The Big Shop

 A short story inspired by the study of dirty realism.

Parked with my cart across from the bakery, in front of the display of Coca-Cola cans—boxes of red and silver, stacked on each other - only about three boxes high - a visible sign of the morning rush. Before I would wake up early, before the sun had risen, in an attempt to beat the crowd so I’m not left with bruised fruit and no milk. I shed off my bag, and coat, and pull out my list. I have to zip up my coat pocket as I stuff it into the large trolley - a large trolley because too many people have plucked the small ones. I don’t have the energy for the five extra steps required.

I always seem to forget to close my pocket after I scavenge for a pound. I leave one on my body, the problem is remembering where. This turns into a frantic game of hide and seek with a coin that cannot give me any hints.

The bakery fills the entrance of the store with a sweet smell, vanilla, and a sense of comfort. I only grab a muffin (filled with jam) if I have a coupon for a free bakery item. However, that only happens if I've spent £50, and I do not like that happening. I definitely do not like it happening as much as it does. My eyes are drawn to the neon green price tag for 39p doughnuts. The contrast of pink frosting with snow-white sprinkles against the tan pasties makes it seem like they belong inside my trolley.

Turning my back on the sugar rush, the greenery of the lettuce stares at me. I look over my food list, debating between the romaine and green leaf. Iceberg is not even a thought, though it’s the cheaper option. Romaine is daunting, due to an e-coli outbreak that happened a couple of years back. It is larger, but more expensive, and could kill me. The world could kill me, will kill me.

The moment I stepped foot inside the store, a clock inside my brain started. I must exit as soon as I can. It is a rule that was established when I started shopping for myself. Now with another mouth to feed, the rule has become more crucial.  

Only one salad this week, we don’t need lettuce on our sandwiches, we don’t have money to have lettuce on our sandwiches. Green leaf, 85p. It was 79p last week. Each item I pull off the shelf hurts my head. Makes my gut clutch. For two people relying on my lack of income, it hurts to see the numbers of my bank account only decrease. It hurts to not hear anything back after interviews and sending in my CVs. It hurts to live. I move over to the celery, right next to the lettuce. That’s when I noticed the little sign. Printer paper with black ink letting me know why the last month I haven’t been able to find salad tomatoes. ‘Lettuce, cucumber and tomatoes, only 3 per customer.’ I’m not looking for celery that looks good. I grab the biggest bag I can find. I’m looking for celery that will keep us fed for a week, 60p. The only bright red tomatoes that are left are cherry tomatoes. They are a stop sign, asking me if I crave their taste enough for £1.29. I don’t. I only have £5 left. And I know I will be hitting my overdraft. 

I avoid the meat and cheese aisle. The only time we eat meat is for luncheon meat. On our sandwiches. We are not vegetarians, at least I don’t call ourselves that, but at this point, I should. We no longer have the funds to consume enough protein, only to worry, about if this beef will get us sick like last week. I thought we would turn to eggs for a source of protein. But they are always out, and the price is also rising. So, I rely on beans.

I cannot eat nuts- born with an allergy. So, it's 61p black beans or 33p kidney beans. I prefer black beans, but I have no place for preference. The beans do not go with our meals. Beans sprinkled between 31p white bread, or on top of a salad. But it’s what keeps us alive. Like spending all day inside the public library. Not to read, but to use a restroom that has toilet paper. Being able to fill up our water bottles. Not freezing because our heating got turned off. It’s hurting to breathe. To think I brought a baby into this life.

One thing that actually kills me. That if someone offers me a cigarette, I take it. Instead of saving up to buy my love a new coat, I’ll sneak a pack of ten. When the world is killing me, why does the one thing that I know is trying to, feel like how my husband used to hug me. Reminds me of the time we used to date. And he plucked the rolled tobacco behind his ear. I miss that sight; I miss the sight of him.

A lady walks past. War against the clock showing throughout her silvered hair. The smell of my tobacco falls off her and rolls to the floor. A train to a wedding dress I never had. I turn into Shaggy, and the smell lifts me off my feet, I float after her. Until she turns to the cheese and meat aisle, and now I know how she can afford to still be buying ciggies.

Instead, I go to the canned section. Where I get most of the food we consume. 16p SpaghettiOs, I can’t really stand the taste anymore, but it’s a meal. A meal I can afford, to eat every day on repeat. Gripping the two cans I plop them in the cart. 50p. Fifty fucking pence. I can’t afford for the price to go up. I can’t afford to get the bus back home, and tickets only went up ten pence. I can’t afford the heating bill. We don’t have Wi-Fi, and I have to use a pay-as-you-go phone, for emergencies only. I had to drop out of Uni, even with maintenance loans.

Fifty fucking pence.

I turn the cart around. My list is still full of things that I haven’t added to my cart. I pass by, picking up calcium supplements before going to self-serve. It also has vitamin D, £4.45. At least I don’t have to worry about the health of my bones and his for the fact that we haven’t had milk in over two months. I’m unable to breastfeed, formula is too expensive. A poor mom is making me a terrible mom.

£8.12. The total is eight pounds and twelve pence. I only had five pounds to spend. And I barely even made a dent in the list. I’m surviving off stolen water, bland beans, and my free prescription that is supposed to be taken on a full stomach. Each time I down a white capsule, I feel nauseous and dry heave for thirty minutes.

I’m slow as I grab my items off the scale and place them into my tote. I feel the eyes of everyone in the market. Staring at the silly woman who can’t afford £8.12. Silly woman who is starving the little man that fills her heart.

Nearing the exit, it is nice to finally be able to leave. The time I spend inside, no matter how short, feels too long. However, the fact that my bank account is in the red, makes me want to return it all. To survive off only the sun. Like the tree outside my kitchen window. Sometimes, when I’m really hungry I stand outside, arms out wide. Skin exposed even though it's only four degrees outside. And I try to take in all the light my skin can take. Maybe one of these days I’ll stay. Feet rooted into the unkept grass. Head forced to face the front of the sun. And I can just wait for the day my body will be broken down. Created into paper, and I’ll finally be able to touch steak, even if it just to wrap the bloody uncooked meat.

The thought motivates me. I slowly turn around, heading to the kiosk near the entrance. I have nothing to lose, now I don’t. So, I buy a pack for £10.46, a lighter too as I don’t have one on me. I feel my doom above me, I feel my death before me.