![]() ![]() My butt catches on a candy rack, dragging a shelf of Necco Wafers to the ground. But squeezing isn’t a viable option when you weigh over two hundred pounds. “Excuse me,” I mumble, attempting to squeeze past her cart. I count ten cans of cat food, two packages of one-hundred-watt lightbulbs, a carton of Virginia Slims cigarettes, and a tube of generic hemorrhoid cream. ![]() White Hair is parked behind Mom, emptying her carriage, clearly breaking the Limit 12 Items rule. By the time I do, Mom’s unloaded the contents of our basket onto the conveyor belt: a box of Ritz crackers, a jar of store-brand peanut butter, a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, and two cans of Coca-Cola. Mom hurries toward it, cutting off a white-haired lady in a fuzzy pink warm-up suit. The light for the express lane blinks on. “R egister four is now open with no waiting ,” a ceiling voice booms, interrupting the Stevie Wonder tune playing over the intercom. ![]()
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