Here's a guest post from Paul because I'm too tired from
my big canning day
"Jackpot"
Though I am somewhat renowned for my ability to select just the right type of potato chip to appropriately match any family meal – pairing a less complex salt and vinegar chip with grilled chicken sandwiches, or a deeper-bodied rippled barbeque chip with a hamburger cookout, for example – I rarely get the call to assist with cooking or grocery shopping. Unless we are in the need of doughnuts or ice cream or root beer, I rarely make the trip to the local grocer.
Every once in awhile, however, I am called on in an emergency. Recently, when out with a couple of the kids I got the call from headquarters. We were running critically low on baby formula. “Could you possibly stop by the store” Alison graciously asked, “without buying a lot of treats?”
We were out on the west side of town, the decidedly tougher, less familiar area of Salt Lake. “Sure” I said, “we’d be happy to.”
As luck would have it there was a supermarket across the street from where we were parked. It sat in a rundown strip mall, anchoring a development that had seen better days. Several dark storefronts populated the center which was surrounded by an enormous, optimistic expanse of asphalt parking lot to accommodate the cars that both never did and never would come.
As we passed through the front door of the supermarket, the squeaky and rusty carts, mustachioed men, crooked teeth, faded blue jeans, flannel shirts reeking of second and even third-hand smoke, and hairsprayed bangs reaching for the sky lent the place a decidedly downscale feel. It was a refreshing change of pace from the normally snooty scene at our preferred east side grocer.
At once the kids and I set out looking for the baby formula but before long we were lost and disoriented in the foreign and unfamiliar store. I did my best to block out all the treats that seemed to beckon me as we passed up and down the aisles in search of the baby goods. Everything of interest seemed to be on sale and the kids and I seemed to be equally well aware. “Look, Daddy” my 3 year old said “these ones are yummy” as she pointed toward a display of Keebler Rainbow Chips Deluxe cookies, on sale 2 for 1.
Besieged and distracted by the seductive power of all the endcap displays and feeling somewhat lightheaded and disoriented by all the temptation I practically ran over a young employee who was dutifully restacking a display of Nutter Butters in the shape of the Great Pyramid of Giza.
“Can I help you with something?” she cheerily asked.
“Just looking for the baby formula” I said.
“Well, it’s just right around the corner” she smiled, “c’mon, I’ll show you.”
As we turned the corner she paused briefly to straighten a few chairs facing the pharmacy window and then led us down to the baby aisle. The formula was, like fine jewelry, set in a glass case under lock and key and looked to be, given the security camera perched above, under close video surveillance.
“Do you know which kind you want?” she asked.
I knew exactly which one I wanted, the organic Similac, in the green can, the one featuring the creepy looking teddy bear with the enormous forehead. But the question seemed odd, and, as I stared at my reflection in the formula window, I wondered if I ought to be taking more time with this, such an important purchase. I had never seen formula as anything but a commodity, but now it seemed like so much more.
“Yeah, right there” I said hesitatingly, “the green one.”
Out of her pocket she produced a massive keychain with what must have been the keys for all the other really expensive store items like Depends and organic milk. She unlocked the cabinet, slid the glass aside, and handed me one.
“I’ll take two” I said. “Thanks.”
The kids and I made our way back to the self-checkout where I rung up the purchase. It came to $60 total for the two cans of formula. Just as I was about to walk away a coupon spit out of the register: $5 off any kind of formula, expiring in 1 week.
As I stood there in the no man’s land between the checkout and the door, I briefly considered reentering to use the coupon to buy another canister of formula. I’m not a huge coupon user, but we would most certainly need more formula in a couple weeks, after all, and there was virtually no chance I would be back this way in the next week to redeem the coupon before expiration. For a moment I thought back to a memorable date when Alison and I were newlyweds. We were at a local hot dog joint, Red Hot Lovers, when she pulled out a “15% off one item” coupon. The most expensive item on our order was a $1.50 hot dog. They were gracious and rounded up. We saved 23 cents.
Buoyed by the memory of Alison’s frugality I lead the kids back to the formula aisle for another round of purchasing. Walled off by all the security measures and unable to help myself, I pushed the “Ring for Customer Service” button next to the case.
In a few moments the same young employee came bounding dutifully around the corner, her cheerful expression turning decidedly puzzled when she saw me and the kids standing in front of the formula bank once again.
There was an awkward pause as I explained that we had come back on account of the coupon, which I then proceeded to hold out in front of my face as proof. She took out her keys once again and pulled out another canister of expensive, green, organic Similac.
Back at the self-checkout, Ruth, the plain-looking, matronly cashier overseeing the four terminals expressed surprise to see me and the kids again. I showed her the coupon and as I swiped my credit card to complete the transaction she agreed it was a great deal and, mentioning the recent birth of her 5th and 6th grandchildren, reassured me she would have done the same. Just as she said so another $5 coupon popped out of the register, and for a moment it felt like we were on a winning streak in Vegas. “Jackpot!” I cried triumphantly.
Ruth looked at me in astonishment and nodded approvingly. She lowered her head so that her eyes could make contact with mine, unencumbered by her thick glasses. “Go for it” she said with a stern determination, reading my mind with the savvy of a veteran grocery checkout clerk.
Her encouragement was all I needed to trek back inside once again to the formula aisle. At the checkout again Ruth smiled at me admirably as I once again rang up another sale. I had purchased 4 canisters now, enough to last a month back home, and, more importantly, I had saved $10 in doing so.
Waiting for the transaction to clear and receipts to print, Ruth and I chatted about the unseasonably warm weather. Out of the corner of my eye I nervously eyed the register hoping for yet another formula coupon. When yet another one popped out I was ecstatic. “Oh, Baby!” I yelped as I pumped my clenched fists in excitement, cutting Ruth off in mid-sentence, “winner winner, chicken dinner!”
Something deep inside me was now gently telling me to quit while I was ahead. But the indescribably intoxicating thrill of collecting and using the coupons was too great. It wasn’t really gambling, but I still had a creepy, foreboding feeling that I was doing something wrong. But whatever good sense I had to quit I rationalized away quickly. “I can’t lose” I told myself,” I can’t lose.”
Four minutes later I was back at the self-checkout with my 5th container of formula in hand, for what I promised myself, no matter what the register spit out, the last time. I inexplicably used cash to speed the process and the $30 formula less the $5 coupon came to $25. I put two $20 bills into the machine.
Distracted momentarily by the whirring noise of the coupon printer spitting out yet another $5 coupon and my daughter attempting to stuff an entire pack of Bubblicious, wrapper and all, into her mouth, I gathered up my grand total of 5 cans of Similac and the kids and headed out to the car, satisfied with the fruits of my labor.
We were halfway home when I realized that I had failed to pick up my change out of the self-checkout machine. $15. The exact amount I saved by using the three coupons.
I should have quit while I was ahead.
Somewhere in the grocery store parking lot, I imagined, a mustachioed man in a flannel shirt and faded blue jeans climbed into his rusty, dented pickup truck. As he plopped his bags of groceries onto the front seat and took an unlit cigarette into his mouth he sorted through his receipts and change.
“Jackpot!” he whispered to himself with a crooked, toothy grin.
