Expiration Date

(For a newer draft of this story, click here.)

It's July. I'm remembering the feel of winter. I was sweating fifteen minutes ago and now I am shivering. The chill of the freezer section is to blame. I’m surveying the frozen dinners (which they call Frozen Entrées) as quickly as possible. The doors still fog. Most of the boxes are red or orange, suggesting heat. Why does everything have so much sodium in it? Nothing on sale is appealing.

“Want a pizza?” he asks. The question is rhetorical. Pizzas are a staple, a necessary evil. We eat them in a pinch or when he insists on cooking for us. They never taste good to me—something off about dough that's been cooked and frozen and cooked. I put up with it because he’s so pleased with himself afterward. It lets him feel nurturing. He considers the pizzas his fair share. It’s sweet, if a bit lackluster.

“Not pepperoni.” I reply. He grabs sausage, which is no better.

It's Thursday. We couldn't make it to the weekend. Mustard, two heels of bread, a packet of Pop-Tarts, and Malt-O-Meal Frosted Flakes (more dust than flakes) are practically all we have left. There’s a bag of mixed vegetables that is way too icy to consider consuming, but I can’t bring myself to pitch it. A trip to the grocery store was overdue. I can't eat Subway again.

In the refrigerated section, I grab a bottle of OJ with a matte orange finish. We’ve settled on ‘Some Pulp’ although it pleases neither of us. That there are brands of milk has never made sense to me. I get that specific companies bottle and sell it, but could milk ever inspire brand loyalty? I pick up a gallon of 1/2 % from the back in the hopes of a longer shelf-life.

Those companies know when milk sours within a day or two. All those different cows, but their milk expires at the same rate. Are we like milk? All the relationships I’ve been in before this one never got off the ground. Is there a clear point in any long-term thing where you know it's gone bad? What's our sniff test?

“Do we need eggs or anything?” he asks.

“Yeah, you can get a carton.” I cook occasionally. Zack is picky by history but has the decency to grin his way through curry or a meal with Kalamata olives in it. A jar of the latter will be coming home with us.

We're moving on to the bakery section. A yeasty sweet smell hangs in the air. No one is on duty. Baking is an a.m. trade. Maybe the smell is ambient, cooked into the floor tile. There's a lot of blonde wood around. It complements the bread. An architect selected the wood finish years ago. This place was designed for selling.

The ‘Fresh’ stickers are hot pink and have sunburst edges. They are stuck on everything in sight. Are they ever removed? I flip a loaf over out of tepid curiosity and run my finger down the nutritional info. Out of principle, I say no to corn syrup where possible.

He chucks a package of sugar cookies into the cart. This is why we don't have real food around. They’re slathered with sky blue frosting and have black sprinkles. I move the cookies off my bag of spinach.

A large woman, who has to sense my presence, will not make room for me in front of the discount rack. It's hers. While waiting, I stare at her thighs. They seem lunar, a pocked surface wrapped in heather grey sweatpants. Some people's comfort makes me uncomfortable. I want to grab the loose end of a thread hanging by the pocket’s seam but don’t dare.

Zack's gone. I'll find him studying in the liquor isle. He's at his contemplative finest there. A good deal validates the purchase for him. He’ll pace and crunch the numbers on his phone. The laminated sign that reads ‘Deli’ in the distance is rocking psychotically in the distance. It always rocks because the A/C is always on. It’d be ominous if it weren’t so flimsy.

I've barely been up for thirteen hours, but I feel sluggish. It’s not the length of the day. It’s the density that gets you. Today has been dense, packed full of events I’d rather not relive but will because there’s tomorrow. Then it’s the weekend. That’ll be okay. Zack plays pick-up softball on Saturdays. I'll stay home and read.

I hear the lady shuffle away on her foamy toe-thongs. It'll take her at least ten minutes to check out. Why would anyone need a dozen cans of Manwich? I opt for two loaves of the Cracked Wheat because they're 13¢ less than the Oat, which makes me feel okay about them being $1.40 more than Wonder. We aren't rational with money. I quibble over dimes because I can, but don't fret about the cable bill.

I roll past the pharmacy counter alone. A man wearing a white jacket sneezes into the crook of his arm. He wears frameless glasses and one of those crisp white mustaches. He's either very tall or the floor behind the counter is raised. His name is Edward or Edwin, but not Ed. I tried being friendly with him once, but he wasn’t game.

The cart squeaks and pulls starboard. I embrace the matronly image and push it with my forearms sometimes, hunched over. I waggle my butt a bit and have snicker to myself.

The most dominant color around is taupe. It’s neutral. It steps back so the goods can step forward. Most everyone looks haggard and is sporting deep wrinkles from the day’s wear. People have had enough time to go home after work to dress down to go out. The dress code seems to be blue jeans/sweatpants down low and a T-shirt/tank up top (Zack included). I’m the only one who still looks fashionable by the seven o’clock hour.

Zack's walking back towards me slanted and lugging a box. His face is delicate. The bridge of his nose is thin and his eyes are sunken a bit. That face brightens as he exclaims “two bucks off” from ten feet away. He puts it on the bottom shelf-type thing of the cart. With the beer stowed, he goes deadpan again. We aren’t affectionate in public. He looks at me like I’m a co-worker. There’s familiarity, but that’s about it.

The cart is more resistant but has stopped squeaking. We buy beer we don't need, yet I can't buy brand-name cereal without an eye-roll. I wonder why I am with him. What would he do without me? Why rock the boat? It’s not so bad and it could be a lot worse. He listens and I don’t worry about him being sleeping around. We’re both committed to this like a captain to his ship. It feels like a slow-mo game of chicken.

After tracing the perimeter, we zig-zag through the interior. Even our grocery runs have a pattern to it. He's drawn, toddler-like, by vibrant displays. The Hostess endcap lures him with lemon yellow and royal blue. He has a soft spot for Oatmeal Cream Pies. All I say is “Zack” and he shoots me daggers. I don't need to elaborate because we've been over this umpteen times. I keep him on task; he tries my patience. We're doing good to keep it under an hour. Once I lost him for honestly fifteen minutes. Cell phone signals can’t make it through the corrugated steel. It took all I had not to make an inquiry on the PA. When asked, he said he was looking for me. When asked why he needed to leave my side to go looking for me, he didn’t respond. He never concedes defeat.

Three or four months ago, he stopped excusing himself after burping.

We cruise past the Pet Supplies section and head towards Dry Goods. Outside it is between day and night, but in here it is simply On. Whatever can glow, shine, or flash, does. Every surface is clean, except for the restrooms (which are mostly for the staff). These are not easily accessible for a reason. They don’t want to encourage customers. There’s a printout taped on the mirror that reads “Employees must wash their hands.” with a superscripted ‘not’ scribbled in blue ink. The mirror has been keyed repeatedly and on one of the stalls is either a gang symbol or a monogram. The lights usually flicker like they do in zombie movies. I hold it till we get back to the apartment.

A little boy knocks a box over and looks petrified. His mother tells him to pick it up, which he does and then freezes. He just stands there, holding it, awaiting further instruction. His shoes have Velcro straps. The mom could use conditioner.

Zoo animals are the most common mascots for the kinds of cereal we get. Their coloration tends to be unnatural. Why are the flakes segregated? Bran is far from frosted. I scan for red tags. I fret over price per ounce. The Family Size Mini-Spooners are a steal. I add a bag to our haul.

Zack’s adding a box of Wild! Berry Pop-Tarts that are made of 10% real fruit, the rest being wildly artificial.  What can I do? They’re his breakfast. If you take the trouble to toast them, they taste much better. Brush your teeth afterwards, though.

At this point in the zig-zag, we pointed toward the front of the building again. Over the registers, I can see the exit. A young man wearing cargo khakis pants and a denim short-sleeve polo is pushing a serpentine row of carts. There’s a strap attached to the first cart and he holds it tight like a rein with one hand while leaning into it with all his weight. A few of the wheels rattle wildly; others dangle limply like a dog’s sprained paw. I turn and move on.

I did want this early on. That’s the problem with wanting though, the goal is usually half-baked. It’s just an idealized picture with a happy caption. This was supposed to be something solid. I could say, whatever happened, at least I loved someone. Home would be a happy place. But it turns out we aren’t the thing kind of thing you’d point to on your deathbed when you turn down your Last Rites. Maybe that’s asking too much. Is there something wrong with me? Am I just fickle and nothing seems right after a year? I’ve criticized my friends for the same complaints. I think we’re both proving points here. Zack can keep a girl and I—

“What about barbecue sauce?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” He grills, too. I forgot the sweet potato fries.

We’re flanked by canned goods and condiments. Off-brand beans make me sad. I am looking past silhouettes into a blurry wash of textures. It’s the deli counter. He's heading towards the aquarium with the lobsters. The closer we get, the more it reeks of fish. My palms feel slick with oil from the cart’s handle. I want to wash them before I touch anything of my own. I stop and use the back of my hand to rub my nose.

“Hey, I’m gonna go get something real quick. Meet you at the checkout.”

“Okay.”

I do an about-face and head back to the freezers. Barbecue will be nice. It’s not so bad.

Solitary: 8

Josh once more stood and made his trek to the break room. Rising from his seat was like breaking through the water’s surface. He could hear again. The convergence of plastic clacking emanating from the commons was white-noise. It made you unwittingly tired like the static of highway travel. Someone was sternly speaking into her phone. A howitzer-grade sneeze went unblessed.

He peered into the cubicles as he passed them. He watched programs minimize on screens as he walked down the corridor. The procession looked like a set of toppling dominos. Everyone has something to hide. The assistant clerical technicians, who populated the center of the fourteenth floor, snapped quickly to attention and began typing indiscriminately whenever they heard the shuffling sound of passers-by. A person never sits up and minimizes whatever he should not be working on fast enough. It’s physically impossible. First you hear footsteps, then you move your mouse, then you click your mouse, then the window shrinks to a close. The shrinking leaves a brief trail. You can’t hide fast enough. Then he recalled his response to Metcalf earlier. Judge not...

The caution was not baseless because tattling was not a practice limited to kindergarteners. Employees were vulnerable to being told on, too. Insecurity was a consequence of short walls. Josh observed this design element was a page straight out of a Soviet playbook. Turn the proletariat against itself and the avante garde can concern itself with other matters. Who needs to pay for secret police when the paranoid will do the job gratis? To avoid being surprised, self-interested employees relied upon strategically placed reflective surfaces. An engineeringly-minded clerical technician went so far as to affix a salvaged black 2002 Chevrolet Cavalier rear-view mirror to the side of his monitor (amazingly without damage done to First property). It was his conversation piece. Plus, he was never caught off guard.

One of the notable amenities of the fourteenth floor was the generous helping of artificial plants. They were not the grade of products that, by their verisimilitude, spurred a spectator to wonder and pinch petal or leaf between fingers to scrutinize. In nearly every corner stood a splotchy tan pole with fading green strips draped from its crown. There was no mistaking these tokens of office décor bargain bins for the real deal. Fake plants are to plants what clip art is to art. It appeared nothing could grow on the fourteenth floor.

When he arrived, Josh tipped the pot into his cup. An anemic stream was trailed by a modest flow of grounds. Figures Communal coffee drew free riders like ants to a picnic. There were ten drinkers for every brewer. The goal of the drinkers was to take enough for their fill without completely draining the pot and, therefore, being obligated to make a new one. This led to many scorched quarter cups of coffee and consequent frowns/grumbles. The intrigue was heightened by the stainless steel finish, which concealed the secrets of the selfish drink-only crowd. He discarded his portion of charred remnants down the nearby drain. He filled the maker’s reservoir with cold water as directed. He grabbed the red foil packet of Arabica grounds and tore it open below the seam. The tear was clean and smooth, nothing like paper. The earthy bouquet filled Josh’s head with an addict’s excitement. He emptied the contents into a carefully positioned 100% post-consumer product filter. With a flick of a lit orange toggle, the automatic dripping began. Josh meditated on the unfolding process: first a timid click, then a pause, two more, then five in short succession. The water was up to temperature and (presumably) was trickling through the grounds. Steam puffed from wherever it could above the dark brown filter basket. The machine made labored sounds reminiscent of respiration. It gurgled, hissed, and wheezed. Josh’s heart rate fell as he waited patiently. The practice calmed him in the sacred way rituals can.

His isolation was interrupted by the entrance of a towering figure into the break room. At 6’8”, Gary Osmond was easily the tallest First employee. Gary approached the sink and began rinsing his mug, which looked espresso-ish inside his walking-stick fingers. His ID badge, which limply dangled from his shirt pocket, was at Josh's eye level. Despite his stature, he was not imposing. His comparatively miniscule ears, tiny dark eyes, and prominent incisors lent him a sciurine quality.

When Josh witnessed the attention bestowed upon the vertically endowed Osmond, he was grateful for his averageness. An extreme height presented as a unique burden. For instance, while meekly hunched elbows on knees, fingers interlaced, in a restroom stall, Josh clearly saw (and was stricken with fear by) the neck and head of Gary Osmond over the divider. Should Gary have carelessly looked a little down and to the left as he passed, he and Josh could never have spoken again for obvious reasons. Height paradoxically entailed more was available for viewing and less could be tactfully viewed. Add to that, there was all of the ducking under thresholds and the contortionist acts required to enter and exit the backseat of coupes. Tragically, due to unconscious ratio metrics and old-fashioned practicality, a great swath of the female populace was lopped off for serious romantic  consideration. Then, there was the pigeon-holing. A third party never failed to make seemingly obligatory reference to his size. (‘How’s the weather up there?’ ‘Could you reach X for me?’ ‘Are you parents as tall as you are?’ ‘Must be a pain shopping.’ ‘Aren’t you a tall glass of water!” ‘Your feet must hang off the bed, poor thing.’ ‘Did you play basketball in high school?’ ‘What size shoe to do wear?’ ‘Do people always comment on how tall you are?’) Josh made a point of not saying anything that could be construed as one of those kinds of statements as if it were a disability. He merely tried to address Gary as a person like himself, probably bored and displeased.

“Good morning, Josh,” Osmond said after turning off the faucet.

“Mornin’, Gary. How’re you?”

“Fine. You?” Tiny squeaking sounds came from Osmond’s application of terry cloth to stoneware.

“I’m here.” Given that enough coffee was present, Josh grabbed the handle and poured. Liquid continued to stream unabated and sizzle on the surface below. Josh replaced the pot and the machine sounded peturbed.

“Didja have a good weekend?”

“I guess. Mostly stayed in one place. The radiator’s out and four layers of clothes are restrictive.”

Gary chuckled.

“You?”

Osmond moved forward and took what he wanted. “It was good. Went too fast, but it was good while it lasted.” Josh watched in disbelief at the amount of non-dairy creamer his tall peer used. With vigorous stirring, it changed from lumpy to viscous to watery once more.

“Anyway, thanks for making the coffee, Josh.”

“You’re welcome.”

They waited a moment, lingering in the warmth of conversation. Osmond was the first to flinch. He nodded slightly and left.

That was nice.