her Volvo (yeah I mildly eye-stalked her), I started grilling the security guard. "Chelsea's a regular, yes ma'am, a good girl that one..." This ancient old black man was talking slow and syrupy, not in the Southern way, more in the Biblical prophet way. And finally he said what I needed to hear to be at peace with "Chelsea" ..."...she's the best eck-zah-tic dancer they got at that there Diamonds Club" HA! She's a stripper! She is corrupt or marked in some way. She is the stripper houswife you see on such thought provoking programs as Sally Jessie. She is not normal! In fact, She is more bizarre than the rest of us because She hides her quirk so well. She's a misfit in sheep's clothing...All is right with the world.