The Queer as Folk Grocery Store Challenge

The Greater Good
by Erin / On To Us - E

They met at seven thirty a.m. in aisle three of the 24-hour Giant Eagle off Gemma Road, the one that restocked its baked goods promptly at 6 a.m. each day. For a few moments, they huddled together like co-conspirators, assessing each other, looking for weak spots, strengths, hidden tricks. Finally, Brian spoke.

“I’m doing this alone today.”

A pair of fair eyebrows shot up. “What? Are you sure? Brian –”

“– It’s only been a month,” came a soft voice next Justin. “Do you really think you’re ready –”

For a brief, dark moment, Brian considered pushing the cart into a nearby pyramid of white-flesh peaches, grabbing a carton of orange juice and running off cackling into the dawn.

He sighed instead, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “Dry goods first, frozen shit last. Look at labels. Compare. Look for the tags. Red tags are good. Green tags are even better. Buy family-size when possible. And . . .” His voice tailed off.

“And . . .?” Daphne urged gently, waving her hand toward the Bosc pear display as if it held the answer.

“And . . . when in doubt, fuck Justin over the price scanner and hope enough lube drips on it to fuck up the price display?”

This helpful advice prompted Brian and Daphne to turn their attention to Justin, who looked from amused eyes to outraged ones with a perfectly innocent expression. “What? Daph, I was just testing him to see if he’s *really* ready.”

“You wanna see what I’m *really* ready for, Sunshine, come over here and put your hand *right* –”

“Look, as much as I usually love being a witness to hot man-sex, because, I, like, have no life of my own, I have a Tolstoy essay to finish sometime today. So cut it out, you two.” Daphne interposed herself into the two men’s line of vision, neatly disrupting the flow of eye-fucking. “The last thing you need to remember, Brian: When in doubt, peanut butter can be used for medicinal purposes. Now, are you positive you’re up to this?”

“I’ll be okay.” Brian nodded solemnly at the pair, and immediately felt like a tool. The whole scene seemed like something lifted out of a Ron Howard movie. It *wasn’t*  that serious. The secretive meetings, the coming to the place in the early morning, the fucking *guidelines*. It. Was. Just. Food. Stuff that would be eaten and disposed of, either mechanically or biologically, if not within the same day then within the same week.

But in another minute, Brian’s fit of pique dissipated. It wasn’t that serious, but it was important. To some people, and he wasn’t the only one “suffering” here; Daphne and Justin were putting in their time, too, wanting to *help,* so he had to give credit where it was due.

“All right, fine.” Daphne started to pat Brian’s shoulder, wisely thought better of it, and put her hand on Justin’s shoulder instead. “We’ll be at one of the checkout lines, waiting.”

“And this time of day, there’s only one exit, so don’t think you’ll be able to sneak past us.” Justin folded his arms, looking part-menacing and part up-and-coming pimp in a maroon, puffy jacket. “You’re not going through *any* door until you’ve passed us first. Good luck.”

Brian rolled his eyes, torn between giving a salute and the finger. He settled instead for a sardonic smile and a peck on the cheek for both, wheeled the cart around and took off.

He worked the rickety cart around a sagging display of Cheetos and harkened back to the beginning of his education. It had been a slow-moving Sunday a month or so ago, and he’d dragged himself out of Justin’s arms and stumbled into the kitchen, ravenous for a piece of toast. Unfortunately, there had been nothing in his cabinets except clean dishes, a small amount of dust and an unopened jar of apricot preserves.

That *should* have been where it ended, and had Brian known what he was letting himself in for, that’s where it *would* have ended. Sadly, his desire for crisp bread products overtook his brain and he’d gone back to bed, grousing to Justin about the lack of bread. Justin had been sympathetic, but not sympathetic enough to let Brian simply run to the gourmet mart three blocks down for perfectly toastable, fresh, vitamin-enriched  honey-oat bread – all for a mere eight dollars. And that’s when the most inane argument Brian had ever had, at least while naked, had ensued:
*Brian, forget it! You have to be more sensible now that you’re going to be on a fixed income –*
 
*Fuck you. You make it sound like they just minted my AARP card. All I want is a fucking loaf of bread.*
 
*Which you can get at the fucking grocery store, along with fucking butter, fucking eggs, fucking milk, and fucking cheese, all for less than what’d you pay for one loaf of bread at that place.*
 
*That place is five minutes away. The supermarket’s five miles away – by car – which neither of us have at the moment –*
 
That’s when Justin started smiling smugly, and Brian began to consider locking himself up in the bathroom for the next few days. He knew that smile. It was Justin’s plotting smile, Justin’s *I’ve got this covered* smile, Justin’s *What I have to say may or may not fuck you over, but I’ll make it all better later with that twist and stroke thing I’ve been working on* smile.
 
*Daph’s got a car, and she’s off today . . .*
 
Before Brian could protest, move, or feign narcolepsy, Justin had whipped out his cell and gotten Daphne, who’d apparently had no problems giving them a lift. After a shower in which Justin had found some interesting uses for the soap, Brian’s own issues with this excursion had disappeared, too, and he resigned himself to spending fifteen minutes with the Katzenjammer Kids and the screaming masses that filled the market on Sunday afternoons. Anything for a piece of goddamned toast.
 
Ah, but he’d been so, so wrong. The minute they all stepped into the supermarket, Brian had been lost. He’d made brief forays into Giant Eagle before, usually to pick up something for Gus that Lindsay insisted could only be found there, but post-firing, he’d done the majority of his shopping at farmer’s markets and specialty shops. It was just easier, more precise, and, the service at those places was as impeccable as the products. Brian had never felt the need to stray outside his cheesecloth-wrapped comfort zone, so Justin and Daphne, considering the market *their* turf, had taken over.
 
Their argument was that they had more recent experience being broke in this economy than did Brian, so they’d commandeered his shopping cart, steering him off his bread course and into the previously uncharted territory of frozen dinners, canned soups and double-coupon days. Daphne had been particularly despotic, quizzing Brian on his shopping habits like a Grand Inquisitor, her Gold Savers Card hanging around her neck like a laminated crucifix. It’d been a harrowing hour of studying food labels, comparing prices, and listening to Justin and Daphne carp about frozen orange juice and whether the term tuna fish was redundant.
 
When they’d gotten to the checkout, it became even more of a farce, as Daphne whipped out a calculator and tapped out to the last red cent what Brian would be paying if he’d not followed their advice and what he was going to be paying in actuality. The difference had been about thirty dollars, but Justin and Daphne had carried on as if they’d just hit Powerball. Brian watched them celebrate with a kind of aloof fondness, so intent on disassociating himself from their giddiness that he didn’t realize he’d forgotten to get that fucking *bread* until he returned home. So he ended up shelling out eight dollars anyway, because there was no way he was going to rest without that toast, even if it was nearly dinner time at that point.
 
The trip was declared a success, however, and ever since, they’d insisted on making it a weekly ordeal. Brian had demurred, but Justin had worn him down, pointing out that weekly trips would ensure that the larder was never bare, and Brian figured that since Justin was a more frequent visitor to the loft, keeping a stocked kitchen would be in his best interests. The two also insisted on tagging along with Brian until he became “shopping savvy” and/or settled on a replacement for the ‘Vette.
 
A bit of arm-twisting later, Brian had agreed on three conditions: One - It had to be at the dead of night or in early morning so to beat the crowds. Two – all bets were off if Justin went for his wallet even once to pay what he considered to be *his* share. Brian had been a little touched by the offer that first day in the market, but he’d rather eat Velveeta and Wonder Bread before he’d take a dime from Justin, and after the second time he’d tried to offer Brian a little something that didn’t involve condoms, he’d given up and given his word that he wouldn’t offer again.
 
The third condition had met with little resistance from the two, which was as much as Brian had expected, though it was that condition that on surface seemed to defeat the purpose of all those economizing lessons.
 
Brian eased into the canned/boxed/freeze-dried product aisle and grabbed a couple of boxes of mac and cheese and three boxes of fettuccini, putting back one box when he saw that the store brand had a bright little green sticker next to it. After reflecting for a few minutes, grabbed another box of the macaroni and cheese. It had been pretty good, last time he’d had it, especially after he’d followed Justin’s tip to microwave the cheese packet for a few seconds to ease spreadability. Brian marveled that it didn’t really work that way with lube, though he’d never tried it. The best lubes were spreadable all their own with no help.
 
Moving down the aisle, Brian took rapid-fire inventory of what he might need, hefted a jar of pasta sauce, was impressed with the label that proclaimed real Portobello mushrooms within, but then recalled Justin’s belief that “all store-bought spaghetti sauces are created equal” and put it back in favor of the Ragu that was advertised at 50 cents off. He grabbed another one just so he wouldn’t have to come down that aisle the following week, and swept out of the aisle, heading toward the meat section. The largely vacant corridors were sort of eerie, frankly, and the stock clerk who was serenading a stack of muffins with the muzak version of “Sailing” wasn’t doing much to scale down the scariness.
 
Brian skidded to a stop in front of the poultry section, glanced over the offerings and selected a pack of skinless chicken breasts and some breakfast sausage that was 99 percent fat free and one of Justin’s favorites. Neither had red or green stickers, but Brian had never been to skimp on meat in any form, and he wasn’t about to now.
 
Swerving to avoid a sleepy looking guy smoothing a mop over the floor, Brian visited the dairy section for milk, fontina cheese and a fluffy yogurt thing Daphne had persuaded him to try and had now gotten him hooked on. Everything was thrown into the cart, and then it was onto the aisle that stocked  cereal and granola and crackers, then to the “misc” aisle for olive oil, paper towels and aluminum foil. A box of Lemon Zinger tea made it in because Brian liked it, and he’d noticed the week before that Daphne was a fan, too, drinking cup after cup of it while Justin finished putting away that week’s haul.
 
Brian bypassed the “gourmet goods” section, because, really, “gourmet Giant Eagle” was an oxymoron, and headed back to frozen foods. He grabbed a stack of “family value” turkey dinners, one chicken stir fry entrée and three packs of lasagna, all on sale for two for $5.19. He turned up his nose at the “healthy” and “diet” dishes because dishwater was tastier, and he went for a carton of rocky road ice cream. Noticing that the ice cream was being offered at buy one get one free, he grabbed some Neapolitan and reached for a carton of full-fat Cool Whip.
 
Several boxes of frozen vegetables topped off his visit to frozen land, and he raced down the main aisle to the produce section, mentally flogging himself for nearly forgetting the strawberries and apples. The apples were on sale, but the strawberries were a steep three bucks per carton. Brian got one carton and two bags of apples, running a fond hand over the bag marked ‘golden delicious.’
 
Surveying all he had in his cart, Brian did a mental calculation in his head, subtracted the Golden Savers discount and added on the tax. He consigned the amount to memory, and with a certain figure in his head that had nothing to do with math and everything to do with what positions Justin were going to be in later that night, Brian aimed his cart to the front of the store, heading straight to where Justin and Daphne stood chatting.
 
@*@
 
“I *still* can’t believe you were able to do it.”
 
“Seriously . . . that was something else, Brian.” Justin beamed at him from the front seat of Daphne’s car. “All the major food groups and under thirty dollars!”
 
“You got a lot of stuff, too. It’ll last at least a week, I bet.” Daphne turned a corner and rolled into the small parking lot of a squat, darkened building. “I have a couple of issues with the fruit, but I guess it’ll be all right this time.”
 
“The strawberries are going home with me,” Brian said, reclining in the back seat. “So’s the Cool Whip. And so are *you*, Sunshine. I thought we’d play a nice game of ‘Frost the Cake’ –.”
 
“We’re here, thank god,” Daphne said loudly, her voice and the screech of the brakes drowning out Justin’s laughter. “Come on, Jus, give me a hand with the bags. Brian, I think it’s too foggy for anyone to see you, but if you want, you can put my coat over your head.” She smiled and shook her head as she and Justin climbed out of the car and got the bags out of the trunk, walking toward the back door of the building.
 
Justin knocked, and after a moment, a thin, pale young woman answered, smiling warmly at the two young people when they held up the bags. She stepped aside and let them enter with the groceries, peering out into the early morning at the car for a moment before shutting the door.
 
Brian relaxed and sat up a little straighter, now that the third condition was in the process of being met – that during weeks where he was all stocked up on food, he used the money Daphne and Justin were helping him “save” on his grocery bill to make periodic deposits to the local AIDS hospice’s food bank.
 
Brian had waved off Justin's and Daphne’s googly-eyed “You’re so wonderful to do that, Brian!” gushing with the wry observation that it seemed a good way to practice his savvy shopping skills to help someone other than himself for a change. He wasn’t able to offer his help in the form of huge checks to the hospice as he had in years past, but thanks to Justin and Daphne’s good-natured meddling, he’d hit on something he could do and was learning a lot of new things about life in general, himself, and the joy of green stickers.
 
Although weighing the hospice director’s startled smile against the shaky shopping cart wheels and heaps of mislabeled bread products, Brian was willing to concede that some lessons were proving to be more enjoyable than others.

THE END