The next morning, still on my high from helping out Bailey, I was at the grocery store standing in line at the checkout. I sat my gallon of milk and bag of waxy chocolate mini donuts on the metal divider to keep them from skidding down the belt and merging into the pile of groceries of the young family in front of me. Crisp-colored newsprint and glossy magazines sat stacked in rows—People, The Star, and Us Weekly.
“Finally, a Baby!” A yellow headline screamed with a photo of a glowing Gwen Stefani and Blake Shelton arm in arm. “After a secret struggle, Blake’s lifetime dream is coming true!”
If only it were that easy.
The cynicism cued up, a judge in robes that presided over the pink folds and wiry synapses of my brain.
“Your sloth disgusts me, you dodgy wanker,” the Queen condemned me from her post on the front page of the Star. The photograph morphed and swirled, coming to life in front of my clouded eyes. Fascinated, I watched the Queen wag her thick pointy finger tipped with yellowing fingernails at me while she death-gripped her fat little corgi. “Someone is a little nutter,” I heard. Her index finger clocked in small circles outside her ear in the universal sign for crazy.
“Shut up,” I mumbled to the Queen of England and smacked the side of my head.
“Stop being a lazy sod, Freddie. It is right time you grew a pair.” She stared at me unamused over the top of her glasses.
I snorted. “I didn’t realize Your Highness had taken such a shine to my balls,” I replied.
“Dead from the neck up, I say!”
I stuck a finger in my ear and jiggled it to muffle the rest of her pithy English insults, closing my eyes to block out the visual stimulation. When visually overwhelmed, the voices always got louder. It’s like having a built-in studio audience with an 80s sitcom laugh-track and a mob of mean girls cataloging and measuring each of your personal failures with glee. Whole conversations were always taking place inside me, a full-tilt cinematic experience for one, distracting me from my real life.
When I opened my eyes, a little boy in a puffy navy jacket with dirty mittens clipped to the cuffs was staring at me. His huge blue eyes were rimmed with thick lashes and staring at me unflinchingly. He broke away and focused on the boxes of candy bars deliberately shelved at his height, then eagerly grabbed a Hershey bar. “Mom, can I? Please?” he begged.
His sister was a toddler confined to the cart and being forcibly buckled in to stop her from escaping. “Put it back. We don’t have enough money for that,” his pretty but worn thin mom responded. When he didn’t act immediately, she snapped her fingers at him until he put the bar in her outstretched palm. She shoved it haphazardly with one hand into the row of cardboard boxes before turning back to the cart.
She began to load her groceries onto the conveyor belt, rolling the cart back and forth a few inches with her foot to keep her daughter from fussing. Her anxiety and worry were a dark purple cloud I got sucked into, and my skin stretched tight and began to hum. Faster and faster, my internal world sped up, whirring and spinning.
She paused and turned to me. “I’ve got coupons and food stamps,” she admitted apologetically as her head hung a little lower. “It will probably take a while. You might want to pick another lane.”
“It’s okay,” I tried to reassure her. “I’ve got nothing but time.” I pulled the previously discarded Hershey bar off the display and suddenly had the little boy’s full attention.
“Sit down, sweetheart,” she told her daughter, who had managed to free herself from the cart enough to stand on the seat. Shoving her daughter’s thick thighs back into the cart, she worked faster to put things on the conveyor belt with one hand. When she was finished, she drummed her fingers on the edge of the belt, dispelling nervous energy.
In the cart, her dark-haired daughter began to wail. Fresh panic surged as she searched for distractions to placate her and quickly landed on the box of fruit snacks waiting to be scanned. She tore open the box, ripped open a package of fruit snacks, and handed it to the fussy little girl.
“You’re not supposed to do that,” the male clerk said, irritated. “You can’t eat it until you own it. I could call the police.”
“Sorry,” the mom muttered as she visibly shrank and fixated on the digital screen of the credit card terminal, watching the total accumulating higher and higher. Each swipe made her fingers drum faster and faster. She bit her lip and began to shake as it climbed. Beep…Beep…Beep. Each one made her flinch as if it was physically painful. I could feel invisible fingers pressing on my Adam’s apple. The razor-sharp tension passed from her to me, and I began to absorb it. I clawed at my throat; witnessing the transaction made me desperate for more air.
Finally, with the last of her groceries scanned, the balding clerk said, “One hundred and eighty-seven dollars.” He pushed his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose with his middle finger, looking at me.
Did he just flip me off? Stop being paranoid, Freddie.
She swiped her benefits card, and it beeped in protest.
“You must have exhausted your benefits. The total is still one hundred and eighty-seven dollars.” The clerk scratched his head, leaving red lines where his dirty fingernails trailed.
“It can’t be.” Her voice strained. “It was supposed to reload today.” Flustered, she yanked out a credit card from her crackled leather purse and swiped it.
“It says declined,” the clerk said. “Try another card.”
“I don’t have another card,” the mother admitted, her gaze lingering on the milk, cereal, and bread that was on the belt while her daughter’s tears transformed into a full-on wail that went unacknowledged. The mom was laser-focused, mentally calculating the cost of the items and ranking them from most to least necessary.
“I know,” she said. “Shh, sweetheart.” She struggled to pull her daughter free from the cart, yanking up in frustration at the scuffed tennis shoes that refused to untangle from the leg holes of the cart. The cart began to roll as the little girl cried, making her face redden and fat tears spill down her cheeks, her arms and legs flailing in protest, now in full-on meltdown mode.
I reached out to help steady the cart.
“Thanks, mister,” the young mother said with a tight smile.
Finally free, she began to sway and jiggle her daughter as only mothers know instinctively how to do. Side to side, she shifted like an ocean wave while humming into her ear, her palm pressed against the baby’s dark curls on the back of her soft head.
“I’m hungry,” the little boy at her hip said and rubbed his eyes while she ignored him. “Mommy,” he said louder and tugged on the bottom of her coat. “I’m so hungry.”
Little cracks began to shatter and run across her, a network of hairline fissures disintegrating her patience and dissolving her into chaos. I heard a loud crack and then blinked, envisioning her imploding and dissolving into dust right in front of me.
“You WIC mothers are all the same,” the clerk said, clearly annoyed. “Nothing but white trash, getting a hand out from the system.” He spat the words at her. “And shut that kid up. This is a place of business, not a playground.”
“Excuse me,” I said loudly and pushed forward, inserting myself into the clerk’s field of view. “I’d like to pay for these groceries, but I have to insist that you stop being a dick and treat this woman with the respect that motherhood deserves.” I handed him the candy bar. “And add this to the bill.” He scanned it then handed it back rudely, pushing it into my hand.
“Apologize to her,” I demanded in a deep, authoritative voice that sounded foreign coming from me.
“C’mon, man. I didn’t say anything you weren’t already thinking.”
“I assure you I was not.”
He rolled his eyes again, refusing to give in to my demand.
“Apologize,” I growled at him, “or I’m contacting corporate.”
“Fine. Sorry,” he blurted just to shut me up, then huffed and rolled his eyes.
It was insincere, but still a win, and I decided to drop it. I peeled off two hundred-dollar bills from the stack in my coat and handed them to the clerk as the mother’s eyes swept up to meet mine. Hers were large and brimming with tears, mine bloodshot and blue. I passed the chocolate bar to her and then bent down to her son’s level. “That’s for you, but only after you have dinner.” He smiled widely, revealing gaping holes in his mouth where his front teeth should be.
“Uh oh, looks like your mom needs a new boy! You’re falling apart already!” Which made him giggle.
“No, I’m not!”
I straightened back up and smiled at her.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m having the worst day. I was up all night with Ella, she’s teething and feverish. There’s no food in the house. All our laundry is dirty. It’s a mess, really.” She burst into tears.
“What’s your name?” I asked, trying to distract her with questions. I felt dreadfully inadequate when faced with the big emotions of most women.
“Molly,” she said, sniffling.
“Well, Molly, being a mother is hard work.” I smiled at her. “In my eyes, mothers are saints. I wouldn’t be half the man I am today without my Ma.”
“Half the man?” An ugly voice sneered in my head. “You think you’re actually half?”
She smiled and wiped at her eyes.
“Actually, you’re the one helping me out. I’m conducting a very serious social experiment,” I offered in explanation.
“Rescuing single mothers who are about to snap?” She laughed as she threw herself under the bus.
“You’d be surprised how many of us are just barely holding it together.” I smiled warmly at her as the whispering began again, and I pushed it further away.
“I’m Freddie Angel—the Funologist,” I introduced. “You may have heard of me,” I said, biting my tongue self-deprecatingly and jiggling my head from side to side. “I’m sure my reputation has greatly preceded itself.” I pretended to toss my hair like I’ve seen Cher do in interviews, making those weird grunting noises she makes that I picked up from Saturday Night Live skits.
She laughed. “To be honest, if you haven’t made a guest appearance on Sesame Street recently, I probably haven’t.”
“Can’t say that I have, but I wouldn’t turn it down. A fan is a fan, and besides, half my fans are shitting themselves already.”
She laughed hard.
Win column. Check.
“Pardon my French,” I added, indicating her son. “I don’t have any kids and always forget there are little ears around. I’ve been told I’m an acquired taste.” I tried to smile and explained, “Well, I won the lottery last week and decided to spread the joy to as many people as I can, and you, my dear, made the cut. Will you take a picture with me so I can post?”
“Sure.” She pulled her daughter from the cart, and we both bent down with the kids and smiled as I pointed the camera at us for a selfie. I posted it to social media with the hashtags #thefunologist #freddieangelisthefunologist #singlemomsrock. Then I bagged her groceries for her and stacked them neatly back into the cart.
“Do you need help loading these into your car?” I offered.
Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t ask you to do that, too. You’ve already done so much.” I looked at her daughter, who was falling asleep in her arms, and put my finger to my lips to quiet her.
“Looks like you have your hands full there,” I whispered. “I’ll just get these into the trunk while you get the kids in their car seats, and you can head home.”
Her shoulders dropped and she nodded, relaxing for the first time. Following her out to the car, I pushed the cart and then jumped up on the bar between the front wheels and rode it, rolling down the parking lot with the cold wind slapping my face. The cart began to pick up speed, and I swerved it away as she opened the trunk of a rusted minivan. I circled the parking lot a second time, pumped my legs, and coasted to a stop by her trunk. Then I loaded her trunk full of groceries.
After the kids were settled in their car seats, she returned to me. “What’s your name again? I’m sorry, I was so distracted.”
“Freddie Angel, resident Funologist at your service,” I said, shaking her hand and then bowing deeply. My back twinged, and I let out a little yelp. “Never get old, Molly. It’s a bitch! No one tells you that you can hurt yourself just by rolling over in bed.”
She laughed. “I’ll have to remember that.”
I pulled one more bill from my coat pocket and held it out for her. Stunned, she eyed me. After a long minute, she reached up to take it, and I held it tight.
“My only condition is that you spend this on yourself. A mani-pedi, a massage. Hell, buy yourself a dozen roses, woman, but nothing for the kids. You use this to take care of yourself.”
She burst into tears as I placed the bill in her hand.
“Promise me,” I prompted. “Be selfish for once, take care of Molly.”
“I promise,” she choked out and then flung her arms around my neck. I awkwardly clapped her on the back, the human contact teasing tears from my own eyes. I didn’t realize how much I craved a hug until she planted one on me.
“Thank you, Freddie. You are an angel.”