Grape Tomatoes

It was an afternoon just like any other afternoon. Clint was somewhat groggy having departed prematurely from Christ the King Presbyterian Church to take a strong dose of allergy medicine. Clint, an allergy sufferer to the point of a medication connoiseur, is in tune with his allergic tendencies enough to be able to forecast an attack at the slightest sniffle. Forced to skip a number of phrases during the corporate confession on account of an itchy nose, Clint informed Nicole of his ailment, and briskly made his way out the back of the church during the last verse of the hymn of the month--an old hymn sang to a new tune. Clint was glad he was able to last through confession at least.

Clint cranked the air conditioning to full-on for the drive home, as he believes the blasting of cold air on his face slows the invading allergens for at least a time. Clint also beleives he is allergic to the sound of a lawn being mown. Undoubtedly, equally poppycock.

Anyhow, he arrived at his new apartment, a 1940-50's-style abode rented out by the University of Oklahoma. It was a strikingly good deal considering all bills were paid for (including the handsome T-1 internet connection), and helped put Clint's mind at ease in regard to finding a place for his soon-to-be wife to rest her blue-eyed, little head. He promptly made his way through the cardboard-box-filled home to the scant bathroom. He pulled the mirror's reflection toward himself, found the allergy medicine box, pushed a pill through the foil backing, gathered a half-mouthful of water, popped the pill, and swallowed.

Whenever he is to take such a dosage, he insists that the medication is only truly activated if one follows it with a nap--referred to as an "allergy nap." Like wine-tasting, there is a process in the medicating of allergies that is particular but, nonethless, intended to be enjoyed. So, Clint retired to the bed.

Meanwhile, though concerned about Clint's allergic state Nicole realized, having witnessed quite a number of these allergy attacks, there was nothing she could do for him and stayed through the remainder of the Sunday morning service. After doing some desirable socializing Nicole slipped out of church before partaking of the routine fellowship meal so that she could make her way back to her suffering fiance and offer any support possible. Nicole called Clint on her cell phone on the way to check on his allergy status.

Clint was awakened by a sound still unfamiliar to him--the ringing of a cordless phone received at a recent wedding shower. Nicole was calling on her way home. Clint cracked open the back door so that Nicole could enter, as he believes the door locks upon being closed--a mechanism that merely requires a flip of the fingers to no longer automatically lock. He returned to the bed in hopes of grabbing a wink of shallow sleep before Nicole arrived. He did so, and Nicole arrived.

The agenda was quickly discussed and set. Go out for lunch, and then to Wal-Mart with a list of items for the new apartment.

The two made their way out to Clint's car through the apartment's grassy area to the dirt-and-gravel parking lot. An enormous cottonwood (what other kind is there) tree loomed large over the south side of the apartment's lawn. Anything but seedless, the cottonwood rendered the entire grassy area into a Gargantuan dryer's lint filter.

"It's no wonder my allergies are so bad," stated Clint observing the cottonwood seeds, both airborne and grounded.

He then unlocked the doors of his late-1980's model Grand Marquis with an oddly-intentional color of grey a few shades darker than that of primer. Simultaneously, Clint and Nicole experienced the burst of hot air that smelled of the cars of grandmothers who wear large sunglasses with a slight fade tint from top to bottom and have crowded, jangly keychains with a Native American symbol of some sort dwarfing the neighboring keys.

They decided to take Nicole's car. It cools off much faster and reeks of a more recent, younger style of success.

"I can never decide where to eat," said Nicole from the passenger seat as the car sat at a stop sign. "Let's talk genre. What is on the way to Wal-Mart?"

"We can go to either the west-side Wal-Mart or the east-side Wal-Mart, so pretty much everything is on the way," said Clint.

"Okay... Well... I want fast but not too fast."

Clint thought for a moment, dazed and feeling about ten feet above himself from the lingering medication.

"How about Johnnies?" asked Clint.

"Ooh, that sounds good."

The couple enjoyed their Johnnies burgers.

Nicole told Clint about all that had happened at church. She went over ther sermon by reading from the Sharpé-scented notes she had taken. She told of her conversations after church.

Clint and Nicole drifted through Wal-Mart picking up items on and off their list: black duct tape, white duct tape, tape measure, electrical tape, meat, grape tomatoes, milk, tissues, pasta, and so on. They saw many interesting people, and said "hello" to none of them.

Upon checking off all the items from their list and being satisfied with the rounding up of things not on the list, they trekked to the cashier-side of the store. The two were easily lulled into the seeming convenience of the self-checkout. An oasis in the desert of people to not say "hello" too.

Clint scanned, and Nicole bagged. The feminine machine insisted that Nicole was bagging incorrectly. This annoyed Clint. He formed an alliance with the cashier robot, he played the silent, annoyed role, and the she-bot played the nagging yet polite role. Clint continued scanning.

He incorrectly picked up a plastic container of the grape tomatoes from the cart, opening it wide and to the side. Hell broke loose somewhere between the first and nineteenth grape tomato striking the tiles. They tumbled end-over-end, side-over-side, and end-over-side, in all directions. Clint, an already relatively apathetic young man and, furthermore, groggy from the allergy medicine, just watched the calamity unfold.

"I just spilled the grape tomatoes."

"PLEASE PLACE THE SCANNED ITEM IN THE BAG."

"What?"

"I just spilled the grape tomatoes... all over the floor."

"Oh... well, we can get some more."

"That's not what I am concerned about."

Clint, deciding not to yet break protocol despite the fact that protocol had been broken, continued scanning items. Nicole caught up with the bagging enough to pick up the grape tomatoes. Nicole gathered the rogue vegetables (although some may call them fruits) in her hand, and then she decided to get a bag, despite there being a trash can not but an arm's length from ground zero.

"How can she possibly not see that trash can?" thought an irrationally irritated Clint.

Clint continued scanning and bagging. He was handling both tasks without error. Perfect fodder for Clint's situational self-righteoussness.

Nicole finished the task of cleaning up the grape tomatoes. By this point, she had grown impatient of both the situation and Clint's silence.

"Do you want some more grape tomatoes?" asked Nicole.

"No. It's okay."

"They're just right over there."

"If you want to."

"It would only take a second," said Nicole, fast growing tired of the indecision.

Clint sighed, annoyed at her incessant insisting.

"Sure."

Off went Nicole to fetch another batch of grape tomatoes, while Clint continued scanning items.

"ITEM DOES NOT MATCH CORRECT WEIGHT," nagged the fem-bot just as Nicole was out of earshot.

The spilling of the grape tomatoes was the first wave of Hell's march out of the depths. Then came the second.

"PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE ITEMS FROM THE BAG UNTIL ITEM HAS CLEARED."

"PLACE THE SCANNED ITEM IN THE BAG."

"ASSISTANCE IS ON THE WAY."

Failure was established. Self-righteousness checked severe.

A faceless (nameless if wasn't for the badge) employee in a blue smock with a yellow, happy face graphic appeared out of nowhere and held a piece of plastic up to the machine to be scanned. Clint could have been taking advantage of the system, and it would have made no difference to the employee. She was paid by the hour, and it's the machine she was serving that most threatened her job security.

Clint finished scanning and bagging. He looked up, and noticed that Nicole was not yet back. He squinted his eyes toward the produce section. There was Nicole's skinny frame hovering over the grape tomatoes, looking into each package of dozens of grape tomatoes trying to determine which one had the largest quantity of aesthetically healthy grape tomatoes.

Clint just stood there, watching.

"SCAN NEXT ITEM, OR, IF YOU ARE FINISHED, SELECT 'FINISH AND PAY.'"

The people in the queue behind Clint looked at him, trying to understand what he was doing gazing into the produce section.

"SCAN NEXT ITEM, OR, IF YOU ARE FINISHED, SELECT 'FINISH AND PAY.'"

Clint tapped his credit card on the stainless steel lining of the conveyor belt. Nicole started back.

"SCAN NEXT ITEM, OR, IF YOU ARE FINISHED, SELECT 'FINISH AND PAY.'"

Nicole was close enough to hear the cashier bot. She handed off the grape tomatoes, and they were promptly scanned. Clint set the package of the grape tomatoes on the scale's bed, bypassing placing it in a sack of its own. Clint and Nicole stood there for a couple, long seconds waiting to hear the fem-bot grant its approval.

The couple remained silent as they departed from Wal-Mart and loaded the groceries into the car. They sat down in the front seats and Clint cranked the air conditioning and aimed it at his face. He thought for a moment.

"I'm sorry I'm being moody. It's just that the grape tomatoes fell out of the packaging and I am allergy mediciney."

Nicole laughed and forgave him.

Escondido Enemigos

It was an evening like any other evening. Clint had made his way up to Edmond in the afternoon to visit Nicole, his fiancé, and help gather addresses for wedding invitations. And that is exactly what came to pass.

Having completed such arduous tasks, their early-twenty-someone bellies were all a-grumble--Nicole's merely a-mumble. The central Oklahoma phenomenon embodied as a Tex-Mex restaurante with a recent stint of mitosis beckoned the young lovers.

The list for available seating filled the hostesses glowing LCD screen with names like Ingrid, Gerber, Chavez, and upon Clint and Nicole's arrival, "Elliott." Clint usues his middle name in such situations, because he always has to repeat himself when he uses his first or last name.

"The wait will be about 35 minutes."

So, they stood and chatted in the summer evening. The kind in which it feels like one's innards and skin are the same temperature as the air surrounding one's self. Soon, they were able to sit at a bench.

Honeymoon destinations were discussed. Nicole and her father had recently brainstormed some possible locations: Vancouver, Victoria Island, Seattle, Maine, and so on. She shared these with Clint. Clint thought these were good locations. But, he failed to voice this thought.

"Well, when you think about it, all of these locations are pretty much the same," said Clint.

There was a pause.

He continued,"Every location deals with the coasts. You pretty much have the option of either island or land."

Another pause.

"Right?"

Nicole's demeanor underwent a change upon Clint stating that all the locations are pretty much the same.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"I don't want to make the decision... for multiple reasons. I don't mind giving input."

"Well, okay... Do you think I am trying to make you make the decision right now?"

"I feel like I am going to have to make the decision."

"Okay... but, do you think that, right now, I am trying to make us--make you--make the decision?"

"No."

"All I am trying to do is ask if you like the idea of staying on an island or land."

"But, I don't have any more input... you aren't giving any locations."

"No," stated boldy, cutting off Nicole. "That's not what happened. I'm just trying to get your input on whether you like the island or the land. Geographically."

"But, you don't like any of the locations."

"Oh."

Everything lined up at that moment.

"I like the locations."

A few minutes passed under a lighter mood having discovered the problem. But, it wasn't long before growling of their bellies again spread to their mouths.

Clint was observing a crowd of people that had just exited the Escondido. One of the members of the crowd, a teenage girl wearing a floral dress over her jeans, had an interesting voice. Furthermore, upon addressing her comrade, she spoke her strange timbre while staring at the other's neck in an insecure manner. Clint found this amusing and nudged Nicole to take a gander for herself.

Nicole was observing an older couple who appeared to be on a date. The gentleman would rarely look at the lady; whereas, the lady was nearly at all times looking at the gentleman. This sparked a train of thought in Nicole.

"Why is it that men are supposed to be such visual creatures, but, in the midst of conversation, men rarely look at the other involved?" Nicole inquired to Clint. "Right?"

"I don't know."

Clint continued looking at the group with the girl with the funny voice. There was now a woman with an incredibly boney jaw that captivated him.

"Women are almost always looking at who they are talking to... Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know."

The familiar pause rears its head.

"Why aren't you talking to me?" moaned Nicole.

"I am."

"No you aren't. You just keep saying 'I don't know.'"

"I honestly don't know why men do that."

"Well, you could still talk to me about it."

"Are you hungry?" inquired Clint, hinting at hunger as a possible cause of the perceived moodiness.

"I am just trying to figure out what you think."

"Okay... Well, I am looking at this group of people while I talk to you. I am not looking at you. Does 'visual' equate to just the physical things or does it also include abstract ideas?"

"So, men are attaching the conversation to the ideas and content of the conversation more, and women attach the conversation to who they are talking to... I am hungry."

"Yeah... I know you are. Me too."

Later, while Clint and Nicole devoured the Tex-Mex vittles that kept appearing before them via the speedy hands of the silent Mexican staff, Clint interjected with what he thought a profound thought.

"We should make a blog about our arguments."

Nicole laughed.

"That would be good."

So the couple discussed the idea. They decided that the names of other people--should they ever be included in any arguments--must be replaced with cliché African-American names. They also deceided that arguments that are only truly over and forgiven may be published. They then realized their need to close the evenings arguements with apologies.