Episode 16 - The Supermarket
Anders is crying.
His face remains composed, not a single twitch, but his eyes are shining. All around her people are sniffling, some even sobbing and making a scene, but it’s Anders who stands out.
They’ve hung a ribbon across the entrance, tied one end to a lamppost, the other to a garbage can. The mayor holds up the giant pair of scissors provided by the newly reformed civic association with a befuddled sort of grin, as though this part of the opening is a big surprise, as though all the flyers hadn’t specifically mentioned a ribbon cutting ceremony.
There’s a faint ripple throughout the crowd at the mere thought of having a mayor and ribbon they can afford to waste again. Faint laughter, smiles. More tears. The mayor goes on for a bit about values, and holding your loved ones close, whether they’re physically present or not.
Mia has heard this all before. So has Anders. His face still doesn’t change expression, and for a moment she wonders if it’s a trick of the light, but— no, he turns his head, away from the crowd, and he is most definitely crying.
She watches for a moment, then looks away.
It’s none of her business.
All around her, faint murmuring about the old days. She remembers them well, as they really weren’t all that long ago, that far-off, impossible time when a supermarket wouldn’t have drawn crowds, or speeches, or heavy use of generators due to occasional blackouts. There’d been debate about that— lots of back and forth over whether they should wait, whether they’re really ready to take the step of having a supermarket again. Impassioned speeches about reclaiming dignity, about how they deserve as much after all they’ve been through. They’ve earned it.
Flowery language aside, Mia does lean pro-supermarket. She can’t remember the last time she had graham crackers.
Before, when she would imagine she was somewhere else, anywhere else, it was a comfort of sorts to imagine herself in her old kitchen, surrounded by what would now be considered an overwhelming (perhaps even excessive) amount of cooking utensils and knickknacks. If she kept herself very still and very quiet, she could almost believe she was wandering across the linoleum floor, a hand reaching up to the cabinet over the microwave cart, retrieving some crackers. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, carefully opening the box but ripping into the little bag inside with less caution. Breaking one along its perforated lines, savoring it slowly, letting the flavor melt into her tongue before chewing. Enjoying it.
She doesn’t even like graham crackers. She never kept them in her apartment. It’s an entirely fabricated memory. She’s not quite sure where this particular craving comes from, maybe a forgotten memory of a doting grandmother. Maybe she’d had a couple before a great date or getting a promotion, back when that was her life. Doesn’t really matter. The details don’t concern her much. She just wants some fucking crackers.
It takes several fumbled attempts before the mayor manages to cut the ribbon, but the roar that emits from crowd would give an outsider the impression they’ve just witnessed the second coming of Christ. Mia can't judge, she’s applauding along with the rest of them.
Of course, she isn’t immune. It’s a supermarket.
Families with young children go first, by unspoken agreement. Mia hangs back and watches the crowd part dutifully, all eyes on the children's faces. Excitement, mostly, with some trepidation, from all ages. Mia thinks back to being young, to being promised a big, wonderful surprise and the anticipation growing so much that when the time finally came—
They disappear through the double glass doors (it occurs to Mia that the more authentic choice would be automatic sliding doors, but what can you do when your options are limited), their initial reactions impossible to see.
They're all moving forward now, and she's nervous. No reason to be— she's been through it all, she should be happy, but—
She glances back. Anders is staring straight ahead toward the crowd shuffling itself into an untidy but functional queue.
He'd held her, that night. They'd held each other. There hadn't been enough time to get to shelter— he was running, she was running, one pulled the other into the ditch—who pulled who? She wasn’t sure. Didn’t really matter. They'd barely known each other, but that didn't matter either.
He sees her, now. And after a moment passes, she realizes she's crying too.
They don't quite walk to each other. The crowd is flowing— she stands her ground, while he allows himself to be moved along until they're standing next to each other. Then he stops.
She hadn't known his name at the time. Hadn't even seen his face until after the blasts stopped and the all clear siren broke through the sudden silence.
They hadn't said much either, during or after. During had mainly been a cavalcade of Shit shit fuck and incoherent noises as they held onto each other for dear life in that damn ditch near the remnants of the movie theater, which several months before had become an impromptu hospital, before no longer existing at all.
After, they'd gotten to their feet slowly, haltingly. Hushed Are you all right?s, neither sure why they were whispering. Then, quickly, almost as an aside—
Mia.
Anders.
Funny, how you could pass someone on the street countless times without knowing their name.
They hadn't cried that night. Hadn't cried any time they ran into each other after, which was more and more common the fewer people there were. Always just a nod, maybe a hello. An occasional Holding up? The answer always another nod, no matter how bad things got, no matter how heavy the bombing got before the tanks came in, before the celebrations with an air of desperation about them, before the process of going back.
“Holding up?” Mia murmurs as he sidles next to her.
A nod. “You?”
A nod. Neither acknowledging the other’s tears. What’s the point?
“It’s nice,” he says after a moment. “Had a taste for Gouda for a while now.”
“They have Gouda?”
He shakes his head, shrugs. Smiles, almost. “Probably not. But they have to have something like it.”
They don’t say anything for a while. Mia realizes they aren’t the only ones hanging back. While most of the crowd has rushed in, others are taking their time, gazing warily. She half expects to walk in and find a mockery of a supermarket. Nearly-bare shelves, just a few items for exorbitant prices. A few half-assed attempts at ‘before’ to give the impression it never went away.
“I’m looking for graham crackers,” she finally says. “Never really liked them, but I want them now for some reason.”
“Think they’ll have them?”
Mia shrugs. “Probably not. But something close, probably.”
He thinks this over. “Maybe saltines.”
She nods, and they allow themselves to be moved forward by the crowd toward the entrance. It’s too bright; she can’t see inside, but she keeps walking.
Maybe they’ll have graham crackers. Maybe they’ll have saltines.
Not what she came for, but enough for now.
About the author
Michelle Drozdick is an NYC-based writer, performer, and comedian moonlighting as a human being. She is best known for her solo shows 'Message in a Bottle' (recommended by the New York Times, Time Out NY, etc.), 'The Gimmick and You', and 'Ducky'.