Bumpy Wheel

As usual, I grab the wrong grocery cart and go bumpity-bumpity down the aisle.

Maybe there’s a wad of gum or something stuck to a wheel.

I bend down to see.

A jelly bean! For goodness sake! For the prices Piggly Wiggly charges, you’d think they could keep the jelly beans off the floor!

I clean the sticky mess from the wheel with a tissue and proceed on.

Bump-bump, Bump-bump.

Now, what?

I bend down again to examine the infernal wheels.

A flat spot! How in the hell do grocery carts get flat spots on their wheels?

Spinning the left rear wheel and despising its imperfectness, I see a foot with pink polished toenails, wearing a flip flop, just inches from my nose.

“Excuse me.” says the foot’s presumed owner.

I mumble something and try to scoot over.

“I’m sorry, sir; I just need to reach over you and get to the canned tomatoes.”

Curses! Can’t a guy fix his wheel?

Oh, what’s the use! I stand up and speed off toward the cart corral.

I’ll just get another damned cart!

Moments later, I push a smooth-rolling cart through the store. Nirvana, at last. My teeth unclench and all is well.

Now, for those hotdogs and TV dinners.

I find the frozen foods and stand with lasagna in one hand and spaghetti with meat sauce in the other.

Hmm. This lasagna has a lot of cheese, but not much meat. This spaghetti has meat–well, it looks like meat–but no cheese.

In my confusion, I drop the lasagna. As I reach down for it, I see that foot again. Two of them, actually; both in flip flops, with pink polished toenails. I know they need more room and squeeze myself  over.

” I’m sorry, again. If you’ll just please move your cart back a little, so I can get to the frozen vegetables.”

Good grief! Am I being punished for having a smooth rolling cart?  

I rise up and move out of her way. She must’ve noticed my frozen food choices and says, “Craving Italian, are we?”

I have no choice but to look my tormentor in the face. “Uh, yeah, I guess so.”

God, is this Trish? She’s my big “if”! Thirty years ago, we went on one date together and I was afraid to even hold her hand because she was so pretty! Oh, man, she’s still a knockout!

Her big brown eyes catch mine and hold them.

“Do I know you?” she asks.

The scared teen in me grunts, “I think so.”

“Are you Buddy White, the one who drove that ’55 Ford with whitewall tires and baby moon hubcaps?”

Any girl who’d remember those beautiful hubcaps deserves a reply. “Yeah, that’s me.”

Trish and I roll our carts together down Piggly Wiggly aisles, while catching up on old times. After checkout, we go to her car and I load her groceries. We’re both single again, and I really want to ask her out.

I tell her, “Well, it sure is nice seeing you again.”

She smiles. “It’s nice seeing you, too.”

Things become awkward. The scaredy-cat in me wants to run, but wheel-man stalls for time. I bend down low to eye her tires.

“You know, this left rear tire is wearing unevenly. My friend has a tire shop and I could… “

Trish puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’m making Italian tonight. Would you like to come over?”

“Why… yes, yes, of course.”

On the way back to my apartment, I may have hit a pothole and dented a rim. It bumps like hell, but who cares? I’ll fix it Monday. Or maybe Tuesday.