3rd Person, Limited View Writing Exercise.

            “Get Gatorade she said,” Paul Bart intoned to himself as he left the condo overlooking the Sprain parkway in Yonkers in search of something he could easily find in a Queens bodega. This was before Stacy was promoted to Senior Vice-President of Valley Stream Communications, a subsidiary of one of the last two U.S. telecommunication companies after the Chinese Multinational Huawei Technologies bought AT&T and Verizon Wireless.

            “Red, yellow, or orange STACY?!”  he bellowed back into the apartment. Stacy was in the bedroom trying on different earrings that arrived in the morning that Paul had signed for in his worn LA Dodgers T-shirt and plaid blue boxers, coffee in hand, bed-head in full effect. Pulling his glasses off he thanked the deliveryman, and tossed the Amazon package on top of the pile of moving boxes that still had yet to be un-packed and put away.

            “I’ll get what ever they have then, call me if you need anything else”, he said.

            “That’ll be fine” ,she called out from the bathroom busy with the drone of the blow-dryer.

            Gathering his jacket, wallet, keys, phone, and New York Jets cap, Paul Bart walked out the door and into the courtyard of Westchester’s Ridge Hill Luxury Condo and mall development. The trees planted in the outside mall 10 years ago were barren and the weather was unusually cold for the beginning of February. He headed east on Archer Ave, walking past luxury department and boutique technology stores. “ Supermarket?” He said to no one in particular.  A yellow line appeared on the inside of his glasses bending south on Market Street. Whole Foods was three hundred yards away. All he had to do was follow the line. The avenue and streets of the outdoor mall were quiet in the morning. Paul only past a few young professionals walking to the gym for a morning workout, a family of four, and an elderly couple walking in the same direction to an IHOP restaurant. The chain restaurant had filled an empty space left vacant from some high-end seafood restaurant some years back.

            “Stew Leonard’s Fresh Farm Foods” read the sign in front of him. It was a little busier than Arther Ave. and Market St. as people were busy stocking up for Super Bowl MMXX. “Gatorade, gatorade?” He muttered to himself.

            “Excuse me?” Paul asked one of the employees restocking the Florida oranges into neat geometric patterns.“Sport drinks?”

            Turning to face him momentarily, “You have to go all the way around until you see them. Sorry but there’s no easy way to it. But it’s right next to the canned goods.“

            “Can I ask you another question?” 

            “Whole Foods moved out three years ago buddy. Upgrade your glasses,” the employee said returning to stacking the oranges.

            Thanking the white smocked employee, Paul walked around the store until he got to the section and grabbed a litter bottle of purple Gatorade. On his way to the checkout counter he picked up some smoked Gouda, crackers, fresh broccoli, carrots, potato chips, French onion dip and sour cream.  Eventually he came to the supermarket checkout with only two out of six registers manned by a cashier.

            “Hi” Paul said to the cashier, who wore a red apron with STEW LEONARD’S scripted yellow in the front, and a white nametag that said, “Hi my name is JEN” written in black. He set down the items he juggled in his arms onto the black conveyer belt and stared at the magazines titled SELF, Ms., EnQuire, and BODY in front of him as the cashier began to scan the items. They all seem to have smiling pictures of film stars or models in bikinis during this time of year. As he casually noted the sign for the register wasn’t lit, Paul felt his phone ring in his pocket. Stacy was calling. “Hello?” he answered.

            “Hey can you get some beer too, or wine if they have it? I really don’t want to go over Frank and Sarah’s with out bringing something”, she asked.

            “I’m at the… sure,” he told her. “Hey do you sell wine here?” he asked JEN, his hand covering the cell phone speaker.

            “$45.42,” the cashier told him, “How do you want to pay?” she said drolly.

            “What? Wait, can I get wine or beer before I pay?”,he said.

            JEN looked at him with dull blue eyes, and what was left of her dirty blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. “Sir?”

            “One second, okay?” Paul hung up on his wife and started to jog back through the store leaving the items he was about to pay for at the register, back through past the ice cream vault stacked with 56 flavors, past the seafood market, finally finding a 12 pack of IPA craft beer. He was back by the register before 3 minutes had passed but felt like 15. JEN was not at the register 3 where she was before that wasn’t lit. She was helping to bag for register 5 where there were two other people waiting to be rung up.

            “Hey, JEN?” Paul called out, “Where is the rest of the stuff?” He repositioned the 12-pack of IPA craft beer under his armpit so it looked like he was carrying a football. No one replied. One of the customers looked back casually, as the supermarket radio station played a Gloria Estefan song that seemed to seep into and fill the dead spaces.

            “Hello?!”,he yelled, waving his arm

            “Wait your turn,” the blue haired lady in front of him snapped back at him.

            “JEN, can I check out now? I’ve got the beer. Where is the rest of my stuff?.” He continued, paying no attention to the woman in front of him who was now looking directly at him. “You know, politeness still accounts for something these days. What makes you think…”she tailed off, shaking her head

            At this point in time everybody seemed to be watching the elderly lady looking up at Paul scolding him like a child. The cashier had stop scanning goods, JEN had stop bagging them, and an older man stopped taking out a card from his wallet to leer.

            “Look I was here before, three minutes ago, checking out.” He started to say.

            “Forget it,” she finished saying simultaneously and turned around. “I apologize for this man’s lack of civility today,” she addressed the old man and two employees who then began their activities, as before, like nothing had happened. Turning a beat red Paul stood in line and waited patiently till it was his turn. A few more customers lined up behind Paul. JEN went to another register turning on the light to let them know she was open to scan their items.

            “Is that all?” said the cashier who had short thick brown hair whose nametag read LISA as Paul put down the 12 Pack of IPA craft beer.

            “Yes”, he replied after a brief hesitation.

            “That will be $18.59.”

            Reaching into his pocket Paul pulled out a $20 bill from his wallet and paid the cashier. “Is there another store that sells sport drinks around here?” He asked the new cashier.

            LISA looked at him, “Is that your hat?” she said.

            “Yes, Super Bowl MMXX. Do you think we will win?” he smiled at her as she bagged his 12 pack of IPA craft beer and gave him his change with the receipt under it,  careful not to touch his hand.

            “No. The Jets suck.” LISA turned to the next customer and said, “Hi, welcome to Stew Leonard’s. Did you find everything you came for today?”, with the sincerest of smiles. As Paul left the last beats of the song played out as if on cue. “Gatorade, fucking Gatorade”, he murmured to himself and walked out the store.