Like Any Other Saturday - a short story

It began like any other Saturday. I am sure the sun rose slowly and stunningly, melting the midnight blue of early morning into a soft, warm yellow. I have no basis for this certainty, but maintain my decisive position on the subject. Rather than transitioning into the day, though, similar to the velvet darkness, I slept in. After finally waking, I decided to spend much of the afternoon sinking into the comfort of my black pleather couch, rising only to nuke some cold, stale pepperoni pizza for a late lunch. Then, all of a sudden, evening arrived. It always seemed so fleeting, this joy of isolated, afternoon relaxation. I wondered how Saturdays rushed by so quickly. Many hypotheses sauntered through my little, uncombed head.

What it really boiled down to, though, concerned the fact that Saturday, in actuality, rarely constituted an entire day. Sleeping until two in the afternoon left only ten hours to do as I please. After one hour of staring at the ceiling, considering whether I should rise from bed at all, following two hours of mindless cinematic entertainment, plus another hour for my content and continual descent into the glossy fake leather while weighing the pros and cons of a shower, I was left with a mere and pathetic six hours. 360 minutes. A fourth of an entire day. Barely anything. I cherished the percentage anyway. After serious deliberation, it was concluded I also cherished the smell of Irish Spring soap and the reflection of a non-oily face.

Shortly following a nice, hot, mirror-fogging shower and change into clean clothes, my best friend and roommate, Dave, returned home. I exited the bathroom to find my pal in his sky blue scrubs, dropping a stack of thick, hardback text books on the table, and making his way to pour a glass of water. He greeted me and asked how my day had been so far. I responded with a brief, “Nothing.” Immediately, I realized that I hadn’t actually answered his question. My day had been fine, while it consisted of nothing. I considered quickly rephrasing to answer appropriately, but decided it wasn’t worth it. “Nothing” worked. Besides, the question was as much rhetorical as my response was rudimentary habit. I moved on. “What about you?”

He downed his glass of water. “Alright.” Undoubtedly, his had been immeasurably more accomplished than mine. Even on Saturdays he volunteered at the hospital and took care of kids. He then usually made his way to a bookstore several hours, studying for his upcoming MCAT. And not only was he a good guy, and intelligent to boot, but he was handsome, too. Bastard. He slammed his glass on the kitchen counter, then wandered down the hallway, mumbling. “Gotta piss.” His humanity relieved some of my justifiable envy. Every roommate in this house might as well have been a comic strip character. The stuff most people only think, we actually uttered. Thinking out loud somehow made the thoughts more real to us. The sentences and fractured ideas would have made more sense had they been surrounded by two-dimensional, white, cloudy bubbles hovering overhead. I envisioned the title for our strip then: Guys. It had to be short. Snappy. Like every popular comic – Garfield, Archie, Batman, BC. A cliché summation, and yet, in some way, unique.

Considering all of this, while also thinking through how the rest of my fractional Saturday would unfold, I sat, staring into the oblivion of a fingerprint-smeared, sticky, frosted glass table. I made a few quick notes to self. Buy Windex. Use placemats. Never pay over 700 dollars for a glass top table again – coffee, dinner, kitchen, whatever. No reasonable explanation for this purchase came to mind. I merely admired the distinctive, modern design.

After Dave exited the restroom with the sound of flushing trailing closely behind, he bee lined his way directly for the fridge, obviously more concerned with eating than washing his hands. He leaned into the cavernous, empty coolness and, from my angle, entirely disappeared from the waste up, surveying the void which was our fridge. Except for rotting fruit, a greasy pizza box which I took the liberty of emptying earlier that day, vast assortments of barely used condiments, and a carton of two eggs, even unable to see Dave’s expression, I knew what the rest of my night would entail. I didn’t mind. Owning the house and responsibility for food purchases, it was my fault anyway. I hadn’t stepped foot inside a grocery store for at least three weeks. Maybe longer. Needless to say, Dave did not protest when I informed him of our mission to boldly go where no individual from the house had traveled in far too great a time. This was a mission for warriors. For the wise. The strong. A mission for hungry, bored men lacking other Saturday night plans. We were going to fill that damn fridge.

* * * *

Piling in my car, we drove in the direction which had been not frequented enough of late. Having been so busy during the week, we took time to catch up with one another and all the little details of our silly lives. While the conversation was nice, only one thought stood at the forefront of my mind: the destination which awaited our arrival. It was a utopia boasting, not only groceries, but electronic gadgets and equipment, furniture and apparel, DVDs and music; a cement, free sample, cheap dinner, overstocked paradise known as Costco to some, and Godsend to us.
Walking into the massive, glorious warehouse, I grabbed a shopping cart to begin our mission. We did not traverse very far before our attentions were drawn to the computer and television section strategically placed at the forefront of the establishment, luring all men upon their very entrance. Showing some newly released DVD on the oversized screens, Dave and I both slowly migrated down the aisles of LCD screens and plasmas, TiVos and surround sound. Neither of us could have told anyone the difference between the varying models except for “Ours is big, and this one’s bigger. Ours is loud, and these are way louder.” The pure size and volume of these Japanese masterpieces were enough to incite a male orgasm.

After a little drooling and pointlessly calculating whether these items were out of reach financially, we continued on our way. Unfortunately, much like our original detour, we took extended breaks to browse through the DVD and music section, skim the New York Time Bestsellers, slide our fingers across barbecue grills, peruse the wine, test bicycles and golf equipment, analyze digital cameras, and recline in furniture. It seemed we could not make it more than one aisle without distraction taking hold of us. Our lack of focus greatly compromised the mission. Eventually, we escaped this mode, and once again took sight of the ultimate goal.

As much weight as had accumulated in my midsection over the past year, I truly did prefer healthier foods. So, to boost my distorted self-image of fitness, Dave and I began in the produce section, squishing fruit and vegetables, checking for bruises, rotating the oddly shaped prospects every which way to ensure we purchased the nicest snacks possible. True, before anything, we wanted to sink our teeth into the highest quality produce. But, additionally, we were preparing for every situation. Say one of our more attractive female friends visited the house and grew hungry. Due to our attention to detail, we could inform her that there was no need to worry, for fresh vegetables and ripe fruit awaited her in our very fridge. As she selected her filler of choice, she would of course be impressed with our produce purchasing skills. She would tell her friends that, of all the guys she knows, we would make the best husbands. “They even know how to buy good food,” she would exclaim. In all reality, we had no idea what we were doing, how squishy or firm or colorful the items should have been. There was just something comforting about squeezing produce like little stress balls.

After picking up a healthy assortment of snacks, we marched onward. Along the way to one of several freezer food aisles, we were enticed by our first in a series of free sample carts. From behind her station, an elderly lady, complete with gray beehive hairdo, blue apron, and white latex gloves, slowly handed us each samples while regurgitating her mumbled sales pitch. She was no salesperson. Most of the sample providers were not. They were all old. I envisioned Costco hosting an entire ward of grandmas and grandpas such as this. They were victims of Alzheimer’s and loneliness, provided a home supplying full security, all the toilet paper they would ever need, and unlimited free samples. If I was old, I would take the offer in a heartbeat.

Our sample was tasty, but finished in a single bite. Dave and I made our way to the aisles lined by frosty glass, standing before the showcase of cardboard boxes covered by large text. For a moment, I felt as though I stood on the Vegas strip, blinded by neon lights promoting some unique feature of each jumbo pack. “10 For The Price of 8!” “Fish Sticks Now With Real Bits of Fish.” “Ready to eat in just 3¾ seconds.” “Low in Carbs, Huge on Taste.” Where would we begin with such selection? We wound our cart through the wide aisles of mothers shopping for families and surplus food stockpiled high in the center of our passageway. Pizzas and corndogs, beef taquitos and teriyaki bowls, dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets and home style French fries, shrimp scampi and Philly cheese steak sandwiches, we loaded up. Saliva began to form.

Four free samples and eight microwavable boxes of food later, we came to the necessary cereal, breakfast bar, packaged snack, and beverage aisles. The bulk of these items would make any man smile ravenously. While women like buying cute little containers of food, mini-this, and reduced-that, somehow thinking that the quantity they purchase automatically translates into the amount they will ultimately consume, men worship bulk. That’s why Costco creates such a euphoric state of emotion within the male species as they merely enter the cement wonderland. In fact, I considered during this event that heaven might just be a strip mall of stores such as Costco, Best Buy, Home Depot, The Sharper Image, Barbecues Galore. Between each of the stores adorned by golden signs would sit sports bars replaying the best games in history, Hooters where the divine servers outnumber the patrons, and steakhouses that prepare tender, juicy, five pound New York strips and T-bones. Every location would be free of charge, as well. Ah. Paradise.

After a solid hour of quick decisions, nods of the head, cart reorganization to make room for additional items, and continually repeated “That looks good,” we neared an oversized kiosk decorated by vibrant bouquets of flowers. Now, while I consider myself completely heterosexual, I consider myself quite the metrosexual, as well. The roses were beautiful. Subtle pinks rimmed dozens of diffused orange rose petal tips. The growers bunch assortments covered an array of colors. The orchids were a fusion of purple. Drawn toward this center of natural beauty, I began to examine the flowers, relishing the delicate aromas and rich sights. Dave did not immediately notice I had slowly wandered from our path toward the check out lane. As he realized I had gone missing, he spun in circles like a lost child, searching for his mother. When he caught sight of me again, he tentatively backtracked, approaching with a smirk on his face. I knew exactly what he thought.

“We need some flowers for the house,” I began. “It’s been a while since we’ve had...” The words “color” and “aroma” almost followed, but I refrained. Dave would have undoubtedly started laughing uncontrollably while “FAG” scrolled across his brain like the endless cycle of stock symbols on every financial channel. “…them,” I finished. He chuckled a little, anyway. Defensively, I responded, “Whatever, dude. I don’t care what you think. The ladies love guys who aren’t afraid to have a vase full of flowers every now and then. Just watch.” As I continued sorting through the bouquets, a bit finicky, trying to find a pleasant arrangement of orange tulips, Dave interjected. Whether it was my philosophical facade on the matter, or a secret impulse within him that finally surfaced, he began discussing with me the flowers he thought best suited the house.

“Get the white carnations. They last longer and go better with our black and white theme.” Though a bit surprised by his input, I took the advice into consideration. Thus initiated an entire conversation.

“But orange and red are accent colors. They’ll add a little mood wherever we put ‘em. Vitality.”

He strongly responded, “If you’re looking for vitality, flowers isn’t the way to go. We need to redecorate the entire place.” He almost sounded pissed. “Keep the theme. Get the carnations.” He looked left, “Or the white roses.” Without hesitation, the conversation continued for nearly two minutes. Thoughtfully we expressed our opinions, debating the importance of certain hues and the unwritten rules of decoration. After this brief dialogue, Dave all of a sudden looked directly at me and stated, “Get whatever you want. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.” I picked up the tulips and headed once again towards the cashier. Half truthfully, half jokingly, he finished, “If my dad heard me right now, he’d beat the hell out o’ me.” We shared a good laugh.

After watching the items stream down the little rubber checkout and listening to the consistent beeping as each purchase was scanned, the car was our next stop. We came. We conquered. Unloading the cart proved simple enough. Quick. Much quicker than our shopping excursion turned out lasting. Dave loaded the last load of groceries into the backseat while I turned the cart around and wheeled it a little ways. What followed forever changed my life.

Honestly, when most people say that their life changed, altered in some dramatic way, I usually believe them, no matter how ridiculous it may seem. Especially after experiencing an event of such scale, I finally identified with those whose lives took turns for the better, attributable to some unexpected occurrence of random chance or fate. I tasted the ripe fruit of life in this instant. Even riper than the peaches, apples, and oranges I had purchased only a moment ago. As certain as I am about the sunrise I missed that very morning, I am confident that at this exact moment in time and space, all the planets aligned. Time slowed and I briefly glimpsed the simple and eternal beauty of the universe.

In the middle of the parking lot sat a cart retrieval station, filled by a lineup of wheeled baskets, all connected to one another. Still a minimum of thirty, probably thirty-five feet from the lone island of orphaned carts, I let go of my large, silver companion with a solid oomph. Though normally I would have turned around immediately, as soon as it left my hands, I knew something profound was about to take place. Even Dave, after closing the backseat door, turned, and focused on the cart. We stood still. Silent. As though in slow motion, the cart rolled over the pavement steadily, resolutely, only slightly drifting. The wheels did not fight, but rolled together. Every part performed its job. The cart hit a slight bump in the pavement, but remained on its path of perfection. The cart I pushed, intending nothing, aiming nowhere in particular, after a journey which seemed to last minutes, rolled into the last cart, inserting perfectly with the organized train of wheeled contraptions. Yes, a regular cart. The same type of shopping cart that constantly decides to turn one way or another on its very own, without any direction from the pusher. A cart, which, without forceful command for more than a half second, drifts into shelves of food, knocks down pyramids of canned fruit cocktails, peas, and chili.

Once I regained my composure, I turned to find Dave with a dropped jaw. He high fived me, “That was awesome!”

“Incredible,” I responded, equally shocked, if not more so.

“Man! How’d you do that?”

I wondered, too. “No idea!” Silence overwhelmed us. We opened our doors, I started the car, and we began home. For moments in the car, we broke our silence and discussed the event as if God Himself had come down and guided the cart into the lineup. Perhaps. We had no clue. Dave eventually changed the subject and started proposing our options for the remainder of the night. During his thinking out loud, he received a phone call from some girl that liked him. Can’t remember which one. Their numbered was added to daily.

* * * *

We eventually arrived home and unloaded the car. The void of the fridge and freezer was filled for the time being, and appeared impressive. The cabinets, also, appealed to us once we finished storing everything in its proper place. We threw out some food that had spoiled and packages which were as good as empty to make room for the new stock. Our mission had been accomplished. I was now off the hook to shop for a while. As much as Costco was an event more enjoyable to me than most others, it was dually expensive.

Dave asked what I wanted to do next. Three hours were left in the day, and, relative to average weekend standards, I hadn’t done much. Of course, in line with the logic of most college aged men, even after spending nearly two hundred dollars on perfectly tasty, fresh, and easily prepared food, we decided In-N-Out would be our next entertainment for the evening. I picked up my car keys and again piled in the car, on to a more relaxing, though less satisfying destination.

We entered the simply decorated, red and white joint, ordered a couple burgers, fries, milkshakes, and sat down just to continue enjoying one another’s company. I justified the calories by ordering my burger protein style, without the bun, wrapped in lettuce. Dave scoffed me. After our friendly debate concerning the effectiveness of this order, we sat. It was a nice occasion, though nothing out of the ordinary. Just two best friends grubbing on juicy, California burgers together, laughing, getting fatter, passing the time. Dave received a few more calls during our stay, but made them short. He brought to my attention a few more options we had to select from after our energy filler. I considered the opportunities, but for some reason, just wanted to go home. Nothing against him, I just did.

After walking in the front door, I knew I had made the right choice. Even though I had spent all day lounging on the couch and drifting in and out of consciousness in my bedroom, this is what I needed. A little more alone time. By myself. Dave left again to hangout with a group of people. After reading a couple short stories on the couch, I crawled into bed. Truthfully, I didn’t even bother brushing my teeth or preparing in any other way. Somehow, I was tired.

Staring up at the ceiling, I laid silently under my warm covers, planning out the approaching day. Call it habit. There was nothing in particular needed to be done Sunday, either, but I desired, in the very least, to accomplish more than I had today. For a moment, I caught myself considering my Saturday a waste, 24 hours down the pot. I slowly began replaying the day in my head – all the solitude, all the relaxation, the result. As if the back of my eyelids were a large silver screen in an old movie house, I sat in the dark, smiling. Over and over again, in slow motion, I watched a glimmering cart roll into a line of others. The distance it traveled seemed longer every time. At that moment, I found myself wishing life lined up like my trusty, metal cart; everything methodically working together, progressing towards some ultimate goal, keeping in motion even after hitting a couple bumps in the road.

When the cycling projection finished, there was no more shiny, rolling cart. No more silver screen. No more wishing. There was only a lone, tired figure in a dark room, and the hint of a smile. I opened my eyes briefly. Then, a deep sleep overcame me.