Kroger on East Main Street in Lancaster is a great supermarket. We believe he has been going there for 23 years, knows many of the staff, and it's within walking distance from his home. In our rush to get there this afternoon, perhaps because we were more distracted than usual, we once again forgot to refill the Bluebonnet margarine.
Because as we were pushing the cart toward the back of the store, I heard a faint but persistent whistling sound, like a car window breaking a little. The volume changed, but the pitch did not. Possibilities include a loose drive belt in his one of the store's huge refrigeration systems, an electronic failure in the loudspeaker, poor lubrication in his shopping cart (Natalie's theory), or a decline in my mental acuity. This includes reaching a critical stage.
Perhaps I should explain that I have always been like this. Engineering and invention have probably been my weakness since he was three years old. These usually didn't fit my personality very well. Decades of experience have proven that I don't usually work well with others. But the curiosity remains. I wanted to know the origin of whistling. I didn't want to eliminate that.
Always patient with aloof consumers, I hesitated to ask questions of the young staff member for fear of being classified as a weirdo who is convinced that the juice is infested with evil spirits. My ever-patient spouse has long been used to the weirdness of squeamish male spouses, but she rolled her green eyes when I embarked on a voice search mission. .
The rows of large refrigeration compressors commanding the produce department looked innocuous, as did the cavernous fresh produce storage rooms. There was nothing suspicious at the service desk or bakery, and the same was true for the imported cheese. There was no peep from the pharmacy or the preserved foods.
“It's over,” a familiar voice said, from somewhere beyond my conscious awareness.
oh. No, I don't need anything myself. Help scan groceries.
We got in the car for a short ride home. I still don't know what the whistling noise was.
Mark Kinsler (kinsler33@gmail.com) loves Natalie and her two filthy feral cats. They both live in a small antique house in Lancaster.
