Picking Up Plots

This was my 29th Alpine Avalanche column, “Picking Up Plots”

I don’t know why I put off going to the grocery store. When I go, I’m never sorry. What a rich place for a writer to hang out. I wish there was a bench in the bakery/produce section. I’d sit there all day. Perhaps that is why there is no bench. Nobody wants writers hanging around eavesdropping and staring at people. And some think it’s weird when an old woman starts talking to them for no apparent reason.

One time I was looking at avocados and I turned around to get a bag. A young and blindingly handsome man handed me his. “You need this I bet.”

“Well, thank you!”

He flashed a million-dollar smile and went on his way. What, I wondered, had I done to deserve that? He made me feel there was hope for humanity. I made up a whole story about him while I shopped, but it can’t go here.

One time I was looking at the wine, and a sharply-dressed, fortyish man with glasses and a fabulous turquoise cowboy hat said, “If you were my wife and I’d made you furious by being stupid, would you be more likely to warm up to wine or flowers?”

My writer’s mind went wild. What stupid thing had he done? There were so many possibilities. It took a sec to realize I was gawking while making up a scenario in my head.

“I guess it depends on what you did,” I said, “but if it were me, a bottle of smooth sipping whiskey would warm my heart—the expensive kind.”

“You’re brilliant!” He touched me on the shoulder. “She doesn’t care much for wine. If I take her flowers, she’ll just roll her eyes and wonder if I’ve done something really bad.” He turned to leave. “Thank you!”

“Don’t buy her cheap stuff,” I warned.

“I won’t!”

I don’t guess Porter’s would appreciate that exchange, but it’s not like they don’t have plenty of business. And this was a marriage in crisis. I couldn’t let that man mess it up worse. While I went on with my day, I wondered how it went for Mr. Turquoise Hat and which whiskey he bought. Oh heck, I finished out the story in my head and gave it a happy ending.

Today I noticed a mom with her two young children. She was being selective about the fruit she was purchasing while her kids picked on each other in a shopping cart. It didn’t even take a full minute for the boy to hit his sister hard enough to make her cry.

She wailed, “He hit me!” with surprise, as if it was the first time he’d ever done it. I could tell by the look on his face that he was a little scamp. I didn’t buy that innocent act and neither did his mother.

My best encounter to date: I was perusing organic carrots and I looked up to see a large man, 6’6” at least, waiting at the fried chicken counter. He was wearing jeans, a white, button-down shirt, and a cowboy hat. He wore brown leather boots with a flat heel. A cell phone sat on his hip, but it could have been a pistol. In my head, it was. And I should mention: the man had a shoulder span to die for.

His cell phone rang. He looked at it, frowned, and said, “I’m waitin’ on the chicken. Have a little patience. For the love of Pete,” and he hung up. It was Deputy Barney George! Oh, I know better than anyone that he’s a made-up character, but there he was! I hadn’t seen the guy’s front side and, in a way, I didn’t want to. But I moved closer.

There I was, staring at the stuff in the display counter, not seeing it. I took a furtive peek and “Barney” was looking at me. I smiled because that’s what I do when busted. It took restraint not to blurt what I was thinking. He was thirty-something, had sandy blond hair, startlingly blue eyes, and was good-looking in a not-perfect way. Barney. He smiled. Author meets a character out of her head.

I wonder if I can have groceries delivered.