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Tales from Exit 22 by Al Batt

I tried to say, “Irish wristwatch” three times quickly.

I failed.

I wanted to be pulled home in a Radio Flyer little red wagon.

I called Uber. They wouldn’t do it.

It had been a hectic day. On my way home, I needed to stop at a grocery store because I had a list. The store was busy. I grabbed a cart. A shopping cart is a fitness coach — a physical fitness coach, not a fiscal fitness coach. I had a slender list — if I were buying for an Army battalion. It was an extensive list, which required a big cart with 4-wheel drive, not one of those puny little carts or a basket. Someone is sitting in the shade today because someone planted a tree long ago. I’m shopping because someone built a cart long ago. Shopping is a superhuman effort for me, involving weeping and gnashing of teeth. I began to outgrabe — to emit strange noises, a whistling mutter and moan. Lewis Carroll coined outgrabe in his poem “Jabberwocky.” I hoped my shopping expedition wouldn’t last as long as the War of Jenkins’ Ear. If it did, I’d suffer jet lag. I went down the aisle where what I wanted used to be. They had moved it to another aisle. When that happens, the store becomes the 21st Century’s version of the Wild West.

I shuffled to the bread aisle and studied the options. My mind sometimes travels while my feet remain in place. I saw a guy who was morosely moving his shopping cart through the store. He reminded me of a man I saw in one of the L-towns of Kentucky. It was Lexington or Louisville. I’d had a restless night in a tall hotel. I typically walk the stairs, but I was on the top floor and I needed to put a hurry into my giddyup, so I boarded an elevator. There were two of us on that contraption. I was one of them. The other was a fellow with both thumbs blazing away on his cellphone until the craunching elevator’s door opened to the lobby. Mister Two Thumbs Texting walked out and kept going straight, right into the far wall. We don’t need to travel to outer space to find strange lifeforms. “What a meathead,” I thought, but I didn’t say that. I was envious of his ability to employ his thumbs in that manner. I’m sure he wasn’t a meathead, but he did a great impersonation. He appeared uninjured, straightened his glasses and moved on. Perhaps he was used to such collisions. He’d gotten his daily minimum requirement of walking face-first into a wall before breakfast was served.

I knew I shouldn’t have slammed down a couple of iced teas before I went shopping as it caused impulse buying, but I did. I’ll buy anything just to use a store’s restroom when nature calls and puts me on speed dial.

That’s what happened. I parked my cart in a quiet aisle, so I could use the store’s necessary. I walked to the comfort station while thinking of gulls. In Massachusetts, a gull took a man’s wallet from the top of a pizza box. A bucket truck retrieved the wallet from a nearby rooftop and returned it to the man. Also, in Massachusetts, another gull stole a wallet from a man’s shopping cart at a Stop & Shop. There was a cash reward for the return of the victim’s billfold. I imagined a gull using the purloined credit cards to buy a humongous, supreme deluxe meat-lover’s pizza.

When I’d emerged unscathed from the lavatory, I noticed someone had taken the opportunity to place a package of beef jerky in my cart. At least, that’s what I’d tell my wife. That misdeed paled in comparison with the time I’d ordered her something nice for her birthday. It was the perfect gift, but the mail-order company sent her that softball glove I wanted instead.

Maybe I could find someone to toss a ZERO candy bar into my cart. Creamy caramel, crunchy peanuts and tasty almond nougat, all covered in white fudge. It’s one of her favorites.

If I can’t find one, I’ll tell her a gull swiped it and flew it back to Massachusetts.

Al Batt’s columns appear in the Tribune every Wednesday.