The Ownership Society - New Fictional Series

Introduction

“It’s not the right orange juice, ma’am.” The clanging monotone voice echoed through the backed-up check out line. Its owner, a vaguely bland, somewhat skinny girl in her early twenties cut through Deborah’s vision with the annoyed stare of someone who had been overdue for a break for the last three years.

She flicked off the light hovering over the cash register in disgust.

“But…the sign said…” Deborah’s temples were pounding, and she felt like she could almost hear the blood rushing in her ears and see small, whitish-blue dots flit before her eyeballs like so many fireflies. She glanced at her baby in the car seat, perched ungracefully but securely on top of her shopping cart. Thankfully, he was still asleep, a slight smile hiding behind his closed lips.

“Manager, to register three. Manager, to register three.” The cashier’s indifferent voice grated against Deborah’s nerves. She waited, unable to speak, wanting to scream at this selfish child for making her an object of public ridicule. Eyes lowered, staring at her sleeping infant she heard the line behind her shuffle as people cursed under their breaths, psychically directing all of their day’s aggression and anger at her shoulder blades. Eventually a tall, white man, balding and sporting a slight paunch, arrived.

“This isn’t the WIC orange juice, is it?” A skinny, pale arm thrust the joyfully colored carton toward the man. Unconsciously, he pushed the bridge of his gold, wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose, and Deborah noticed it shone in the dingy, fluorescent lights of the store. She randomly thought about how some men actually do need foundation.

“Nope.” The man turned toward Deborah, barely making eye contact. He extended his once muscular arm outward, handing the carton to her. “I mean, you can buy this one, but it’ll just be full price.”

“But you’re out of the other kind.” As she was speaking Deborah noticed her voice climbing a little too high, becoming a little too shrill, but she couldn’t stop its aggression. “This was right next to it, and the sign was right there, and it is almost the same price -”

“Sorry, ma’am. Nothing I can do. Do you want it?” Deborah shook her head and handed the carton back to the man, who in one motion passed it back to the cashier. The cashier sighed louder this time, wanting everyone around her to feel how inconvenient this all was. Angrily, she pressed some buttons, removing the item, her fingers clacking against the smooth plastic and adding to the pounding rhythm in Deborah’s skull.

“Sixty-oh-eight.” Deborah sheepishly slid her card through the reader.

"Debit or credit, ma'am." The cashier demanded, knowing full well Deborah wasn't doing this right.

"It's...um..." Deborah handed the card to the cashier. Confirming that this was an EBT card for food stamps, the cashier all but rolled her eyes.

“Here.” The cashier handed the card back to Deborah. “Slide it through, and then select EBT.” Hands shaking slightly, Deborah quickly swiped the card and tried to immediately hide it in her front jeans pocket.

“Other way.” The cashier intoned, her voice spicy with impatience.

Deborah yanked the card out of her pocket, looked for the magnetic strip and swung it again through the reader. Her fingers mindlessly took over at the keypad, completing the transaction.

“All set. Have a nice day.” The cashier barked to her, an order directing her to leave the store as soon as possible.

Deborah complied. She put the baby – still sleeping, still unaware of his mother’s public humiliation – in the back seat, making sure the carrier clicked into the harness and testing it slightly with her hand before tenderly closing the door. She then got into the front seat, behind the driver’s wheel, put her head in her hands and let the hot, sticky tears silently drip through her fingers.

...to be continued