The Man Who Wore Peas on his Head

It’s Sunday, Sunday, and I’m listening to a Swedish version of “Monday, Monday,” a fifty-year-old gift from the Mamas and the Papas, our parents’ favorite couple. I am not sure whether I am hearing a linguistic twerking, a paean about the industrial West, or a reminder of all the women who have dumped me. But it is Sunday and as a believer I try to stay theologically inclined, religiously preparing my trip to the supermarket as part of my morning vespers. I take nothing for granted.

My passage takes me past an elementary school, where the blinking yellow lights are always on. I act accordingly, remembering advice from a friend from Macon, Georgia, to assume that a cop is behind every billboard. So intent on looking for a billboard, I missed the cop coming out from behind a one-hundred-year-old sycamore tree. Sir, you were going 40 mph in a school zone. Officer, school is not in session. Sir, you were speeding. Sir, it’s Sunday, Sunday. He gave me a warning that proved to be prescient.

My next pre-store stop was at an ATM where rituals necessarily take over. The shawl I wear over my left shoulder works better than my substantial hand to keep the prying eyes from Mongolia away from my pin number.

As is my custom, I intentionally drop my ATM receipt on the concrete floor so I can peruse a few discarded receipts that tell me that three random consumers have between $20 and $147 in checking account balances. I am feeling better already. As I rise to full height, I bump my head on a metal tray that has recorded a thousand daily transactions. I see this as another warning; another opportunity to excel. I have the presence of mind to wave to the Chase camera on the way out, assured that the Monday morning bankers will find my behavior well within their fuzzy norm.

My first stop in the supermarket is the frozen food section where I find a two-pound bag of peas that perfectly fits the circumference of my head. I could hear the cameras rolling.

I tried to act normal as I make my rounds, sorting through young parsnips and sticking fresh Jersey peaches up my nose as I had seen practiced in a farmers’ market in Verona, Italy. I continue on my rounds, picking up items from the store’s healthy perimeter while balancing peas on my head. Whether it was the peas, the green slime running down my face or my exaggerated gait, I noticed a few people staring at me. I learn later that a store employee asked a woman I was with — who refuses to be identified — whether there was anything wrong with me. She apparently said, “Well, it’s Sunday,” without any prompting, bribe or promise of therapy.

My dilemma now deepened as I had absorbed all the ice from the peas and the devil in me wanted to return the packet to the frozen food section, no harm done. But given my notoriety, I decided to put the damp peas in my basket with considerable fanfare. Then I looked for other frozen vegetables that matched my needs, stride and outfit.

My head still hurt, but I am no impulse shopper. I had to check the unit prices of corn, green beans and asparagus. I had to examine the salt content and whether any GMO ingredients had found their way into my food.

I continued to replace frozen items on my head, even when I was going through checkout. The clerk, who had dealt with me before, didn’t seem to mind scanning the frozen corn even when it showed movement, height and distance.

I wondered whether scanning the brain had any effect on IQ.