Spitball Army

Corey is standing just outside the entrance to the Winn-Dixie, fanning the smoke from the multiple rib racks cooking on the grill: it’s billowing right at his face in a steady smoke-stream, but none of us, myself included, bother to mention to him that he’d have an easier time breathing if he’d only step one foot to the left. We’re all too intent on getting into the grocery store, having been put into a food trance by the alluring aroma of Corey’s fixin’s. I spy a jar of Wickles’ pickled okra in the “Alabama Local” aisle and briefly contemplate buying some to ward off the advancement of any infant melanoma cells on the surface of my body. I think better of it because, well, I hate okra just about as much as I hate cancer. At the challenging self-checkout, I choose English as my preferred language and proceed to piss off the automated lady behind the screen by scanning my coupons too early. Once I’ve paid, she continues to holler “Remove all the groceries from the bagging area!” until the woman standing at the adjacent register says, “She sounds like somebody’s wife” (a nearly-ironic statement on this Mother’s Day). We both laugh, from our bellies, and I think: Next time, I’ll choose Spanish.