Grocery Store Epiphany

A personal epiphany was not on my grocery list when I made an exploratory visit to a new discount supermarket in town, but remarkable experiences can happen when least expected. “You’re gonna like it,” a friend had told me, “prices are great, and they’ve got just about everything except organic produce.” After almost an hour of shopping, I’d found every single thing that was on my list, from bulk dried cherries to foot cream to rustproof paper clips, plus various impulse buys including organic sambal oelek, an intriguing Indonesian/Malaysian condiment that the label described as “a do-it-all chili sauce.”

The cashier rang it all up, but when I went to pay with my credit card, she said, “We don’t accept credit cards.” My bewildered expression must have prompted her to clarify. “Cash, debit or EBT only.”

“Most businesses accept credit cards,” I protested weakly.

“Credit card companies charge us a fee.”

Ah. Of course. Costco used to operate that way, I recalled. The total was around $75, but I didn’t have enough cash to cover it. My wallet contained barely over fifty dollars. “What do you want to do?” she asked. “Do you want to put some things back?”

“I don’t like to keep people waiting,” I mumbled, glancing toward the checkout line behind me where someone stood waiting.

“It’s no problem,” she assured me.

“How much are you short?” the person in line asked. He was neatly dressed, fifty something, medium height, brown haired—pleasantly ordinary, in short, except for one slightly drooping eyelid. There was no one waiting behind him.

“Thanks, that’s very kind,” I said, “but don’t even think about it.”

He stepped toward me. “How much is it?” he persisted.

“Twenty-five dollars.” By then I’d set several things I didn’t really need, starting with the sambal oelek, on the raised platform where people wrote checks in olden days. The cashier asked him a question, and I realized she was ringing him up. This super efficient store had cash registers with a dual customer function, and two conveyor belts that moved items to parallel bagging areas at the end of the counter.

“Here you go,” the man said. He held two bills out to me, a twenty and a five.

“Oh, no, really, I couldn’t,” I said, half paralyzed with embarrassment. My fingers wouldn’t work, my body was made of lead.

“It’s okay, he said, “Go ahead and take it.”

As I stood there, a nugget of wisdom I received about forty years ago flashed into my head. Among my special customers at the local farmer’s market where I sold fresh vegetables and herbs was an elderly woman, birdlike, with sparkling jet black eyes. I thought of her as Little Lady Bird. “Don’t be a stingy receiver,” she advised.

Somehow, my hand accepted the cash. I thanked the man profusely and added, “I’m blown away.” That clunky expression couldn’t begin to express my gratitude.

He paid for his items, and as he passed behind me on his way to bag his groceries, I asked his name. “Dave,” he said.

“Thank you again, Dave,” I said, and repeated, “I’m blown away.” That seemed to be the response my flustered brain had settled on.

“Don’t be,” he said with a smile. “Maybe someone else will repay me someday.”

I smiled back. “Maybe I’m being repaid right now.”

As he bagged his items, he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Mary.” We smiled at each other again, and I left it at that. Though tempted, I did not press for his surname, or dig out a business card, or whip out my cell phone for a photo. I didn’t call or run after him as he walked away. A kind stranger helped me out, and I thanked him. Done.

“So what are you going to do now?” It was the cashier, an impartial and patient observer of my little dance with Dave, bringing me back to business at hand. I gave her the cash in my wallet plus the money from Dave, she rang up my purchases, sambal oelek and all. I bagged them and began the long walk to my car.

Halfway there, I was suddenly overwhelmed. Shame washed over me, filled me.I acknowledged it, inspected it, and almost burst into tears. Why shame? Shame that I’d been caught lacking. Needy. Exposed. Vulnerable. It was cultural shame, but also old shame, childhood shame, for being poor as a kid, ashamed of that, and unworthy—

No. Wait. Not unworthy.

The memory of another incident floated back to me, from the summer after my first year of college over fifty years ago. I’d just cashed my paycheck, about twenty-five dollars for driving a pea truck in Walla Walla for a stingy redneck farmer, and waited in line at a grocery store. The old man in front of me had groceries on the counter, already rung up: a can of beans, a dozen eggs, can of tuna, box of macaroni—and didn’t have enough money. I offered to pay the difference, but he said, “No, no, I couldn’t possibly accept that,” and so on.

Inspiration struck, and I said, “I just got paid, so tell you what. You do something nice for someone else, and we’ll call it even.” He accepted that, dignity intact, and I felt great about it.

Nearing my car with my bag of groceries, I sensed that something deep was working inside me. Harsh messages of a society that prizes “rugged individualism” had lodged in my heart: It is shameful to admit need. Need equates with weakness. Need, weakness, and poverty are shameful because they are deserved. Poor people are lazy, it’s their own fault, they are lesser humans who deserve to be looked down upon, they are unworthy of respect.

Little Lady Bird’s advice stands in direct confrontation with these messages and shows them for what they are: warped, hurtful, and destructive to human relationships. “Don’t be a stingy receiver” means when someone offers help, don’t turn them down. Give them the pleasure of extending kindness. Allow the flow of generosity to continue uninterrupted.

A friend offered a Buddhist saying: “The giver, the gift, and the receiver become one.” That is something to ponder. Perhaps it suggests the transcendent power of connection: we are stronger together than when we embrace the rugged individualism that keeps people separate.

Such were my thoughts as I approached my car. And there in the front seat was the white phalaenopsis orchid I’d bought for a cherished friend suffering from Covid. My next errand was to deliver it to her.