fuck me up, vons hollywood

I used to go grocery shopping for the week on Wednesdays after work. Despite half the traditional week being gone, and the weekend with its promise of lazy patio margaritas and fourth meals close by, the errand — a remnant of a schedule long past being stuck to, from a city I left — was as perfect as I needed it to be.

Wednesday nights at the grocery store are hectic, yes, but manageable; like the first flight out of LAX that’s 85% business people. We’re all George Clooney with our easily slipped off shoes and appropriately packed carry-ons. Everyone has a list; no one uses more space than they need to; the guys are cuter.

Vons Hollywood is “my” store even though Jons International Marketplace is closer. This is also a remnant. My ex lived down the street throughout the whole of our relationship and often we would cross the triangle intersection for movie snacks, or cold medicine, or falafel ingredients as we did on our second date. I remember staring at a piece of torn note paper in my hand — a list of familiar ingredients in unfamiliar handwriting. I turned to ask, “is this an L or a B” and found him kneeling beside me in fake proposal. This is the last I’ll speak of him, actually.

I don’t know when I stopped going to the grocery store on Wednesdays because I still go every week. Multiple times. I get a 4-pack of toilet paper. Loose cans of cat food. A frozen pizza, maybe. Cash back. I didn’t realize it was gone because it was right there.

A couple weeks ago I was cleaning out my closet and shoved in the corner was a wool coat I didn’t recognize. I took it out for a closer look and suddenly I remembered everything about it. I remembered where I got it, where I wore it. I’ve had the thing for over half a decade, moved from one city to another with it, and one day — or, more likely, over the course of a lot of days — the memory of it, the knowledge of its existence — fell out of my head long enough to reset.

Depression is like sitting cross-legged on the front lawn of a house that is on fire. I’m talking, engulfed. I can feel the heat against my face, and it’s bad, I know it is, but the flames aren’t going anywhere. They’re not licking at a nearby palm, or jumping to the next roof. No one is in danger, and neither am I. Not as long as I keep watch.

This is a stupid thing to think. Depression is arrogant about all the wrong stuff. It validates with a sneer.

5 o’clock will roll around and on the way to happy hour I’ll realize all I’ve had is water and coffee — but, I feel fine! Of course you do, you stupid idiot. There’s nothing here worth nurturing. Depression loses things. It drops jewelry in the sink and down the drain and then it stomps around the apartment with me, agreeing, Yeah, you should have fixed the sink three months ago or Yes! One shouldn’t try to use their fat fingers to clasp a necklace over a gaping hole.

There’s no way I wasn’t aware of the first missed Wednesday, or the first month of missed Wednesdays; and there’s no way something inside me didn’t say It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

This past Sunday night, I sat in the parking lot of Vons Hollywood and typed a list into my phone.

Clementines, raspberries, bananas, apples. Bagged spinach. Sweet potatoes. Some kind of deli meat. Juice. Sliced cheese. Bread. Ready-made roast chicken.

I walked into the store and grabbed a basket like this was just my thing on Sunday nights. I wear my sweatshirt and my shorts with “BYE” sloppily embroidered on the ass and I go grocery shopping. This can be my life for 25 minutes, easily, and if not, you can give up at anytime, says an itch on my neck. There’s a Del Taco on the corner. “I KNOW,” I scratch at it, “I’ve been there a million times.”

Everything is where it should be, at first. Bags of clementines are stacked close to the entrance; the same for the bananas and apples. The raspberries are gone, replaced by strawberries. I panic, briefly, because this is wrong and feels personal. There is a couple hovering over the selection, picking up packages and inspecting them closely. I throw one in my basket without looking at it only to turn and see the raspberries in a refrigerated case a few steps away.

I go to toss the strawberries back and nearly slam into a woman of similar age and “genre” — if that’s the right word — to me, except she’s perfect, of course. I run into versions of her everywhere because I’m always looking for her. This time she is wearing high-rise jeans and a vest and her glasses are interesting without being like, i n t e r e s t i n g. I’ve never wanted to wear a vest, but the way she does it I feel like I could. (I couldn’t.)

In the cheese aisle, another couple walks by me and I overhear the guy contentedly say he could “really go for a blonde ale.” I note it as an embarrassing thing to say out loud even though I am touching every single package of cheese.

Every line is full and twisting and breaking. I have 12 items, so I get to go express, but it doesn’t mean anything. Five lines to my left I see the woman from the produce section. She’s leaning on her boyfriend — like, fuck, is Sunday night couples’ night at Vons or something?? Her right hand is combing through the back of his hair. His head turns slightly toward me and a sharp laugh barks out of my stomach as I realize I used to have a crush on him.

Of cooouuuurrrssseee.

My basket is on the floor, so I nudge it forward with my foot, still laughing only now into my chest. The basket wasn’t too heavy, or even heavy at all. I just didn’t feel like holding it.

I decide then I don’t like Vons Hollywood on Sunday nights. But it’s okay. This is how I learn.