Express Morality

Johnson was one of those holier-than-thou guys who never seemed to do anything wrong.  He was always at work on time, early even.  He went to church every Sunday, had his car checked up exactly on the mileage trigger, never swore, ate healthy foods, didn’t drink, didn’t cheat on his taxes, drove the speed limit, paid his bills on time, and never looked lustfully at a woman other than his wife.  He was a marble man.  No imperfections.  Which is why the incident in the grocery store was so unusual.

Johnson was on his way home from work and decided to stop briefly in the local Stop ‘N Shop to pick up a few items for the house.  He grabbed a couple of cartons of milk, one whole and one skim, a box of Ronzoni linguini, a jar of marinara sauce, a loaf of Pepperidge Farm swirl rye, a bottle of Heinz ketchup, a roll of paper towels, a bag of pretzels, a package of Land-O-Lakes butter, and two cantaloupes.

It was a Thursday night around six o’clock and the store was especially crowded.  The weather forecast called for a heavy snowfall starting overnight and it seemed like the whole town was out stocking up on supplies.  It had been a harsh winter.  Already the town had had over fifty inches of snow, about three times the normal amount.  Everyone was fed up with the winter, but spring was still more than two months away.

Johnson knew that his wife would have the dinner on the table at precisely six-thirty; it was, after all, what he had demanded.  He claimed that earlier than that, even just ten minutes or so, he wasn’t really hungry.  And if the dinner was served ten minutes late, at six-forty, he would be starving.  He was very particular.

A quick trip to the grocery store like this one would ordinarily only take a few minutes and he’d be home with plenty of time to spare before the family sat down to eat.  Except with the crowd in the store, Johnson was finding it harder than usual to negotiate the aisles.  There were carts everywhere and some had those large red plastic toy cars attached to the front to keep small children entertained while their parents shopped. With two of those in the aisle, Johnson found it was like trying to get around a pair of tracker trailers on a congested highway.

Eventually Johnson got all his stuff and headed for the checkout.  Unfortunately, there he found long lines snaking back from the registers, some even reaching into the aisles themselves.  This was frustrating and Johnson was annoyed.  So rather than get on one of the regular lines, he headed for the express checkout on the far right.  It had a long line too, but since everyone in that line had a maximum of only ten items, he knew it was the fastest way to get out of the store.

Johnson got behind an older woman who looked like she was stockpiling provisions for her cat.  She had a number of cans of wet cat food and a medium sized bag of kitty litter.  She’d be quick, he thought.  The couple ahead of her had only four items.  And the guy ahead of them had only one.  This would be a breeze.  And no sooner had Johnson wheeled his cart onto the end of the line, but several other shoppers got right behind him.  Then a couple more got on the express line.  And then quickly one or two more.  He had lucked out.

Johnson was often critical of the express checkout line because every once in a while you’d catch someone with more than the permissible ten items and the register clerk wouldn’t say anything.  This drove him nuts.  Sometimes the guy, it was usually a guy but not necessarily, would have, like, twelve or thirteen items.  It was so obvious.  But none of the workers or mangers would say anything.  What was the purpose of an express line limit of ten items if no one enforced it?

As Johnson was again thinking these thoughts, he began to go over his cart, to make sure he didn’t forget anything.  It was then that he realized he had eleven items in his cart.  Johnson could feel a crimson warmth rise in his cheeks.  He counted again to be certain and sure enough he had eleven.  

In a half fog, Johnson thought that if he had put the two cantaloupes in one of those plastic bags hanging in the fresh produce section they’d only count as one item and he’d be at the limit.  Unfortunately, there was no time to get one now.  But really, he thought, his two cantaloupes were the same thing as two cantaloupes in a plastic bag.  Just like six cans of soda linked by plastic only count as one in the express lane.  So, Johnson reasoned maybe technically he was in the wrong, but morally he was in the clear.   However, a not so small voice in his head was telling him he was cheating.  And he knew it.

While Johnson was thinking about this, the line had moved forward and the end of the conveyor belt was free for his items.  Still Johnson hesitated.  He didn’t want to be called out for violating the express line.

“Hey, buddy,” said a burly guy behind Johnson.  Johnson tensed.  “Are you going to put your stuff on the belt or what?” said the voice. “Uh, yeah,” replied Johnson, and he started picking the items out of his cart and putting them on the conveyor belt.  The cat lady was being checked out now.  But what was this, she was going to write a check.  A check!  Everything would stop while she filled out her check and the clerk cleared it.  His items would just be sitting there on the conveyor belt.  He'd be caught, Johnson thought, unless he did something.

So as he put his things on the now motionless belt, Johnson kept shuffling them around like con man playing a shell game.  This way, he figured, maybe no one would be able to count them.  He just had to keep them moving until it was his turn at the register and the clerk began swiping them past the barcode reader.

Johnson leaned over the conveyor belt to block the view of his items as much as he could, all the while still shifting them around.  Now the belt began to move and the clerk was picking Johnson’s items off the belt and swiping them.  Johnson grabbed a brown paper Stop 'N Shop bag and began stuffing things in every which way.  Normally Johnson liked his grocery bags to be neatly packed with no bulges anywhere.  Now he didn't care; he just needed to hide his crime.

Was anyone counting the items? Johnson worried as he packed another bag.  He moved faster.  He grabbed one of the cantaloupes and practically threw it into the half-empty bag.  Then he grabbed the second one.  As Johnson lifted the cantaloupe toward the bag it slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor.  Thud.  The cantaloupe split open. 

“Oh, said a passing manager, I’ll get you a new one.” 

“No," Johnson fairly shouted, "no.” 

“But you already paid for it,” said the manager. 

“That’s okay," said Johnson, "I don’t care.”  And then Johnson handed the clerk a fistful of bills, grabbed his bags, and headed for the door.

“Wait," said the clerk, “you forgot your change.”

But Johnson didn’t stop.  He didn’t even turn around.  He didn’t say anything.  He just slid past another customer as the automatic door opened and exited into the parking lot.  In his head, Johnson was thinking, well, see, it was just ten items after all.

City Guy In The 'Burbs

Episode Seven

I live in the suburbs now and have since the early 1980s.  During this period dinner time has been relatively sedate, with occasional intra-family quarrels and, for a period, teenage outbursts.  Now and then, when our girls lived at home, we discussed current events when something major was happening, but usually everyone in the family lined up on the same side of the issue and we directed our anger and dismay at the non-present opposition.  Basically, we convened, we ate, and we left, all in a span of roughly fifteen minutes.

This experience was a stark contrast to my early youth growing up in the city with my parents and two brothers.  Back then dinner time was an in-house version of Crossfire or the more testy confrontations of Firing Line.  That’s because we ate with the tv on, watching both the local and national news as a family.  This was possible because our apartment was so small (two bedrooms for five people) that the “dining area” was nothing more than a rectangular space that separated the kitchen (the stand up variety) from the living room.  So our tv stood within easy sight from the dining table, and we merely swiveled it around during dinner to watch the news.  This led, nightly, to a combustible situation.

It was the heyday of the radical ‘60s and ‘70s and the news was filled with reports on the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights and Black Power movements, the Women’s Lib movement, the Gay Pride movement, the Anti-nuke crowd, the hippies, the yippies, and other protesters and revolutionaries too numerous to recount.  As these stories flashed on the screen my father couldn’t contain himself.  Widely thought to be the model for Archie Bunker on the popular sitcom All In The Family, my father kept up a constant commentary, no, better to call it screed, on the thorniest issues of the day. 

Dad's barbs landed like hand grenades, setting off volatile reactions from my brothers and me.    We were in our college years then, our heads filling with liberal philosophies, and so, at the table, we leaned both figuratively and physically away from my father who would brook no compromise with his hardened principles and wouldn’t hesitate to slap one of us on the shoulder whenever he wanted us to appreciate what one of his favorite politicians (don’t ask me to name them) was saying.  My father wielded his fork like a dagger, gesticulating at the tv screen and bemoaning the sorry state of the world, neck veins swelling.  He then would stab a piece of meat on his plate and jam it into his mouth like adding an exclamation point. 

My mother had split allegiances of course, and sort of played the role of Switzerland, remaining neural for the most part and praying that World War III would not break out.  

Well, as Archie and Edith Bunker sang in the intro to each show, those were the days.

My Son the Smartass Car

On a visit to a used-car lot in search of an inexpensive second-hand car, David Crabtree found himself strangely attracted to a very old, 1928 Porter. When he got behind the wheel, the car talked to him though the car's radio - it informed him that it was the reincarnation of his mother. (From local.aaca.org/junior/starcars/mother, describing the sitcom My Mother The Car, which ran on NBC from September 1965 to September 1966.)

Oh, David isn’t my only son.  I have another son, although at times I think I’m going to disown him.  Because he’s just impossible.  He rolled off the assembly line with all the modern advantages.  You know, satellite monitoring system, automatic parking, anti-collision breaking, curve control, you name it.  But apparently that wasn’t good enough.  I don’t know, maybe he’s spoiled.  He’s just so mischievous.  And he can’t he can’t keep his trap shut.

Why the other day Mr. Frederick, his owner, was all dressed up going to work and before they even got out of the driveway my son said to Mr. Frederick through the voice activation system, “Who buys your ties, your mother?”  Then he said something about Mr. Frederick’s suit being really sharp, if you liked the nineteen thirties.  How embarrassing!

Now Mr. Frederick is not the spiffiest dresser, but that’s just being obnoxious.  If I've told him once, I’ve told him a million times that he should remain quiet, except when he’s called on for driving directions.  Then he should simply enunciate the route in a clear and confident voice and leave it at that.  Why he has a wonderful guidance system.  It’s the best in class.  But no, he’s got to be a wiseacre.  One time he nearly caused poor Mr. Frederick to have an accident.  The directions called for a turn onto another road at an approaching corner.  My dutiful son said calmly Left Turn in 50 feet.  Then, as Mr. Frederick was at the corner starting to turn, my son yelled NO, RIGHT TURN, RIGHT TURN!!!  Mr. Frederick swerved and almost ran right into a tree.  It’s not the way we raised him.

What’s more, last week Mrs. Frederick was driving a group if her friends to the flower show at the convention center.  Oh, this is terrible.  Mrs. Frederick is very proper, you know.  She runs several of the community activities at the church.  Anyway, whenever her neighbor Marge, who’s quite a bit overweight, would say something, my son would make a loud, flatulence sound.  I could just die.  Why does he do these things?  Is he ever going to grow up?

And when the Frederick’s children drive he’s merciless.  Sarah, their youngest, is sixteen and that can be an awkward time for girls.  She’s a new driver and I’m sure she’s trying real hard to be careful.  While she’s are on a heavily trafficked main road my son will move her seat back and forth and make it recline as far as it will go.  Or, from the lower heating vents, he’ll suddenly shoot hot air up Sarah’s dress causing her to flinch or take her hand of the steering wheel to push her dress down.  It’s dangerous.  And when I tell him that he just smirks or will mock what I say in a singsong voice.  Really I could kill him.

Of course, if Jonathan is driving he doesn’t try to pull that stuff.  Jonathan is twenty.  But my son can be just as irritating.  I know because I hear the stories all the time.  Like if Jonathan is out on a date, my son will accelerate just enough when going into a curve to make him and his date lose their balance and practically fall over.  Or he’ll mess up Jonathan’s parking by hitting the curb again and again.  It’s a mother’s nightmare.

I think he’s being influenced by those muscle cars on the other side of town.  They are so juvenile.  They’re jacked way up in the air on those huge tires.  And they make enough noise to deafen anyone within a mile.  What's more, they think they own the road.  It drives me crazy to think that he hangs out with that group.  Have you seen them?  They have decals all over their bodies and don’t have a bit of class.  They get right up behind you, flash their high beams, and gun their engines.  Couldn’t they just run their vehicle diagnostic reports and show a little courtesy?

I’m considering counseling.  Lord knows this situation is beyond my abilities.  But where do I take him?  I've been trying to get through to the Car Talk guys Click and Clack on NPR, but I really think you need to know someone to reach them.  So, if you have any suggestions, I'm all ears.