The Line

“Do you really want to hurt me, do you really want to make me cry…” 1

I imagine the Boy George I knew when I was ten, his long braids swaying, as he croons away and I wonder if he intended his song, his work of “art,” to be the background music for a fluorescent-lighted broccoli smelling grocery store. Of course, I didn’t really know him, know him. I just knew him from MTV. In 1983, I had all sorts of after school friends on MTV, The Eurythmics, Duran Duran, The Police. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have afternoons free to sit in front of the television and watch music videos. I wonder if they even play music videos on MTV anymore? A high-pitched wail snaps me out of the silent conversation I am having with myself. 2

“She can’t have that kind of cereal!! I don’t like that kind, it’s my turn to pick out cereal!”3

“No it’s not, you got to pick last time. Mom…”pleading eyes stare back at me. I know she is telepathically drilling into my head, “take my side, you have to take my side.” 4

“Today, you both can pick one.” I cave to avoid the temper tantrum. Mothering at its finest. Shoving the kids toward the checkout I say, “Hurry, let’s get in this line so we don’t have to wait.” 5

Six pounds and a dollar sixty-nine a pound…how much?6

Menu planning and price totaling swirl around in my head while I watch so that one kid doesn’t wander away, the other doesn’t sneak Coco Puffs into the basket and hold on to the third so that she doesn’t cannonball off of the cart.7

Headlines from the supermarket smut catch my eye “Angelina dumps Brad”  “Tom Cruise is actually a woman” “ Princess Di is alive” These magazines must have a tractor beam, in an instant I’m sucked in like the Millennium Falcon being sucked into the Death Star. I have to know if Tom Cruise has actually had a sex change operation. Vaguely I hear a scream sharp enough to break even Darth Vadar’s concentration.8

“She pulled my hair!”9

I detangle two of my children, making threats under my breath. Perspiration springs up on the back of my neck. I’m more embarrassed for myself than worried about what just transpired between two of my offspring.10

In slow motion, the pacifier falls to the floor. What is this? Like the fifth time I have picked up this thing in the last thirty minutes. I’m going nuts here.11

No mother with sense would be in the grocery at 5:30 in the evening. Yet, here I stand at the back of the 15 items or less line, with 16 items in my cart and behind me a woman with only three items, shooting me with the invisible gamma rays launching from her eyeballs. 12

Turning around I bend down to get the pacifier sitting on the floor next to the woman’s brown pump, and look up to see her rolling her eyes at me, just like my pre-pubescent daughter. In the instant my brain started to process the face she had just given me, two emotions went to war in my chest. One, an overwhelming desire to beat her with the twelve pound ham in my cart and the other a strong sense of satisfaction knowing that I was beating her in the game of “line.” The object of the game is simple.  Find the shortest line and spend the least amount of time than anyone else there. I was in front of her, which made me the winner. Satisfaction won out since I didn’t feel like explaining to my toddler why it was ok for Mommy to club the mean lady. I give her a pasted smile as I wipe the pacifier on my jeans and pop it into the baby’s mouth. I feel a little better when I see the obvious shock on her face.  13

While my middle child is swinging on the bar that separates the aisles and my oldest is begging for a Snickers bar, a ring pop, a soda, or maybe, please mom please, Bubblelicious bubble gum, I unload the ham, eggs, bread on to the conveyor belt just as the baby begins to wail for the pacifier that’s back on the ground.14

I glance up at the teenage clerk as she begins moving my food across the scanner. Her straight blond hair falls over the back of her red smock. Her young face is open, without cares or worries, or wrinkles. For a moment, I’m jealous of her youth and carefree life. Ok, two moments. I think bitterly to myself, “wait until you get to shop with three out of control kids, then you will know what troubles are.” Picking up my carton of Ben and Jerry’s, she asks if I like this flavor of ice cream.15

“Oh yeah” I reply off handedly, “it’s my favorite.” 16

Tears seep out of the corners of her eyes. Her lower lip trembles and her shoulders shake. In a matter of seconds, she’s a cloudburst, chest heaving, sobbing uncontrollably. I’m struck as dumb as sand by this sudden explosion of emotion. No doubt, my brain mocks me, you have definitely lost this round of “line.” Feeling a surge of embarrassment over the teenage angst that just spilled out all over me, I stammer, “Are you alright?”17

“I, I, I’mmmm sorrrry” she whimpers. I shift in my spot, trying to catch the eye of the three-item woman, mentally pleading, ooo come on help me here. All I want to do is get out of this hell hole and home to fix dinner, get the kids in the bath and into bed so I can flop down on the couch and die of exhaustion. Instead of helping, she gives me an authentic smile. Where’s that ham?18

Forget cloudburst, the girl has now moved on to hurricane status,” Its, its, its just that this was my boyfriend’s favorite.” I’ve caught a teenager in the middle of a breakup, oh Lord help me, what could be worse? 19

I pat her hand, and say in the most uncompassionate compassionate voice I can muster, “I’m sure it will all work out for the best.”20

She pulls her hand away like one of my kids getting their fingernails cut. Tears stains etching black lines on her cheeks, her mouth goes into a straight line, “It won’t because he’s dead”  21

After an eternity the manager appears and puts his arm around the girl, “How about taking a break, Amber?” 22

As he finishes my groceries, “You’ll have to excuse Amber,” he explains, “her boyfriend was in the service and was killed in Iraq last week.”23

It feels like he just gave me a peanut butter and ground glass sandwich to swallow.  Words are stuck in my throat ripping away at my vocal chords. 24

I look down at my children as I heave the cart out the door. They look older than they were five minutes ago. I kiss each of them on the head as I buckle them into the car. I unload the groceries into my trunk and tears drip off my chin while Boy George sings his song in my ear. 25