Page 5 of Diesel

“It’s seventeen cans of tuna,” I said. “What are you going to do with so many cans?”

“Save money.”

That did not answer my question. “You’ll save money by not buying things you don’t need.”

She glared at me like I’d personally insulted her ancestors. “Young people don’t understand value.”

After I’d just explained value to her. But Edith was a repeat tuna offender. “I understand that you live alone and probably don’t eat seventeen cans of tuna in a year.”

“You don’t know my life.”

“I know you tried to return nine cans of tuna last month because you bought too many.”

She muttered something about technology and fiscal irresponsibility and put back twelve cans, kept five. Compromise.

Artie appeared with a package of sliced turkey and the swagger of a man who believed he had just devastated a deli employee with his sexual magnetism. He interpreted politeness as flirtation.

“Got her number,” he announced, returning from the deli with imaginary digits.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I could have.”

“But you didn’t.” The deli woman probably said, “Have a nice day, sir,” and Artie walked away thinking, “Still got it.”

“Details.”

I rounded everyone up near the registers. Five seniors, five carts, and enough groceries to feed a small army or one determined coupon enthusiast. Edith pulled out her bag and started sorting through slips of paper with the focus of a surgeon.

“This one’s expired,” the cashier said, holding up a coupon.

“By one day.”

“Still expired.”

“That’s corporate greed.”

“That’s store policy,” he said. The cashier never stood a chance. Edith had been preparing for this ideological battle since the microwave betrayed humanity in 1985.

“Same thing.”

It took twenty minutes to get through checkout. Another ten to load everyone back into the shuttle along with their groceries. Walter’s plastic bags had multiplied somehow, defying the laws of physics. How? He’d brought bags so he wouldn’t have to pay for any. Were those bags breeding?

Greta had acquired a potted plant nobody remembered her buying. Artie was still talking about the deli counter woman, but now stretched a routine turkey purchase into an entire romantic subplot. Edith was reorganizing her coupons because naturally the system must be restored after the devastating loss of one expired soldier. Irene was clutching her sparkling cider like a consolation prize.

“Everyone have everything?” I asked, climbing into the driver’s seat.

A chorus of affirmatives, plus one complaint from Walter about his dentures.

“All right. Let’s get you all home.”

Starting the engine, I pulled out of the parking lot, already mentally preparing for when we’d do this all over again. Same seniors. Same chaos.

But I knew every one of them. Knew Irene’s medical restrictions and exactly why she couldn’t have wine. Knew Walter’s dentures were bothering him. Noticed Edith’s hip hurting even when she refused to say it. Remembered her tuna-return history. Knew Greta’s matchmaking disasters, and that Artie interpreted basic customer service as romantic interest. I corralled them, protected them from their own questionable shopping decisions, let them argue, gave them shit right back because I loved it. Wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Well, maybe I’d trade it for a cart with four functional wheels.

But probably not.