Epiphanies at Discount Grocery

Charlie pushes his shopping cart down the deserted crackers and cereal aisle at Discount Grocery, wandering in the glow of florescent lights reflecting on polished linoleum. The ten- foot-high shelves of garish rainbow boxes closing in on either side of him dampen the rattling of his cart and the static PA system summoning cashiers in the interludes of tinny Muzak. His eyes strain at the words on bright packaging though he’s wearing his tortoiseshell Ray-Ban bifocals. He rolls up his jacket sleeve and checks his Rolex. It’s almost eleven p.m. A long day of filming the same scene over and over again for the next superhero blockbuster, never getting it right, missing three-word lines, tearing his spandex Captain Xilabur costume, has left him exhausted by monotony. He sees the same cereal branded under three names and shudders. The repetition has followed him out into the ordinary world. He considers how average he feels, how normal he must be, and he wonders if anyone else is watching and if they can see his discomfort in the grainy black and white security camera tapes. He might be in the tabloids tomorrow, exposed as Charles R. Macey, the latest Oscar winner and a narcissist who must’ve fired his housekeeper if he had to lower himself to buy groceries in a dingy 24-hour place far outside of Beverly Hills. Or, if the welfare mothers and the crack addicts mumbling delusions to themselves keep pushing their carts past him, he’ll have no Hollywood scandal made of his venture into middle-class America.

When Charlie looks up from his scrawled list, he sees that a boy in a striped shirt is staring at him from the brightly lit frozen food section at the end of the aisle, swinging around a post by one arm and clutching a box of Fruit Loops to his chest with the other. The boy’s mother ignores the antics and compares two brands of fish sticks set out in an open freezer. Trundling onward with his cart, Charlie breathes in the relief of remaining lost to society among narrow rows of processed foods that attract a larger following than he has.

This is what everyone else does, Charlie tells himself, needing to repeat the idea it to make himself believe it. I am like them. Maybe.

“I’m flying!” the boy announces, hopping from one canvas sneaker to another.  While other shoppers walk past in more of a hurry to nowhere, Charlie smiles at him.

Charlie’s starred alongside enough child actors to know the length of their attention spans. He understands their frustration with adult routines. He’s had enough of it all himself. He slips off his glasses to read a price tag. The boy halts his play and sprints to his mother. He pulls on her faux leather purse’s strap.

“Mom! It’s Captain Xilabur from New York City! He’s the one I was telling you about in the car. He saves the Empire State Building from the aliens with purple spaceships. Look! He’s just wearing normal clothes right now, but it’s him.”

“Don’t bother that man, Ryan. I’m sure that he’s had a long day at work,” she sighs, sparing a glance at Charlie. Charlie slides his Ray-Bans back on. He isn’t sure if she recognizes him or not. Her eyes are both wide with surprise and apologetic.

“Don’t worry. I’m always happy to meet loyal citizens,” Charlie assures her in the overly-authoritative Captain Xilabur tone that he’s perfected with a voice coach. His words echo around the steel ceiling rafters louder than he intends, but they fade fast in the quiet of late-night shopping.

“You know what? I’m a superhero, too. I can fly, shoot fire from my hands, and stop missiles from hitting the earth,” Ryan boasts, striking his fist at the air and shaking the Froot Loops with his other hand.

His mother takes his hand and pulls him off to the next aisle. She looks back at Charlie and mouths an apology. He waves them on and silently thanks her for not bringing all attention in the store to him.

That’s what it’s like, Charlie realizes before steering his cart to the next aisle for coffee and raspberry jam. That’s how it feels to be someone. No one but you knows who you really are or tells you who you

Elorah Fangrad writes news and opinion articles for Huron’s magazine, the Grapevine. Her short story “Moon Rock Candy” was published in Huron’s student-produced Grub Street. She hopes to reach the wider Western University audience through Occasus.