HARRISON FORD WORKS AT TRADER JOE’S

I’d just dropped my daughter off at orchestra rehearsal. I had two hours to do something. It was only 4:30, but cars were operating their headlights. Rainclouds huddled in the sky, matching the color of the street. In my shoulder bag lay Kleenex, cough drops, an overdue library book, and just under $15. Maybe that would buy a bag of Marcona almonds, the ones roasted in olive oil and rosemary, and a cheap bottle of Pinot Gris.

The Trader Joe’s I went to, if I went there at all, was always busy, even in the pitch black of dead cold winter. It was close to the university, and university students would, at all hours, be shopping for frozen bags of Mandarin orange chicken, chocolate-dipped ginger, or soap made from oatmeal and honey. They were all young and beautiful. To them I was invisible, but walking in through the automatic sliding doors I felt self-conscious. I had settled. Like a house does. Settled into my parent body, my parent face. Then I saw Harrison.

He’d grown his beard out, which was not gray but white. I assumed this was a tactic to conceal his celebrity. But I’ve known Harrison since he was in The Conversation. I don’t know him, I’ve never met him, but I’ve grown up with him. I can remember a face.

Harrison had done some settling too, but his chiseled looks, his come-hither nose and fireplace earlobes still cast a spell. I’m not saying I would’ve thrown myself at him, but if I’d tripped at just the right moment, and if there weren’t any beautiful basketball-playing boys around, I wouldn’t have minded being caught in Harrison’s Hawaiian-shirted arms.

I was holding a box of pimento cheese puffs, but it could’ve been anything—I wasn’t looking at the box. What’d happened? Was Harrison preparing for a role? Cinema verité? Had he come upon hard times? Nobody seemed shocked. Nobody seemed anything. Harrison was matter-of-fact in his employment, scanning pears and craft beer for people fifty years younger than him. None of them seemed to notice that they’d once owned action figures of the man bagging their groceries. I straightened my bangs. It was time to get in line.

He didn’t look up. You’re supposed to make eye contact at Trader’s Joe’s. I’ve never worked there, but that has got to be one of their rules. Customer Service Rule #1: Penetrate the visage of each shopper with an intoxicating gaze. Customer Service Rule #2: Ask them about their life. Require vulnerable details. I was swiping my credit card.

Did you find everything you were looking for?

Well, I. I suppose I.

Was there something you needed help finding?

I guess. I mean I guess not.

Oh. Well, okay. Stay warm out there.

And he grinned his signature half-mouth grin. Then I realized—I was taller than Harrison Ford. (I was wearing platform mules, but still.) Calcium, I thought, second aisle. Maybe Harrison needed a calcium supplement. Vertebrae compress. That’s how you get shorter.

I was in absolute darkness. A sidewalk was under my feet and I was vaguely aware of a parking lot, but the shapes of cars and figures of other shoppers had been absorbed into the fabric of the night. I’d just had a shopping experience with Harrison Ford. Nothing could be more American. I was taking it in, sitting in my Volvo that smelled like dog and mildew. Then I let myself do it.

I’d never done it before—not in a car, that is. But it was night, I was deep in the void of life, and something had to give. I stuck a hand in the bag lying on the passenger seat and pulled out the Pinot Gris. Unscrewing the cap of the corkless bottle, I placed the glass to my lips and took a pull. Not a sip, but a long meaningful swig, the kind where you release a breathy sigh afterward. Something was crushing my will to persist. Driving back to the middle school band room seemed impossible. But I’d have to do it. My daughter would have her cello in its case and on her back. She’d need mac-and-cheese or tater tots once we got home. I began to cry. Goddammit. I was breaking the state’s open bottle law and crying. Raindrops slid down the windshield.

The almonds made me feel a little better, but they’re covered in oil and rosemary, and when I wiped my tears with the side of my hand, some of the rosemary lodged in the corner of my eye. Instinctively I doubled over—gravity would pull it out—and smacked my forehead on the steering wheel, releasing a blast from the car’s horn. The sound startled me upright, and I let out another swear word. Nobody on the planet knew what was happening. Nobody knew of my petty crime and its karmic punishment. Harrison was inside—ordinary, broken Harrison—methodically scanning his next train of groceries, the gray rubber bars on the conveyor belt dividing frozen meals and vitamins, pet snacks and protein bars, dividing all the people in their private lives waiting their turn.

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Laton Carter’s previous fiction appears in Indiana Review, Necessary Fiction, New Flash Fiction Review, and The Wigleaf Top 50.