Epiphanies by Barry Vitcov

A man spends so much time people-watching in a supermarket car park that he starts to make customers feel uncomfortable.

Image generated with OpenAI

"You've been sitting here for hours. Is there something I can do to help?" The girl surprised me while I sat in my car in front of the supermarket watching folks entering and leaving with shopping carts filled and children in tow. The teenager, a short slightly chubby girl with braces and a smattering of facial pimples, must have been sent out by the store manager to check on me. She said that some customers had approached her boss after noticing me staring at shoppers. "Mr. Adleman says you're freaking them out and kindly requests that you move your vehicle. Are you okay?"

I thought, what sort of boss sends out a young girl to confront a stranger in a busy parking lot. I hadn't seen her walk out the front door, so she must have taken some sort of circuitous route out a side or rear exit to stealthily approach my car. Did her boss instruct her on how to be sneaky and not use threatening language? "I'm fine. Tell your boss I'm fine," I said in the most pleasant voice I could muster.

"Okay, I'll tell Mr. Adleman that everything's fine." She walked straight to the front door, pausing once to look back over her shoulder with an uneasy smile.

I had spent much of the last three days parked and watching people come and go. I had probably been noticed by a number of repeat shoppers who had alerted store management. A few days ago, I took particular interest in a tall woman with a long, blond ponytail wearing pink shorts with PINK printed on her backside. Did she think most folks were colorblind, or needed a reason to notice her derriere? She was pushing a cart with one child sitting in the plastic seat facing her and another standing in the cart jumping up and down with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for someone about to get a special treat. She noticed me, assumed I was leering, and gave me the middle finger as she sped through the automatic doors. Apparently, she may have reported me to management before leaving the store with a cart full of bags, a child happily eating a chocolate bar, and ungraciously offering me another flip of her middle finger as she passed by toward her vehicle. I'm guessing she drove either an older minivan or newer SUV, because anyone who wears pink shorts with PINK written across their rear is, for me, an enigma and capable of extremes. I opened my notebook and wrote:

Attractive woman with two daughters, sporting a pink-clad butt, flips me off twice. What does that say about humanity?

For three days, I parked in the same space and sat in my car observing and taking notes. I'm not a writer. I work at a liquor store, and always the evening shift. I've worked there since my high school days, before I was old enough to sell the products. Menial tasks turned into more responsible work, and eventually the owner turned management over to me. I chose to work nights because the tips are generous and the stories much more interesting. The store is in an upper-class neighborhood and I sell expensive whiskeys to the one-percenters. They know me as a quiet, middle-aged man to whom they trust the sort of information often given to the barbers, hairdressers, and personal life coaches.

While I'm not a writer, I am a collector of gossip, remembrances, and philosophies. At the end of each day, I record whatever I can remember in a notebook, and never identify who said what. I'm interested in content, not attribution. I do not share with my girlfriend or my son and daughter from an early marriage. It was only recently that I decided to record observations outside of work, and I chose a variety of supermarkets where I could sit and observe.

Children skip a lot. I have yet to see an adult skip. A high percentage of shoppers do not return their carts to the racks provided.

Every so often, I leave my car and purchase a coffee at the Starbucks adjacent to the market. I've already earned rewards for several free coffees and used the restroom frequently enough to have memorized the code to unlock the door. The chirpy baristas know me by name and call out, "Grande Latte for Jerry," as I approach the counter. My name is not Jerry and caffeine does not affect me. I enjoy using an assumed identity when doing my supermarket observations.

This may be the most professional of all Starbucks coffee shops, as the baristas all have a positive, welcoming attitude. Might they be in a management training program?

About an hour had passed since the chubby girl was sent on her mission to inquire about my presence when a huge, almost seven-foot giant of a young man emerged from the market. Not only was he very tall, but he was built like a sumo wrestler. His girth was as impressive as his height. He had long red hair and a thin red beard making his head look like a gargantuan garden gnome with alopecia. And he wore a kilt. I didn't know kilts were made in his size. It must have been custom-made. He wasted no time walking directly towards me, his belly bobbing threateningly. I rolled my window down as he approached and spoke into his belt buckle, "Did Mr. Adleman send you to check up on me? Nothing to worry about, I'm fine."

How he managed to squat so that his great round, red hairy head was at window level, I'll never figure out. I did wonder if a person of that size wearing a kilt and squatting revealed more than any shopper would want to see.

I know it goes without saying, but people come in all shapes and sizes. The fashion choices they make can be bewildering.

"My boss wanted me to tell you that this is a private parking lot," said the giant with a squeaky voice, which I found odder than what was being said and by who. "He wanted me to tell you that he wants you to either come inside and make a purchase or kindly be on your way."

I was pretty sure that 'kindly' was not in Mr. Adleman's vocabulary, nor was it in his authority to make me move. Besides the supermarket and the Starbucks, where I made multiple purchases during my stay, the strip mall included Hallmark, Verizon and several other stores. At the far end was Mike's Taco Express, where Miguel Lopez worked tirelessly to serve the best al pastor tacos in América del Norte with dreams of franchising Mike's as an alternative to Taco Bell. He always greeted me with, "Buenas tardes, Señor Jerry," pronouncing Jerry as "hairy" before I ordered a taco carne asada and a Dr. Pepper. Nobody from any of the other establishments had asked me to leave and I figured they had as much control over the parking lot as the anonymous Mr. Adleman.

What is the American Dream? A franchise?

I looked directly into the giant's glassy brown eyes and said, "Please, kindly inform your boss that I have every right to park in this lot. And furthermore, kindly inform Mr. Adleman that I'd be more than pleased to make his acquaintance."

Kindness, even when artificial, does wonders for communication.

The kilted giant nodded, stood, and strode away with pleated, green plaid tartan waving goodbye. What other gofers would be sent next?

I had no assistants at the liquor store. It was strictly a one-person operation. Although my girlfriend worried that I was an easy robbery target, I assured her that crime was non-existent in the neighborhood where I worked. "The super-rich are much more creative criminals than your ordinary gun-pointing-take-the-money-and-run variety. Besides, almost all sales are credit card or kept on account. Even the generous tips are non-cash. There would be no profit robbing my store."

Bibby, the twenty-something assistant manager at Starbucks came walking over to my car carrying a Grande Latte and a package of Madelines. She passed them to me though the open window and said, "We saw the giant talking to you and thought you needed some refreshment. Is Adleman giving you a hard time?"

"Just his ambassadors of kindness," I said with a laugh.

"Well, have a nice Starbucks day, Jerry. We value your patronage," said Bibby with all the sincerity of an up-and-coming Starbucks manager. She walked off almost skipping.

Youth offers a glimmer of hope. Age is the great dimmer switch.

So many things come in threes. We count to three when warning our children of the consequences if they don't comply. There's the Holy Trinity. Three strikes and you're out. Three, two, one... blast-off! "Three wishes," said the genie. What happens or doesn't on a third date. The horrific Third Reich. And the third day sitting in my car in front of a popular supermarket, where two underlings had been sent out to deal with me. Who might be the third?

Shortly after the giant waddled off and Bibby's delivery of complimentary coffee and treats, I witnessed a short, balding man wearing a green apron with a nametag, which I could not read, pacing behind the automatic doors. He would pause from time-to-time when the doors opened to gaze in my direction. Pacing and gazing seemed to be hallmarks of his character. I assumed he was the notorious Mr. Adleman, the sender of peons. I imagined he was working up some confrontational courage or maybe some rehearsed outrage. I doubted that kindness would be part of his repertoire. I watched an older gray-haired woman walking with a serpentine cane stop inside the doors, grab him by the arm, and point her cane in my direction while speaking in a most direct manner. I couldn't hear what was being said while he vigorously nodded and smiled superciliously. She continued into the store and he continued to pace and gaze.

With age comes more direct and probably ineffective outrage. Is this what Thomas meant about not going gently? Poetry has a way of causing more confusion, ambiguity, and unknowing than it intends.

One night, just before closing, a regular came into the liquor store appearing agitated. It was a cold night, yet he was perspiring heavily, his face a sheen of moisture, the collar of his blue oxford shirt drenched. He quickly walked up to the counter and asked for a bottle of the most expensive whiskey we had in stock. I told him we had one bottle of twenty-three-year-old Pappy Van Winkle. He said that would be fine even after I told him it cost $5,300. He said anything to shut up his overbearing, cheating, good-for-nothing wife who demanded the best of everything as long as she had to put up with the prenup she regrettably agreed to. After signing the credit card authorization, he grabbed the bottle without having me bag it, charged out of the store muttering, "I'll show her how much she's worth."

Lots of strange things happen when liquor and prenuptial agreements come into play. An overabundance of sweat is a sure sign that something isn't right. High-end liquor stores and chain supermarkets have little in common.

Mr. Adleman's pacing slowed. Now, he stood facing me with his hands on his hips. He looked to be just slightly over little-person size, five-foot one or so. As short as he appeared, he looked in good shape, like the product of early morning workouts and some exercise with light weights. He might be one of those individuals who are underestimated when it came to close-in battle. He would surely be a dirty fighter, a kick-to-the-groin or knee kicker. Little people who work out can be very dangerous when not taken seriously. I'm average height and few people take me seriously, which is why so many share intimate details of their lives with me. I have a full head of unruly, brown hair and a face that can grow a full beard in a week. I assume the testosterone runs free and plentiful in my body, yet I'm not a fighter. I'm not confrontive. I will do almost anything to avoid negative encounters. I'm what my girlfriend calls a yes-man, but a "sweetie" nonetheless. My kids call me a pushover.

The sliding doors open and Mr. Adleman steps out. He walks over to my car, lips pursed and hands opening and closing like someone who can't make up their mind between fists and a peaceful gesture. I roll down my window as he leans toward me. His complexion is smooth and looks to be professionally shaved. I wonder if he uses an expensive skin conditioner because he gives off a soft lavender scent.

"You must be Mr. Adleman."

"I am," he says. "May I have a kind word with you."

A kind word! Now I realize he must have instructed the young girl and overly large, kilt-clad boy on how to engage.

"Of course. Why don't you come around and sit inside my car. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

He was taken aback. His mouth formed an oval and he straightened away from the car. He never expected an invitation from me. I decided to take it one step further.

"Go ahead and wait, I'll be right back. You look like you can use some refreshment."

He stepped aside as I got out of the car, walked into Starbucks and then over to Mike's. When I returned he was standing by the passenger side of the Honda debating what he should do next. I skipped around the front of the car and gestured for him to take a seat.

"Snacks are on the way."

Food mitigates most difficult situations. What would happen if all the international leaders got together over a good meal to solve the world's problems? Silly question. Someone would point a finger or a gun and start another world war. Still, it would be a nice gesture.

We both slid into our respective seats and I asked, "What can I do for you, Mr. Adleman."

He asked with a bit of a stammer, "What's your name, sir?"

"I'm Jerry."

The entire time I had been parked and observing, my twelve-year old, black standard poodle was curled up and asleep in the back seat. In her ancient age and failing health, nothing disturbed her. She didn't budge when I exited or returned. She required no potty breaks. As the grey around her muzzle seemingly grew by the hour, she went into a deeper sleep. It must have been Mr. Adleman's lavender scent that caused her to stir, lift her head and sniff, stand and lean over the front seat to take a stronger, less polite sniff of Mr. Adleman's head. Once she had her answer, she backed off and curled back into her restful slumber.

"You'll need to excuse Gretchen for her behavior. Not barking at you is a good sign."

"My wife uses this pungent soap. I really should get something more neutral."

Bibby and Miguel walked up with goodies and handed them through my window. They paused to look over at Mr. Adleman and, once they were sure that all was okay, walked back to their shops. I handed Mr. Adleman a Starbucks passion fruit lemonade and one of Mike's al pastor tacos. I stuck with a carne asada and a Grande Latte.

"Enjoy."

"Thanks. I didn't expect this," said Mr. Adleman. He took a bite of taco, smiled, and proclaimed it to be the best. "I'm really hoping he makes his dream of franchising come true."

We both enjoyed the refreshments in silence. Finally, I said, "My parents used to be friends with Edgar and Roberta Adleman."

Mr. Adleman's eyes widened. "They're my parents."

"Really? They were very good friends with my parents a long time ago when we lived in the city. I didn't know they had a son."

"You're parents aren't Siggy and Ethel, are they? I didn't know they had a son either."

"They are, but they've both passed."

"I'm sorry to hear that. My folks are still doing okay."

"Well, you look much younger than I, so I'm not surprised we never met."

Life is filled with coincidences and we shouldn't give them much heed. It's still fun.

We spent twenty-minutes catching up on family connections. Mr. Adleman was fifteen years younger than I and we would never have run in the same circles. While he went to college to study business, I remained at home working at the liquor store. While he began his career in management program with the supermarket chain he still worked for, I worked myself into management through time served and what my father called 'the university of hard knocks.' Mr. Adleman insisted I call him Arden and I told him my real name was Zeke.

"Zeke, what have you been doing here for three days parked in front of my market? Some of my customers have concerns." Arden was matter-of-fact and conversational and neither of us felt ill at ease with his inquiry. The food and familial connections helped.

"When I was eighteen, I drove my mother to the supermarket and waited in the car while she shopped. I was struck by the ordinariness of life and asked myself what the meaning of it was."

Arden interrupted, "An existential moment. You weren't reading philosophy by any chance? That can be dangerous."

"No. I was really never much of a student. But I had just finished religious high school and the whole notion of a spiritual being bugged me. I had questions, but I didn't know what they were. Over the years, I've found the supermarket to be a kind of spiritual home. I can sit, observe, and see what happens. I write some thoughts in a notebook and move on."

"I'd be interested in reading your journal."

"No. It's a private journey, but thanks for asking."

"I suppose they all are," said Arden. With that he announced that he needed to get back to work. I responded by saying I thought he was still at work, doing public relations. He laughed before opening the passenger door, turning to Gretchen and saying goodbye to both of us. "I hope to see you again. I'll treat next time. It's not often I get to talk about deeper stuff."

We exchanged contact information and I promised to call the next time I'd park in the lot. It would be quite a while before then. There were other supermarket lots to explore.

The meaning of life is found in the ordinary.