The Squeeze of Time

(Source: Eduardo Soares/Unsplash.)

I have a fondness for working under pressure, and am armed to defend myself against any naysayer who claims that this is simply a maladaptive response to poor planning. Truth is, the squeeze of time is my drug of choice. I know how to quickly thaw a pork chop under running water, am skilled in navigating the expedited passport renewal process, and count on the adrenaline rush from getting to work just under the wire to get me through the first part of my day. This has served me not only in my work as a nurse, but in writing, as well. For what it’s worth, the bulk of my most well-received Neighborhood Storyteller columns this year were written under the gun.

This explains why, naturally, I went to the grocery store the night before Thanksgiving just a few hours before closing. It’s an annual tradition, whether I actually need something or not. I guess I just like being around that energy; last-minute people are my people. 

But before we go into the grocery store, I want to tell you a story about the yoga class I attended earlier that evening.

I recently joined a yoga class that meets in a converted attic space in the teacher’s private residence. Before leaving for the first class on Wednesday evening, I glanced over the email instructions on how to get to her house, vaguely noting something about how if you use Google Maps you might have a problem. There was some detail about River Road turning into Hobbs Lane, something about turning left just past something else, and instructions to park in a snowy field. I wasn’t concerned; Missoula isn’t a huge town, and I’ve lived here a long time. Besides, reading instructions is painful for me. As a child, I was more inclined to take a new game out of the box and just start playing it in a way that felt natural until my sister Michelle, instructions in hand, would lay down the law.

“Let yourself in through the back door and take the stairway up to the second floor,” the yoga teacher’s email said, so after I parked in what appeared to be the snowy field, I made my way to the door where a motion detector light flashed on, and a man peered out quizzically into the darkness through the steamed up glass window of the sliding door to the kitchen. 

“I’m here for yoga?” I said when he cautiously popped his head out, and held my rolled-up mat out for proof.

“Next door,” he said as if it were the third time he’d said it that day. A woman standing at the kitchen sink laughed, “You must be looking for Kendra’s place.”

That’s not really the whole story I want to tell, but it was the funniest thing that happened all week.

After the class in the correct house, my car was magnetically pulled into the parking lot of my favorite grocery store, where I found my crowd dazedly pushing carts down aisles, Googling recipes on their phones, and furtively tucking pre-made pie crusts into their carts. 

In the produce section, one man appeared to be deciding whether a stalk of Brussels sprouts was for eating or just a decoration, and a young woman was on her phone asking someone, maybe her mother, whether sweet potatoes and yams were the same thing. With the phone clenched between ear and shoulder, she clutched a tuber in each hand, holding them up to the fluorescent lights. “I’m not sure,” she said into the phone, “they both just look brown and dusty.”

I passed a pyramid of bananas and remembered a story my mom had told me earlier in the week. She’d been in the checkout line at the grocery store behind a woman with a brimming cart and three screaming kids who realized she had forgotten bananas.

“I mean, the lines were out the door,” my mom said as she described how the woman sent one child back to fetch bananas, despite the people breathing down her neck. When the kid returned, breathless, with a large bunch of bananas, the woman removed the plastic bar separating her huge grocery order from my mom’s three items—which, in retelling the story, my mother could only remember included a container of seafood salad from the deli. 

“I’m getting these,” the woman with the last-minute bananas said to the cashier, and to my unflappable mother, “for your trouble.”

The woman wouldn’t take no for an answer, and my mother was simultaneously heartened and blown away by the kind, but unnecessary gesture. “It was no problem at all for me to wait,” she said, then added, “I’m retired for heaven’s sake,” as if having patience is one of the civic duties of a retired person.

The line of last-minute shoppers moved quickly that night after yoga, though, and soon I was up to bat with the cashier asking how my night was going while she scanned my parsley, cottage cheese, and single lemon, then the parchment paper I bought only because it was on sale and came in an attractive box.

Instead of the regular, rote response, I surprised myself by blurting out how I’d walked into a stranger’s house earlier thinking it was my yoga class. She laughed so hard she had to remove her glasses to wipe her eyes. I had no idea it would land that well.

Disarmed, the cashier seemed relieved to rest for a moment, and took a rag out and started wiping down the conveyor belt. 

She asked me if I was cooking for Thanksgiving and I said no, that I’d been lucky enough to get an invite from people who like doing that sort of thing.

“Me too,” she said, “but I’m supposed to bring a pumpkin pie.” 

She went on to tell me that she is intimidated by cooking in the first place, and especially cooking for a holiday where people have expectations. “You can’t get away with messing up pumpkin pie, because everyone knows what it’s supposed to taste like.” 

“Indeed,” I agreed, and was reminded of the non-dairy pumpkin spice creamer I’d used from the break room fridge at work earlier that tasted like clove-scented aftershave. 

I noticed a line forming behind me and felt pressure to move on, but the guy behind me appeared serene, holding one of those grayish-blue pumpkins that looked like it would turn into a horse-drawn carriage for Cinderella. 

I took my cues from the cashier, though; it was her line, after all. She sighed and started wiping down the conveyor belt for the second or third time. “I wish I could just show up with a bag of popcorn or something,” she said.

“You can!’ I encouraged, and reminded her of the classic Charlie Brown Thanksgiving special. “Don’t you remember? They just threw some card tables up in the backyard and had a great time with popcorn, and pretzel sticks and toast. Even Peppermint Patty warmed up to it.”

“Yeah, but then they ended up all getting invited to Charlie Brown’s grandmother’s house for a real dinner,” she laughed.

I could feel the impatience growing behind me, weight being shifted from foot to foot, the balancing of cartons of eggs, cans of pumpkin, bags of dinner rolls, and Cool Whip. I thought about the story my mom told me, and wished her unflappable patience could imbue the line forming at my back. 

But just then, an employee who had been pushing a broom opened up another cash register and I watched as, one by one, the line moved over. “Wait!” I wanted to shout, “We’re telling funny stories over here.” I would have even bought the Cinderella pumpkin for the guy behind me, but he had already paid in the other line and was on his way out the door.

The thing about the last minute is that once it’s past, there is a huge, open space of relief to stretch out in. With no one left in line but me, the cashier and I wrapped up our discourse on holidays and expectations before she handed me my receipt. “Bring the popcorn,” I said on my way out the door and added, “Just make sure you show up at the right house.”

Read more of our weekly Neighborhood Storyteller columns here!

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