A Trip to a Supermarket in California

Under the evening glow, a man strolled down a moon-lit and tree-lined road. The cool air and the soothing beams of the moon kissing each object of nature, present a charming sight that makes one feels an inexplicable sense of freedom of mind, thoughts, and ideas. However, he can’t help to feel self-conscious while his mind is being occupied by a thought of a poet, Walt Whitman. He went to the splendidly lit grocery store in his outlandish state of hunger and fatigue, to shop for images and savor the visual stimulation for his dinner tonight. Above the entrance stood supermarket name in letters that glowing brightly with a reddish glow.

The supermarket appears striking with its harsh, fluorescent lights and the colorful interior was a pleasant relief, but the sudden burst of air conditioning that brushed across his cold and dry face never failed to coerce a wince from him as he stepped through the huge automatic entrance. Beside him resided a plethora of shopping trolleys soon to be used by the next wave of rushing customers. To his right are two simple checkouts: one occupied by a very unenthusiastic employee, and there are also signs hanging from the roof, displaying letters in a green shade so bright that their proximity to the fluorescent lights caused them unreadable to the average eye. Looking around, a crowd of people pushing, shoving, and shouting. The aisles of the supermarket were full of fruit and shadows; entire families were shopping, spouses, babies— all moving among the fruits and vegetables. People rushed by gathering items as fast as they could. People often traveled in groups. Parents, children, or other family members were the ones causing the constant buzz of noises. Among the watermelons, he saw Federico García Lorca.

He took a step forward and focused on the display in front of him. A plethora of fruits and vegetables lined the shelves. An array of colors that could put a rainbow to shame combined with fruits with dark spots that looks like penumbra. The whole scene was a work of art, but he couldn’t appreciate it. He feels his insides eating away as his lips yearn for the taste of food delicacy. He could smell it all around him and sneer as the greedy people take it for granted. He could hear his blood pumping through his veins as he uses all his willpower to keep his hands to himself but that isn’t enough. He could feel himself edging closer and closer to sample the food in the supermarket to endure his pain and hunger. The smell of oranges, apples, and bananas tempted him to go deeper into the shop. He winds his way through the aisles, recalling a saying: “Fruit is for happy times. Chocolate is for sad times.” He forgot who said it but the thought makes him smile bitterly; oh, to be able to choose the food to eat depending on your mood and occurrence in your life. He thinks back to Walt Whitman’s poetry all the while walking on the smooth marble floor. Mandarins and passion fruit were spilled across the filthy floor. He considered Walt Whitman as one of the things that brought him joy, so he grabbed three mandarins and two passion fruit. The big and bright 'Frozen Food' sign was approaching and enlarging as he walked closer to that section of the supermarket.

Unfortunately, his thin and ragged shirt wasn't enough to keep him warm from the cold air which was being produced by the freezers. So, he hurried through this section observing very little of the frozen foods placed on the shelves. He spotted Walt Whitman in the meat section, looking like an old childless weirdo. Whitman’s gay stare creeps at the male members of staff asking questions about the source of the meat, the cost of bananas, and which one of them might have been his angel. He followed Whitman around the supermarket’s flashy displays of goods, in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans, and imagined a suspicious security guard following them. They ended up walked together without a care in the world, trying any and every item that they want without ever intending to pay. People say we could tell a lot about someone from the content of their shopping carts. Perhaps this is why the busy people didn’t bother to bat their eyes nor turn their heads to see a delirious man with ragged clothes wandering around the aisles sampling food here and there just because his shopping cart is empty, and will remain empty. There's nothing left for them to judge since the see-through thin fabric he used to cover his body already gives away all truth about himself; no need to pry his shopping cart.

It's time for him and Walt Whitman to leave since the store closes in an hour—which left a question; where are they going to go? He suddenly feels embarrassed about his silly wandering off in fantasy land about their epic supermarket venture. Are they going to walk together through the empty night? The trees make the night much more obscure and there are no lights on in the houses, so they'll feel quite alone. Will they imagine a better America as they pass identical cars in the driveway and houses on their way to their silent little home? Oh, a wise poet with graybeard, what was America like when you died—when Charon quit poling his ferry and delivered you to the land of the dead? Did you drown in the river of Lethe to forget your mortal lives, Walt Whitman? He hopes not even Lethe river could erase the poet’s memory of the years of agony beguiled grief’s persistent shadow.