The “grocery shop of shame” is a form of modern art that peaks in its grandeur at the conveyer belt. My post–aunty dinner angst may have influenced what went into the basket. Plus, the signature sky-blue color painted all over Supershops—the same shade that brands everything in our office—triggers something in me that can only be cured by processed foods.
All the items that I plan to purchase and consume are splayed out and slowly gliding toward the cashier, a visual representation of the state of my mental health. The weeks when I get the marshmallow strawberries and the Corn Nuts are particular cries for help.
The key to a successful grocery shop of shame is all about timing. Eight p.m. on a Monday is usually the safest hour if you want a little discretion, but somehow there are two people behind me tonight. Worst of all, the one closest to me looks to be the juicing type. We wait in meditative silence as the cashier scans the items in hollow beeping intervals.
I add the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos—was that a gasp? The guy behind me winces as he eyes my treats, and he looks like he might shit his high-end sweatpants. He clearly doesn’t understand my craft. He’s perfect and sinewy and could make it as a time-share brochure model if he desired. He glances at his teal Apple Watch, grunts, then lifts his basket of produce from the ground and storms away.
If only I could leave this situation too.
The guy behind him shuffles forward and grabs the last bag of All-Dressed peanuts I’d been eyeing. My stomach twists as he adds it to his pile. It’s him. Him as in Clifford HR guy. He’s dressed like a British gangster in an Adidas sweatsuit, and his basket is filled with puffy bags of chips with reckless flavors made for eating alone: pickled onion, chilly and chive.
Solidarity.
His gaze shifts from the conveyer belt to me. He jolts in surprise, then a genuine smile overtakes him. “Jolene, what the hell? So good to see you.”
“Nice to see another patron of the arts.” I look pointedly at his snacks, and his grin tugs a little wider. Only it’s too much—what is he doing here, after everything today? Maybe Supershops hired him to monitor me at all company locations. Maybe this is a social experiment on how to break a person in one day. “You’re doing a good job acting surprised,” I say.
“What?” He raises a brow, but he’s still smiling. He’s a stark contrast to the scuffed floors and depressive Supershops-branded endcaps.
“Are you saying this isn’t some kind of HR undercover op then? Gregory isn’t hiding in the store, dicking up the produce with his fingers as we speak?”
He lets out a startled chuckle. “What did you just say?”
I should probably be embarrassed that I said that out loud. But running into him here is the cherry on top of my surreal day. This feels like a glitch in the matrix or a dream. So I poke some more. “I’m off work. This is my time; I can say ‘peen-hole’ if I want.” I stare him down like this is a dare. After all, he spent my performance meeting doodling cats, so he’s not the paradigm of professionalism either.
“That’s fifty-six seventy-three,” the cashier chimes in neutrally.
I tap the machine to pay and thank her, but I keep my eyes on Cliff.
His brow crinkles. “I was referring to the part about Gregory. I would never bring him on an undercover operation. He doesn’t have what it takes.”
I try not to laugh in surprise, but it feels like he passed some kind of test. To hide my amusement, I narrow my eyes at his groceries. His eyes follow my gaze.
“As you can see, I’m just here for my essentials.” He nods toward the front entrance. “I just live a few blocks away.”
I take a step back. “So do I. I shop here all the time for our employee discount. I’ve never seen you before.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have recognized me. We only met a few days ago.”
“I suppose.” I nod politely to the cashier as she hands me my receipt. “Well, bye,” I mutter as I grab the frayed handles of my Supershops reusable bags and hope for peace.
“See ya,” he calls, and holds up his keys in a wave. I’m already walking through the automatic doors, too far gone to wave back.
I trot across the asphalt parking lot with slightly heavier than planned shopping bags. The sun has gone down and things are turning shadowy. The creaky squeal of a retirement-aged car trying its darnedest sounds too close behind me. I turn sharply to face a golden sedan that could be considered vintage if the world didn’t want to forget this model ever existed.
“You’re not walking home with that many groceries, are you?” Cliff calls from his rolled-down passenger-side window.
I shrug as best as I can with the pounds of sugar weighing them down. “It’s how I keep my fitness levels optimum.” Although, if we’re being honest, the Alphagetti cans were a poor choice.
“I’ll give you a ride,” he says, without hesitation.
“Nah, we’re good,” I say back, also without hesitation.
“You sure you’re okay walking home in the dark?”
As if on cue, the streetlamp above me flickers on, casting a creepy fluorescent sheen over the tar lot.
Cliff stretches himself over the passenger seat and opens the side door. “Come on, it’s no trouble.” He nods toward my grocery bags. “Anyone can see your spicy Cheetos; you’re going to get mugged.”
For the second time this evening, I find myself biting back a smile. I stare at the sidewalk ahead. Admittedly the neighborhood has been on the sketchier side after dark these days. But would getting mugged be as bad as him seeing where I live?
The interior light in his car clicks on, like a moth lamp beckoning me in, so I accept my fate. “Just so you know, I’ve been doing this route for eight years sans incident,” I say as I unload my bags into the passenger-side footwell. The tang of relief in my forearms is almost too much. “But thanks.”
The interior of the car smells about how you’d imagine. There’s a New Car Smell air freshener hanging on the rearview mirror that must be ironic, because I’m picking up old-dog vibes. Music is quietly filtering through the crackly speakers, but it’s instrumental and low and sends a soothing warmth into my chest.
“Sorry,” Cliff mutters. “I don’t have too many guests in here. But I think you should know that I realize how bad it is.”
“It’s nice,” I say. I don’t mean it to sound sarcastic. Because even though it’s obvious his dog spends many happy a moment in here, the vibe is still good.
“So, what’s on your docket now that groceries are sorted?” he asks.
“See, if you don’t want to sound like an undercover HR guy, you’re doing a terrible job.”
He chuckles, and we pull out of the lot. “Okay, now for the obtaining your address part of my covert operation, so I can bug your place and expose your secrets.”
“Is that an inappropriate joke?” I lower my lids at him accusingly.
He shrugs. “I thought it was funny.”
“It was,” I say evenly. “I live at Sixty-Fourth and Bow-West Road. My building’s called the Riviera.”
“Seriously?”
I nod and brace for his impending judgment. I’m not sure how many more knocks I can take today. “Yeah, the Riviera boasts interiors that haven’t been updated since the seventies, questionable stains throughout, and ambient views of public urination.”
“I meant ’cause that’s literally a block away from me.” He lifts one brow. “But they had to add the last brag once you moved in, didn’t they?”
This time I can’t catch it fast enough—a chuckle escapes me. “I didn’t think you had it in you to make a decent joke.”
“Hey, I’m off the clock too.”
His right arm is resting on the center console, and I swear I can feel the warmth of it radiating through the car’s interior. It feels cozy.
“You know the white-and-blue-trimmed building across the street? I’ve been there for like a year. I’m surprised I never see you around. Where do you normally hang out?” He nudges the air beside my arm playfully, and the world tilts. “Other than Supershops and the office, of course.”
“Oh, you know . . .” The liquor store, mostly. “Just around.”
His gaze briefly flickers from the road toward me as he cranks the stick shift. All the warmth that surrounded me has turned clammy.
“And like you said, you wouldn’t have recognized me.”
“True.” He nods and his gaze returns to the road. I take a steadying breath. “You don’t have a car? There aren’t any trains running out here; how do you get to work?”
“The lovely transit system.”
“Isn’t that, like, three bus transfers?”
I shrug. “We can’t all be blessed with fancy corporate parking spaces . . . or cars.”
“Yeah . . .” Cliff stiffens a little. I realize how that must’ve come off, like I was shaming him. Shit. This is why I shouldn’t speak.
“How long have you been in HR?” I blurt out.
“Oh, about a year or so.” Is there an edge to his voice?
“And is it everything you hoped it would be?”
“And more.” He smiles, but it’s not as natural as before. “Hey, Jolene, since I’m driving every day anyway, I could pick you up.”
“Oh no. Cliff, it’s okay—I swear I wasn’t trying to pressure you to offer.”
“Nah, I know you weren’t. Well, maybe there’s some carbon footprint pressure—it’s common sense. We’re both heading to the same place at the same time, and I wouldn’t mind the company.” He says all this so casually, like it’s a totally normal thing for an HR guy to offer an employee who is currently on probation. His hands weave over the wheel as the car turns the corner. “But I get it if you prefer the bus. They still hosting those public masturbation matinees?”
I cackle against my will, sharp and loud. How has this guy managed to break my cool twice in one night? While he focuses on the road, I dare a longer stare, as though his face will reveal what’s hidden inside his head. “To be fair, that show gives a lot of bang for your buck,” I quip back. “But honestly, it’s fine. I’m sure us pleb employees aren’t allowed to carpool with HR anyway.”
“Believe it or not, management has determined that HR bots are allowed to be friendly with employees. We just can’t date them.” His hands go tense around the wheel, and his eyes flash toward the exterior mirror. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—that’s not going to be a—”
“Oh god, definitely not,” I interrupt.
His knuckles loosen. “You flatter.” But then his eyes soften. “Totally don’t want to make things awkward, though. The offer’s there, but no pressure. I get it could be weird.”
He obviously offered only out of obligation because of my weird comment about his parking spot, but I can’t carpool with a corporate cop, anyway—no matter how much he wants to act otherwise. Besides, if we commuted together, he’d just ask tons of questions, and we’d get to know more and more useless shit about each other, and then we’d get to the useful parts and . . . I shake that train of thought away. “Thanks, I appreciate it, but I’m good.”
Yes, it’s only because he’s HR that we can’t carpool.
He pulls up to the curb of my street—or, I guess, our street now—soundless but for the clicking of the turn signal. I hold my breath as my building comes into view, with its broken sign and the empty shopping cart leaning sideways on the front lawn. Those things were invisible to me just yesterday. Why did I have to tell him where I live? This is too much. What if I leave the hall light on, the one I always forget about, and he sees my colossal dish pile through the window? What if he deems my apartment unsafe for human life and has to make a report to headquarters about me? What if Miley’s there and she tells him about my tarot reading? He can track my comings and goings if he wants to, can inspect my garbage if he so desires.
All the calm vibes have dissipated. My seat belt pulls tighter across my chest. I rush to unclip it and open the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“Hey, I’ll help with your—” I grab the grocery bags in a rapid swoop and slam the door shut before I can hear him finish.
It’s just that HR people aren’t our friends. Nothing else.