#67 Wiped

I was at an Albertsons Supermarket the other day and I was quite impressed because they had something I personally found very nice. Disinfectant wipes. So what’s the big deal, you say? Lots of supermarkets have disinfectant wipes. Yeah, but these wipes were right where I needed them. By the shopping carts. And they were ready to use—on the handles of the shopping carts. And they were free.
Has this ever happened to you? You go to yank a shopping cart out of its nested buddies and you can see that there’s trash in the one you’re grabbing for—even though that’s difficult cause it’s hard to tell with all the metal crosshatching which cart is which in the nest. Not wanting to add trash collection and deposit to your list of things to do this weekend, you slide over to the next column and grab a clean cart. Or so you think. About the time you get your second hand on the cart of choice you realize with a little shiver of revulsion that someone has left a little handle surprise for you. You’ve gripped something unknown and sticky, and a little bit slimy on the underside of the cart’s handle. You’re even more disgusted because you’ve specifically avoided the carts that have cup-holders—so it probably not an old latte you fingers are now running through—and also avoided the carts with the child seats, so it’s a far bet whatever it is that’s slickery under your digits is of adult or other origin.
Visions of dive-bombing seagulls and nose-picking nerds flash through your brain as you fight the urge to disengage your hands and see something even worse. These are hands that will soon be picking out produce. Squeezing and testing apples and mangos and peaches and pears. Fruit that you now swear you will always wash vigorously in the future before ever, ever eating it.
These are hands that may wish to take a sample dip of chips and salsa from the deli area. These are hands that may soon accept the cube of cheese proffered by the market-testing gal at the end of aisle F-3.
You push forward and look around helplessly for the cleverly hidden “not for use by the public” public restrooms. Meanwhile the slimy stuff appears to be getting a might more tacky. Hardening up under your palms and promising to glue them to the handle if something isn’t done soon.
That’s when you see salvation. The greeter guy. Just as you reach him he turns away to help a little old lady, who’s struggling to push her cart over the lip of the rug at the automatic door.
You’re desperate. You’re eyes take on that doe-in-the-headlights look of fear and panic and total terror. Then they clear. You’ve spied something beautiful, something wonderful, something sublime in its simplicity and perfect form. Something so completely and absolutely useful for your current need that it’s like a gift from heaven. A disinfectant wipe. Is this a great country or what?
America, ya gotta love it.