Sorry Kevin, I Didn't Mean To Corrupt Your Worldview
The Incriminating Evidence
When I go grocery shopping I get one of those handheld baskets and put it on my lap as I wheel around the store collecting my needed wares. My food preparation abilities dictate that most of the groceries I buy come in ready-to-eat, ready-to-microwave containers, easily stackable boxes and the like. When I'm not buying items such as milk or orange juice that have a considerable amount bulk, I can pick up quite a few items—enough to fill my refrigerator for a few days—and still manage to get the groceries back to my van without too much trouble. Once back to my van, I unload the groceries out of the basket on to the rear bench seat. Then I usually try to find the nearest discarded shopping cart to place the empty basket in to avoid having to return it all the way back in the store. After I arrive back at my apartment, I am then able to gather up all of the grocery bags onto my lap without having to go around to the rear the vehicle to collect the groceries from behind the lift gate. As with many of my other daily tasks, this routine came together with the idea of maintaining the efficiency of energy and motion in mind. My stubborn adherence to unloading my vehicle in as few, usually one, trips possible does lead to unintended consequences from time to time; namely, losing control of a grocery bag or an improperly secured gallon of milk tumbling to the ground as I traverse the one hundred and three feet of sidewalk back to my front door. Thus, possibly subjecting myself to more work, time, and/or exposure to inclement weather than if I had made multiple, less-encumbered trips. So last Thursday, with a lapful groceries and facing the prospect of executing the aforementioned unloading maneuvers with two inches of snow on the ground I decided, to hell with making unloading groceries a delicate, high-wire routine fraught with potentially protracted mishaps. And instead of unloading groceries into my van and returning the basket to the store I just kept the entire basket and took it home with me. When I exited my van a short time later amidst swirling snow flurries, free of any worries of losing errant packages of peppered deli turkey to a grimy, snow drift, I questioned why I never committed to this course of action much earlier.
Some might look at this act and call it stealing, as indeed one of my aides did, when she inquired why the red basket with the words “Meijer” emblazoned on it was sitting by the door. My response then was the same as it is here; I might agree with that implication if I were planning on keeping the basket at my place and utilizing it for activities other than its intended purpose. I'm more inclined to call it borrowing, but that's probably not completely correct since I didn’t bother to ask any of the higher-ups at the store if I could take the basket. So let's just call it “principled stealing.” I’ll promise to bring it back with me every time I shop there and furthermore I’ll promise not to use it at a different store, say the Kroger across town. In turn, Meijer will promise to be completely clueless that I have their basket on a quasi-permanent basis until an as yet-to-be determined time when I choose to release it back into circulation. It’s not like anyone is going to know a basket is missing anyway (short of a nightly basket count, if such a thing exists. And I’ll bet the sullen high school kid who does that count fudges those numbers all the time, just so he doesn’t have to recount all of the baskets over again before he clocks out). That’s an unspoken arrangement I think we both can live with…or I should say we could have lived with, that is. Not one full, return trip into my new master plan, I immediately began to regret my decision. And it’s all Kevin’s fault.
That damn Kevin. He’s one of those kids that work in every grocery store across the country. Probably graduated from high school at age 19 or 20 and not because he repeated any grades, still lives at home with his parents, bad haircut, incredibly nice, trustworthy, and hard working. He’s the kid that will always address me as “mister” even though we’re probably pretty close to the same age and unfortunately, he’s also the kid that has the mental skill set just advanced enough to handle the kinds of menial, repetitive tasks that guarantees a lifetime of employment mired in bottom-rung positions across the spectrum of the service industry. Jobs like, gathering shopping carts out of the parking lots of grocery stores. If Kevin is working and I’m in the parking lot with a basket full of groceries, like Radar O’Reilly, he will appear out of thin air and inquire if I need any help. He will also be perpetually fascinated by the fact that my van has a ramp that comes out of the side even though he’s seen it in action a dozen times or more, and he will make sure to tell me how much he likes it if I’m remotely anywhere within earshot. He is that kid. He is that Kevin. And somehow it’s that Kevin who may have blown the lid off my clandestine acquisition and intent to keep a red, Meijer shopping basket for my permanent convenience.
After purchasing my most recent cache of groceries, replete with the bulk of a gallon of both milk and juice—the perfect acquisitions to test my new theory of how taking the Meijer basket home with me will ease the unloading of the groceries into my apartment—I returned to my van. After depositing the basket, full to the brim with foodstuffs, on the back bench seat in my van I turned and reached for the door-close button on the interior pillar between the passenger side front door and opening created by the sliding door where the access ramp automatically folds up into the van. In that moment, as I waited the twenty seconds or so for the ramp and sliding door to close, I looked out and made direct eye contact with Kevin. There he stood--in the midst of pushing a train of shopping carts back into the store--two full rows of parked cars creating the distance between the two of us. I saw a look of befuddlement come across his face and I knew exactly what he was thinking. I watched him hold up his hand with index finger extended as if to indicate to me, “Wait, I think you forgot to give us our basket back. Stay there, mister. I’ll come get it from you.” In the span of the next five seconds I broke our locked stare to maneuver my wheelchair up into the correct driving position and when I looked back up he and the carts had disappeared. I looked back down to start the ignition and when I looked back up to get ready to leave, here came Kevin hustling towards my van and by this time the ramp and sliding door had completed their closing cycle. Kevin approached my passenger side door, half-craning his neck to see the basket through the window. I rolled down the window and he said to me, “I think you have one of our baskets.” Now if I were in his shoes and I caught someone packing one of the store’s baskets in their car’s trunk and I had said that exact same thing, the intent behind those words would’ve been, “who are you trying to fool jackass, stealing one of our baskets?” But not Kevin, he’s not wired that way. His words carried the tone of genuine concern; concern that all baskets and shopping carts get back into the store because that’s what it means to do a good job, as well as concern that this customer’s memory is so bad he almost inadvertently took one of the red baskets home.
For half a second I thought to myself that I’d say, “Oh sorry, I forgot. Come around to this side and I’ll let you get it out of the back.” But, I didn’t forget. I was doing this on purpose and if I said to him that I’d forgotten, then I’d just be lying to the helpful, but ever-so-slightly challenged kid and I didn’t want to go down that path. So, I just looked at him and said, “I know. I need it. I need it to make it easier to get my groceries back into my apartment.” At which point I could see that Kevin was beginning to feel conflicted. I continued, “I will bring it back. I promise. The next time I go shopping I will bring it back.” Which is true, I will bring it back, and even though he did this sort of half-turn to look back at the store, as if to see if there was anyone in charge to approve of this course of action, I could see that my rationale kind of made sense to him. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to him, “next time” doesn’t mean later today or even tomorrow, if that’s what he was hoping I meant. “O.K.,” I said, not asking. And he relented.
So, the red basket came home with me for a second time. Worked like a charm too, one trip, nothing dropped on the ground. Just like I intended it would. Of course, the cognitive dissonance I’m feeling for using the Jedi Mind Trick on Kevin probably means that I’ll have to find my own basket to shop with in the future, so that I can take it to and from the store as I please…unless, that is, I can figure out a way to dodge him every time I want to steal that shopping basket from now on…
It’s a crazy world, Kevin. Sometimes rules get bent and even broken when violating them can serve a greater purpose. I’m sorry if that is confusing, but we’re talking about maximizing my level of convenience here.
Some might look at this act and call it stealing, as indeed one of my aides did, when she inquired why the red basket with the words “Meijer” emblazoned on it was sitting by the door. My response then was the same as it is here; I might agree with that implication if I were planning on keeping the basket at my place and utilizing it for activities other than its intended purpose. I'm more inclined to call it borrowing, but that's probably not completely correct since I didn’t bother to ask any of the higher-ups at the store if I could take the basket. So let's just call it “principled stealing.” I’ll promise to bring it back with me every time I shop there and furthermore I’ll promise not to use it at a different store, say the Kroger across town. In turn, Meijer will promise to be completely clueless that I have their basket on a quasi-permanent basis until an as yet-to-be determined time when I choose to release it back into circulation. It’s not like anyone is going to know a basket is missing anyway (short of a nightly basket count, if such a thing exists. And I’ll bet the sullen high school kid who does that count fudges those numbers all the time, just so he doesn’t have to recount all of the baskets over again before he clocks out). That’s an unspoken arrangement I think we both can live with…or I should say we could have lived with, that is. Not one full, return trip into my new master plan, I immediately began to regret my decision. And it’s all Kevin’s fault.
That damn Kevin. He’s one of those kids that work in every grocery store across the country. Probably graduated from high school at age 19 or 20 and not because he repeated any grades, still lives at home with his parents, bad haircut, incredibly nice, trustworthy, and hard working. He’s the kid that will always address me as “mister” even though we’re probably pretty close to the same age and unfortunately, he’s also the kid that has the mental skill set just advanced enough to handle the kinds of menial, repetitive tasks that guarantees a lifetime of employment mired in bottom-rung positions across the spectrum of the service industry. Jobs like, gathering shopping carts out of the parking lots of grocery stores. If Kevin is working and I’m in the parking lot with a basket full of groceries, like Radar O’Reilly, he will appear out of thin air and inquire if I need any help. He will also be perpetually fascinated by the fact that my van has a ramp that comes out of the side even though he’s seen it in action a dozen times or more, and he will make sure to tell me how much he likes it if I’m remotely anywhere within earshot. He is that kid. He is that Kevin. And somehow it’s that Kevin who may have blown the lid off my clandestine acquisition and intent to keep a red, Meijer shopping basket for my permanent convenience.
After purchasing my most recent cache of groceries, replete with the bulk of a gallon of both milk and juice—the perfect acquisitions to test my new theory of how taking the Meijer basket home with me will ease the unloading of the groceries into my apartment—I returned to my van. After depositing the basket, full to the brim with foodstuffs, on the back bench seat in my van I turned and reached for the door-close button on the interior pillar between the passenger side front door and opening created by the sliding door where the access ramp automatically folds up into the van. In that moment, as I waited the twenty seconds or so for the ramp and sliding door to close, I looked out and made direct eye contact with Kevin. There he stood--in the midst of pushing a train of shopping carts back into the store--two full rows of parked cars creating the distance between the two of us. I saw a look of befuddlement come across his face and I knew exactly what he was thinking. I watched him hold up his hand with index finger extended as if to indicate to me, “Wait, I think you forgot to give us our basket back. Stay there, mister. I’ll come get it from you.” In the span of the next five seconds I broke our locked stare to maneuver my wheelchair up into the correct driving position and when I looked back up he and the carts had disappeared. I looked back down to start the ignition and when I looked back up to get ready to leave, here came Kevin hustling towards my van and by this time the ramp and sliding door had completed their closing cycle. Kevin approached my passenger side door, half-craning his neck to see the basket through the window. I rolled down the window and he said to me, “I think you have one of our baskets.” Now if I were in his shoes and I caught someone packing one of the store’s baskets in their car’s trunk and I had said that exact same thing, the intent behind those words would’ve been, “who are you trying to fool jackass, stealing one of our baskets?” But not Kevin, he’s not wired that way. His words carried the tone of genuine concern; concern that all baskets and shopping carts get back into the store because that’s what it means to do a good job, as well as concern that this customer’s memory is so bad he almost inadvertently took one of the red baskets home.
For half a second I thought to myself that I’d say, “Oh sorry, I forgot. Come around to this side and I’ll let you get it out of the back.” But, I didn’t forget. I was doing this on purpose and if I said to him that I’d forgotten, then I’d just be lying to the helpful, but ever-so-slightly challenged kid and I didn’t want to go down that path. So, I just looked at him and said, “I know. I need it. I need it to make it easier to get my groceries back into my apartment.” At which point I could see that Kevin was beginning to feel conflicted. I continued, “I will bring it back. I promise. The next time I go shopping I will bring it back.” Which is true, I will bring it back, and even though he did this sort of half-turn to look back at the store, as if to see if there was anyone in charge to approve of this course of action, I could see that my rationale kind of made sense to him. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to him, “next time” doesn’t mean later today or even tomorrow, if that’s what he was hoping I meant. “O.K.,” I said, not asking. And he relented.
So, the red basket came home with me for a second time. Worked like a charm too, one trip, nothing dropped on the ground. Just like I intended it would. Of course, the cognitive dissonance I’m feeling for using the Jedi Mind Trick on Kevin probably means that I’ll have to find my own basket to shop with in the future, so that I can take it to and from the store as I please…unless, that is, I can figure out a way to dodge him every time I want to steal that shopping basket from now on…
It’s a crazy world, Kevin. Sometimes rules get bent and even broken when violating them can serve a greater purpose. I’m sorry if that is confusing, but we’re talking about maximizing my level of convenience here.
3 comments:
Congratulations, Daniel, you've become a man. Sadly, but most assuredly, one of the signs of actual maturity is knowing that one has made and will continue to make compromises with our core values (eg: don't lie, cheat, steal) in the actual day to day living of our lives. Everyone does this. Most just don't admit it to themselves. The hard part is knowing when the Law is best kept by keeping the spirit of the Law, but violating the Letter. And still being able to face the Kevins of the world, knowing that you are disappointing them, while doing your best...and also knowing that you always will disappoint your life's Kevin.
I'm not being cynical, far from it. I've "stolen" more "baskets" than I like to admit. And for a lot less pressing reasons.
Perhaps you ought to seek out that store mgr and tell them what a good and faithful servant Kevin is? Offer to give them a $5.00 deposit on the basket, if they will tell Kevin you have permission to use it, long-term? It would ease his mind, and yours.
You're doing ok, son.
I like it that you have found your "voice" again.
Dad
I could also just buy my own basket to take with me - but that doesn't make for a very good story.
A simple story, told really well. One of my favorite things. I saw some of myself in your thought process in deciding how to respond to Kevin. Just wanted to let you know that I enjoyed it.
Post a Comment