I think my personal Hell would be a grocery store.
That needs to be more specific. I have nothing against grocery stores. I enjoy them, actually.
What’s not to like? They’re big buildings stocked with food! There’s fresh fruits and vegetables,
and a bakery, and you get to push a shopping cart around and fill it up with the things you want —
And then you have to pay for it all, which admittedly is not the most fun part. But,
after you do that, you get to take all that food you just paid for home with you!
It’s wonderful. It’s one of the furthest things from Hell. Usually.
When I say “personal Hell,” I’m imagining, first of all, that Hell is real — which I don’t
actually believe — I don’t believe Heaven is real either, so don’t worry, it balances out — and,
second of all, that Hell works like it does in Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey, or that episode of
The Twilight Zone where the crook thinks he’s in Heaven until the end when it turns out “This
is the other place!” — sorry if I spoiled that sixty-two-year-old TV show for you just now.
I’m talking about a concept of Hell where the punishment is tailored to the individual,
particularly designed to make that person miserable, to inflict upon them
maximum suffering for all eternity.
And for me, that personal Hell would be — in a grocery store, yes, but specifically,
a grocery store where I was constantly being approached for a chat by people I know.
Bumping into someone I know unexpectedly in public is one of my least favorite experiences.
As a rule, I don’t go to public places — like grocery stores — by myself in order to socialize.
I go to do a specific thing. There’s a park near my house where I like to go for walks when the
weather is nice. I go there to walk, to listen to music, to take in the fresh air and sunshine.
It’s a solitary activity, and one I enjoy very much. I’m happy to exchange
smiles or waves with other folks as we pass each other on the walking path,
but I’m not interested in making friends or carrying on a conversation.
When I go to the grocery store, I’m there to shop for groceries,
not to stand around politely pretending to give a shit while someone I went to high school with
fills me in on what they’ve been up to all these years. There are precious few people
in my life who I like so well that I’m happy to see them and eager to talk to them
no matter when or where we encounter each other. Odds are, the person who spots me
in the produce section picking out Granny Smith apples ain’t one of those precious few.
If I’m unfortunate enough to be at the grocery store at the same time as someone I know, but
fortunate enough to spot them before they spot me, I will go to great lengths to avoid being seen. If
they’re at the far end of an aisle I need to go down in order to get an item on my list, I will
immediately move on to something else. I will push my shopping cart to the far reaches of the store,
even if there’s nothing over there I need. Hell, if the person I know seems like they’re
gonna be there awhile, I might just head for the cash register and get the fuck out. I can
come back for frozen orange juice and that spicy vegetarian chili I like later, when it’s safe.
I realize this seems extreme to a lot of you, and I get it. It seems extreme to me, too.
I’m not this neurotic about most things. But, there’s something about being pulled
into an unexpected, unwanted, unnecessary public interaction with someone I know that just
fills me with anxiety, and annoyance.
I mean, why do we have to have a conversation in that situation?
Why? Because we know each other? We’ve met before, therefore we must exchange pleasantries and engage
in a certain amount of small talk before we both get on with our separate business? It’s
that sort of pointless social obligation, that does no good for anyone, that I rebel against.
It’s also the presumption on the part of the other person. Why do you presume I want to talk to you?
I don’t presume you want to talk to me — that’s why if I see you first, I don’t approach you or do
anything to attract your attention, I steer clear so we can both continue our shopping unmolested.
Speaking of which, why do you want to talk to me? Is it just the feeling of social
obligation? You think it’s the polite thing to do? It’s not — it’s incredibly rude — but
you don’t see it that way, so you think you’re fulfilling an expectation, carrying out some
superfluous but nonetheless binding clause of the social contract. That’s gotta be it, right?
You can’t sincerely want to talk to me, or believe that I want to talk to you,
right there, in the middle of the grocery, can you? What could we possibly have to talk about?
You’re probably going to ask me how I’ve been doing. And I’m going to say, “Fine,” and leave
it at that, because I don’t want to be having this conversation at all. But then, even though I’ll
hate myself more in this moment than I have at any other time in my life, because it proves that I
am just as much a prisoner of the bullshit social conventions I’ve just been cursing you for abiding
by, I’ll follow that up with, “How have you been?” And you’ll take that as a prompt to catch me up on
everything that’s happened to you since the last time we spoke, no matter how long ago that was,
and I won’t say anything, I’ll just stand there and listen, nodding along and smiling pleasantly,
because for all my big talk when I’m addressing a camera, out in the wild, I’m a coward, too.
But, even though I’m standing there in the middle of the baking and cooking supplies aisle — all
I needed was a bottle of olive oil — listening as you tell me about your job, or your spouse,
or your kids, or the recent illness of a family member, or whatever the hell else you’re saying,
let me assure you that I do not give a shit. Aside from the baseline of human compassion
that prevents me from actively wishing harm on you and yours — a quantity that is
rapidly being depleted the longer you drone on, by the way — I do not care about you or anyone in
your family or anything that has happened, is happening, or will ever happen to any of you.
If I did care about any of that, I’d probably know it already, because we’d actually be friends,
and wouldn’t be seeing each other for the first time in
god knows how long as a result of a random bump-in at the supermarket.
You know what you should do? If you see me at the grocery store? And you actually want to
talk to me, not just perform an expected social nicety? Instead of approaching me right there,
wait until you get home, and then text me, or email me, or message me on one of the
social media networks where we’re connected. And say “Hey, I thought I saw you at the
grocery store earlier and it reminded me that we haven’t talked for awhile. Wanna chat sometime?”
And I’ll either write back and say “That sounds nice, when do you want to do that?” Or I won’t.
And if you don’t have my number, or my email address, or some other means to send me a personal
message, then you absolutely should not be walking up to me if you see me at the grocery store,
because we definitely aren’t friends and there’s not a chance in hell that I want to talk to you.
So, if you’re the devil — and you’re . . . real — and you’re watching this, now you know
how to make my everlasting damnation as uncomfortable as possible.
Did your prep work for you! You’re welcome.
I can imagine what it will be like, after I’m dead. I’ll find myself walking up to the Pearly
Gates. There will be St. Peter. I’ll give him my name, and the celestial maître d' will scan his
book before glancing at me from beneath his brow and giving a shake of his head. And I’ll be like,
“Yeah, I didn’t think so, but thanks for checking.”
Next thing I know, I’m pushing my shopping cart through the front entrance of the supermarket.
I’ve got my list on my phone. I need to get those Granny Smith apples, so I hang a right
and head for the produce section. I remember making this video, revealing my own personal
hell for all the world to know, so I’m bracing myself for the infinite parade of interrupting
old acquaintances and distant relatives that I just know is going to start at any moment.
But I make it to the apple stand without anyone bothering me. I pick out a half
dozen good looking Granny Smiths, put ‘em in a bag, and move on, working my way
down the list — to the soda aisle for that lemon-lime flavored seltzer I like, to the
snack aisle to gather the various nuts and dried berries which I use to make my homemade snack mix,
to the dairy aisle for some non-fat Greek yogurt — all without anyone coming up to bother me!
I get everything on my list — plus a few extra items, for I am not immune to the
temptation of impulse buys, especially when the bakery has just put out a fresh batch
of those no-bake chocolate oatmeal cookies — and head for the checkout. I get in line. There are
two or three people in front of me, but it’s okay, the line seems to be moving pretty well.
Then, the shopper in front of me, a white lady who looks to be somewhere in her 60s, perhaps early
70s, steps up to the register. As the cashier scans her items, the old lady reaches into her
purse and pulls out her wallet. Except — no — I realize after a moment that it’s not her wallet.
It’s her checkbook. She’s going to pay for her groceries — with a check. I’ve already unloaded my
cart onto the conveyor belt, careful to separate my items from those of the old lady using the
checkout divider. I look behind me — the line stretches back three or four deep. I’m trapped.
As the old lady, who is, of course, in no hurry whatsoever, begins to fill out her check,
I snort, and smile a bitter smile. Old Scratch rooted around in the guts of my
mind and found the one shopping experience even more unbearable than having people come up and
talk to me at the grocery store: being stuck in line behind someone paying with a check.
I’ve got to hand it to the old devil. He sure knows his onions.
. . . I forgot to get onions! Oh, no, god, no! Noooooo!