I’ve set aside my disdain for the place—though not too far from my side, where I shall always keep my disdain—for certain logistical advantages it maintained during the lockdown, chief among them a consistent lower price for the 16.9-oz. bottles, but I will never not find another reason to hate going there. It’s my fault for venturing out from the grocery area after collecting the dollar-loaves of not-so French bread, It’s-It and other exclusive staples and hoping to avoid the main thoroughfares of slow-moving families to whom it must not occur to leave their children at home with a parent and reduce the crowds during a fucking pandemic… by hopping from one aisle to another, only to find them, too, each occupied with an abominable scene like Shelley Duvall encountered in The Shining. A traffic jam of fat White women driving shopping carts, masked teenagers tossing a football under the recirculated air on a perfectly fine day, a lady with her face shield cocked up to hold the speakerphone at her uncovered mouth, all horrors of the lockdown era.
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