Mission: Uncomfortable
“I’ll go, Moms!” Mart volunteered, his eyes bright with anticipation.
Helen Belden had to smile. Her second son had had his driver’s license for four days, and he was always looking for a reason to drive the car. “I don’t know, Mart,” she warned. “There is more than food on that list.”
“No problem,” Mart insisted, blue eyes skimming the two-page list. “I’ll drive into the A & P in White Plains. They should have everything that’s on here.”
Helen shook her head: Mart was almost vibrating at the thought of driving so far in a single trip. “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I would like to get started on dinner. Take my car, and promise me you’ll be very careful.”
Mart barely contained his glee as he reached for the keys. He dropped a quick kiss on his mother’s cheek, pocketed the shopping list and raced out the door.
Euphoric, Mart backed his mother’s station wagon out of the garage and pulled out onto Glenn Road. With a happy sigh he turned and headed for the highway. It wasn’t easy being the youngest of the Bob White boys, the last to get his license. Everyone just seemed to expect Jim or Brian or Dan to drive. How, he wondered with the smallest touch of bitterness, am I supposed to get my sixty hours of driving time if no one ever gives me the chance? “Trixie will probably get more drive time then I’ve had,” he muttered out loud. Instantly, he regretted the words, glad that he was alone with nobody around to hear him. Sulky jealousy did not fit the image he wished to project. “Cool, smooth and confident,” he reminded himself with a slight grin. “That’s who I am.” He reached to turn on the radio, singing along as he cruised down the highway.
The parking lot of the White Plains A & P was moderately crowded. Mart found a parking place near the middle, with a space on either side so he could ease his way in without worrying about the cars around him. Satisfied with his parking skill, he locked the car and sauntered into the store.
Armed with his list, Mart pushed his metal cart up and down the aisles, procuring flour, sugar, and all the staples on the first page. Shuffling to the second page, he proceeded to the cleaning supplies. Dish soap, laundry detergent, fabric softeners. Down into the cart they went, and off the list they were checked. Mart glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes had elapsed. Next stop, pharmacy. Aspirin? Check. Shampoo? Check. Deodorant? Check. Toothpaste? Check. With a wide smile, Mart gave himself a mental pat on the back, and looked at the last item on the list.
His blue eyes widened in dismay. No way. No way! He could feel his face flush, and he suddenly recalled his mother’s warning. When she had said there was more than food on the list he had never imagined... this. Taking several deep breaths, Mart steeled himself against the inevitable. Surreptitiously, he peeked around the end cap and down the aisle. It was empty. Taking that as a sign from God, Mart put on his best nonchalant mask and moved forward.
Tentatively reaching his hand forward, he stopped. Which box should I get? The yellow one? The pink one? Maybe the blue? What about the one with the green stripe? Mart looked back at the list, but the single word inscribed in his mother’s neat hand gave no clue. He looked back at the shelf. Small? Regular? Large? Extra large? Desperate, Mart reached out again, just as a young brunette woman in a pink flowered dress turned the corner.
Mart recoiled as if bitten by snake. With downcast eyes, he beat a hasty retreat to the relative safety of the cold medicines. What to do? What to do? Suddenly, a light bulb popped on in his mind. With resolve, he parked the cart next to a display of breakfast cereal, and stepped outside. Reaching deep into his jeans, he fished out a quarter. Dropping it into the pay phone slot, he dialed the familiar number.
A deep voice answered, “Belden residence, Brian speaking.”
“Brian, thank God!” Relief laced Mart’s voice. “Dude, I need a favor.”
“Mart?” Brian was immediately concerned. “Are you okay? Did you have an accident? Car trouble? Where are you?”
“I’m fine,” Mart assured his brother. “The car’s fine, too. I’m at the grocery store, and I ran into a little problem.”
“Moms said you went in to do the shopping. Didn’t she give you enough money?”
“It’s not money,” Mart hissed impatiently, as the operator instructed him to deposit another quarter. Fishing out another coin, he did as requested. “Look, Bri, I’m running out of quarters. I need you to go upstairs and look under the bathroom sink.”
“Look under the sink? Why?” Brian sounded perplexed. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No!” Mart struggled to find the words. “I need you to tell me what color the box is.”
“What box?”
“Trixie’s box.”
“What?”
Mart rolled his eyes, not sure if his brother was trying to embarrass him, or if Brian was just exceptionally dense on this particular day. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. “I need to know what the color is of the box which holds our esteemed sister’s...internal feminine hygiene products.”
“Internal...” Brian tried to follow. “Mart, what the heck are you talking about?”
The operator returned, begging another twenty-five cents, and Mart obediently fed the telephone his last quarter. “You know what I’m talking about Brian. You’re going to be a doctor, for crying out loud. You know. The things. In the box. Under the sink. The things that only Trixie and Moms use.”
Mart could almost hear the gears turning as the light switch flipped on in his brother’s head. “Oh,” Brian breathed. “Those things.”
Relieved, Mart tried to explain. “I need to know what the box looks like because there are thirty different brands, all types of colors and sizes and scents for heaven’s sake. I don’t know which one to get. Please, Brian? And hurry. I’m out of change.”
Mart shifted nervously from one foot to the other as his brother raced to his rescue. Armed with more information than he really wanted, Mart returned to his cart, waiting patiently for the designated aisle to empty. When the coast was clear, he whizzed down the aisle, one hand snagging the appropriate box from the shelf and tucking it with great expertise, beneath the toilet paper and behind the gallon jug of orange juice.
As he wheeled the cart into the line at the checkout counter, Mart wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, and crossed the word TAMPONS off of his list.
Mission accomplished.
Author Notes
John gave me this idea, and I couldn’t resist. I hope you enjoy it.
