Page 3 of Diesel

“Smart kid.”

Edith was already waiting at the curb when I pulled up to her place. A rambler with aluminum siding, a front porch that sagged slightly to the left, and a yard full of garden gnomes, which made Irene’s single gnome look lonely. Edith was seventy-four, thin as a rail, and clutching a canvas bag that bulged ominously.

Coupons. Had to be. Edith brought coupons the way other people brought oxygen. Essential. Non-negotiable. Probably organized by expiration date and product category.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said, climbing aboard carefully, which suggested her hip was bothering her again. She wouldn’t admit it, though. Edith didn’t believe in complaining. She believed in coupons and the inevitable downfall of society via technology.

“Morning, Edith,” I said. “How are you today?”

“Fine, thank you.” She settled into the last available seat and placed her bag on her lap with both hands, like someone might try to steal it. “I clipped some excellent coupons this week. Thirty-five cents off Greek yogurt.”

Thirty-five cents at a time, she would survive the collapse of civilization.

“Thrilling,” Walter muttered.

“You mock, but savings add up. Unlike you young people with your phones and your apps and your complete disregard for fiscal responsibility.”

“I’m eighty-two, Edith,” he reminded her.

“You know what I mean. Everyone under ninety is young people now.” She patted her bag, not realizing she was a part of her own classification, which no one pointed out. “Technology will be our downfall. Mark my words.”

“You said that about microwaves in 1985,” Greta said.

“And I was right. Have you seen what they do to food? It’s unnatural.”

“It heats it up.”

“Exactly. Unnatural.” There was no argument to make because Edith had constructed a completely sealed logical system. Microwave heats food. Food was previously not hot. Machine made it hot. Unnatural. Case Closed.

I pulled away from the curb before the great microwave debate of the century could escalate. Budget Foods was a ten-minute drive, which gave everyone plenty of time to argue about technology, dentures, and whether or not Artie’s blazer was burgundy or maroon. Spoiler alert—it was definitely burgundy, but Artie insisted it was maroon, and I wasn’t getting involved.

I had survival instincts.

Five elderly people, each operating under their own private set of laws, and I was chauffeuring them through Temptation while carefully choosing which hills I was absolutely not willing to die on.

The parking lot at Budget Foods was half-empty, which was ideal. Fewer people meant less chaos, and with this crew, chaos was always one poorly placed cantaloupe away. I pulled up to the front entrance and killed the engine.

“All right, everyone. Let’s make this quick and painless.”

“Speak for yourself,” Walter said, already working his jaw. “These dentures are staging a coup.”

“Revolution starts in the mouth,” Greta said solemnly.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Neither do your dentures, apparently.”

Climbing out, I opened the side door and helped Irene down first. She took my arm with the kind of grip that suggested she didn’t actually need the help but appreciated the gesture. Walter came next, still clutching his plastic bags like they contained state secrets. Then Greta, who patted my cheek and asked one more time if I’d reconsider her grandson.

“Not happening, Miss Greta.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Ollie.”

“You’ll survive.”

Artie emerged next, adjusting his blazer like he was about to walk a runway instead of a grocery store. Edith brought up the rear, death-gripping her coupon bag.

“Everyone remember what they need?” I asked, knowing full well nobody was listening.