Living alone, widowed, with only a cat and 2 mute turtles to hear my voice… my mind occasionally goes to strange places. In times of kismet, I often think of my wife as a sort of Polynesian goddess… a goddess who, as she was in life, can be pleased or angered. Benevolent. Wrathful. More than occasionally, whimsical.
I hate grocery shopping. It still reminds me of shopping for Andrea. I still think of putting Newman’s pizzas or Triscuits or something to cheer her up in the cart. I really hate shopping at Safeway, particularly the run-down, too-small, bum Safeway by my house. And it was a Friday; not a good day for Safeway, but I did not want to go on an even worse day, Saturday. Wednesday, I will be picnicking at Lake Wenatchee – where Andrea’s ashes mix with the water. I wanted some stuff for the picnic. I wanted pop, and a rare can of Pringles for my sandwich. I only buy groceries that are on sale, and pop and Pringles were on sale. So against my better judgment, I waded through the full parking lot on a Friday afternoon.
Sale pop’s gone. Strike one. Chips aisle… now, they have 18 different flavors of Pringles these days, but the original flavor – the one everybody wants – always vanishes if they’re on sale. Aaaand they’re gone. Sonofabitch! My adult-onset Tourette’s is triggered, and words tumble from my mouth as I yank a gallon of milk from the cooler before an aged lady can begin a lengthy perusal of dairy. She’s heard these words before, I’m sure. I’m still quietly cursing as I stop to make a decision… do I shortcut through the frozen and get my few goddamn groceries to the jammed checkout aisles… or do I continue on to the bakery? I have a little bread, but Franz is on sale… the masochist on my shoulder urges me onward. Twenty feet later, I just happen to look to my left. There’s baked goods displayed in large, wicker-type baskets. French bread, and the like.
Wedged between some rolls of sourdough, gleaming like a beacon, is one red can of original Pringles.
Stunned, I look to my left and right, as one would do if they spied a fiver laying on the sidewalk. I gingerly reach into the basket, cautiously plucking it out as if were a firecracker that had failed to ignite. What the hell? Has the can been opened? Does it have a dent in it? Holey moley, it’s a pristine, virgin container of potato goodness.
What are the odds? It could’ve been a quart of 10-40, or a roll of toilet paper. Or, some ranch Pringles. BBQ, perhaps. But no, someone was somehow prompted to leave a can of original flavor Pringles behind, for me to find. Some other asshole could’ve gotten to it first, but no. The last can of original flavored Pringles in the store, and perhaps in the whole city of Arlington, was destined for me. “Statistical improbability” is a vast understatement. Divine intervention would be a more plausible explanation.
Glancing up towards the roof, and envisioning the sky beyond it, I put those potato chips in my cart and continue on. Smiling.
