Tater and the Item Patrol

Posted by Troy Eckhardt on March 28, 2017 at 9:12 pm

It was the first week of spring in Central Florida. While others in far-off regions of the country were enjoying March’s transition from lion to lamb, Floridians were trudging through 85-degree mugginess and dreaming about next year’s three-week winter.

As Tater made his way across the sun-soaked asphalt of the Wal-Mart parking lot, he thought of his mother, who had sent him on this errand. Almost seventeen years old, Tater, whose real name was Japheth, had been recently thrust from complete non-driver to part-time professional chauffeur and grocery-getter. Thoughts of Mom had become bittersweet lately. Her happy disposition and quick wit had recently been slightly marred by the tumor discovered growing in her left temporal lobe. Mom didn’t like to drive as much as she used to. Tater bleakly wondered how much longer she would be able to write out the grocery lists he frequently carried to the store.

“Dad seems so optimistic about her prognosis,” the voice in his head whispered, “but without knowing if she has a few months or several years to live, it’s hard to know when it’s ok to pretend everything’s normal again.”

Stepping through the entryway into the vestibule between the Hell of a sweltering springtime and the Hell of a seething cauldron of idiot consumers, Tater welcomed the blast of air conditioning. He decided that he’d rather face the masses for as long as he was able than spend one more minute being crushed by the humid inferno outside.

“Her speech may have slowed a bit, but she’s as organized as ever,” he thought to himself as he noticed that items on the list Mom had written were grouped according to their locations in the store. “Let’s start at the back. First stop: The dairy section for cheese sticks and milk.”

Almost finished with his course through the labyrinth, Tater rounded the corner toward the front of Wal-Mart. He pushed past a snot-nosed child hanging half-way out of a cart and a dark-skinned immigrant woman wearing bright, unusual clothing, then grabbed the blueberries and romaine and headed for the check-out lanes.

“Too full; too full; too full; oh, Lord, no way!” Rejecting every prospect, he moved toward the speedy lanes, which were slightly less jammed, while he took inventory of the items in the cart. Eighteen. Good enough for the twenty-or-fewer line.

Staring at the ten-year-old tagging behind the woman ahead of him in line, Tater tried not to be too disturbed as the boy ate the bountiful harvest he’d just plucked from his nose. A barely audible sigh was voiced behind him in line.

Assuming the noise was the private, pitiful complaint of a woman who had either just witnessed the nauseating feast Booger Boy was enjoying, or who was dreading the walk through the heat to a car-turned-oven, Tater thought again of Mom. He loved her and agonized over what she might have to go through. Dad spoke of an eternity with God and an order and purpose to all things under His sun, but Tater wasn’t always fully comforted by his father’s faith. He knew Mom struggled with it, too.

SIGH. Louder this time. Almost ignorable, but not quite. By the third time the sound reached his ears, Tater knew that the sigh was not private after all, but meant for him. He turned to face her.

“Can I help you?”

Skin cracked and worn like the leather seats in Dad’s Suburban, eyes like tarnished pennies, and pursed lips used to two packs a day met his gaze. “You have more than twenty items,” she croaked.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I have eighteen.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Look, I counted, ok? I have eighteen items. I could get two more.”

“You have more than twenty.”

Tater’s neck burned hotter than the pavement outside as he reached for a two-pack of Reese’s cups and a bag of M&Ms; Mom and Dad’s favorites. As he pitched them into his cart, he smiled at the woman and said, “Now I have twenty. Jesus loves you. Have a great day.”

Suddenly, life didn’t seem so bad.