Shopping Cart

My dogs run through their high quality "Science Diet" food quicker than Tom Brady and Randy Moss through a high school secondary full of one-legged defensive backs. Every two and a half weeks or so, they run out and I have to go to PetSmart. I like PetSmart over Petco because I prefer the mildly clever double meaning of PetSmart (Pet Smart or Pets Mart) over the lame slogan of "where the pets go". Earlier this week, I made the pilgrimage in the middle of one of the last shopping days before Christmas.

Rolling by the entrance to Barnes and Noble, my mind filed through the Rolodex-like queue of books I'd like to purchase from my favorite volume bookseller. At any given point in time, there are 30-40 books of varying genre in this wishlist of sorts and I'm somehow able to keep a perpetual tally in my head. Somewhere between Odd Thomas (Dean Koontz is a personal hero of mine) and the new memoir by Clarence Thomas, a woman in the parking lot draws my attention and breaks me from my literary bliss. The woman is pulling a large bag of gourmet dog food out of her shopping cart and loading it into the back of her luxury SUV (I am aware of the make and model of said SUV but I do not wish to besmirch or indirectly slander the image of this manufacturer any more than a certain oft-injured Auburn Tiger.)

The weight of the bag was sufficient to keep the cart stationary but its displacement set the shiny beast free to roam the vast parking lot savannah in search of prey. Seeing the incident unfold, I stopped my car about 50 feet away. As the cart began to creap away from the woman who had turned to put the dogfood in her car, I saw the thing slowly veer in my direction like a lethargic submarine in some dark deep ocean. I almost heard the slow whine sound that metal makes as it reacts to the intense water pressure of being far below sea level. The little joker had targeted me and was now increasing velocity to ramming speed.

I saw the woman turn and as she realized she had a rogue cart, I got a glimpse of her face for the first time. Until now, her long dye treated blonde hair had concealed her age. I had assumed she was a 40-something housewife whose husband was no doubt a successful lawyer; a trial lawyer. Now that I had my first real look at her, I'd guess she's at least 70. Her eyes, sunken deep in their sockets, were dressed in immense amounts of shadow and liner. The skin on her face, although perfectly bronzed in color, was loose and pinched into leathery wrinkles from years of either tanning bed sessions or 3 week Summer trips to Cabo where she would spend 14 hours a day on the pristine beach. She was wearing a dark jacket with a collar made from the pelt of some rare vermin, jeans that were disgustingly form fitting and a pair of trendy light brown boots that rose from her ankle to the bottom of her denimed knee.

If she had immediately reached for the cart, she would have been able to get at least one paw on it. Instead, she chose to fling her giant black leather purse into the back of her SUV before giving chase. By now, the cart had turned my way and she began to lumber towards it. The old girl moved pretty well...for an old girl. She quickly began to make up ground and it appeared she'd be able to tame the metal mustang. That is, until she slowed down.

I could see the wheels turning in her head. Upon realizing that she was closing in, the woman slowed her speed in order to decrease the chances of looking foolish in front of complete strangers by falling on her tail. As if playing with some confused lab rat, coaxing the thing all around the cage with a nice piece of Gouda, the cart suddenly began to speed up. I immediately looked to the pavement in front of the cart. My eyes took on some kind of magical property that allowed them to zoom in and dissect angles and I saw the gentle grade of the sloped parking lot increase into an incline slightly steeper than a molehill. The cart was now traveling downhill.

Panic blanketted the woman's face as she thought for the first time that this cart, this metal beast of burden, might just be able to outrun her. As she made eye contact with me, I saw her look of sheer panic slowly turn into an undeniable expression of apology. She had given up! Surrender. The cart, somehow sensing her weak energy, acquired a new gear of speed, determined to make her remember the day that she had been beaten by the little shopping cart that could.

Always the warrior, I turned my steering wheel directly into the path of the victor of the recent race. The collision was deafening. The deep gong of initial contact followed by the dancing sonic chime aftershocks got the attention of the entire county. Birds were spooked from their telephone line perches. Dogs stopped barking and babies hushed their crying. Miles away, the lions and monkeys and llamas at the zoo stopped whatever it is that lions and monkeys and llamas do all day to simultaneously look to the sky in wonderment as if to exclaim "What the?" All the earth is silent.

The woman walked up to my driver's side window with her hands covering her gaping mouth. I think she almost expected me to verbally berate her and then hit her with a crowbar. Before I could get my window rolled all the way down, she began with profuse apologies. I told her not to worry about it because my Japanese sedan was tough and could take a few licks. The woman, who had a surprisingly dulcet voice, continued to apologize but with a much more relieved tone. She assured me that there was no dent or scratch as she gathered her cart and dragged it back up the hill to her vehicle. I imagined the cart with its tail between its legs and ears drooped in shame.

As I parked and began to enter the store, a man with a Ricky Ricardo (Cuban, I guess) accent smirked at me and whispered, "Luke out for dose roonaway carts. Veddy sneaky." I laughed harder than I had intended as a pimple faced kid in dire need of a haircut asked me if I'd like a cart.

"Do you have one with brakes?"