Life in a Supermarket Basket

By Michael Evanichko and Thomas Gaadt

Vincent fidgeted as he waited in the ten-items-or-less lane for he clearly had more than ten items in his basket. As the line of impatient shoppers grew, he was sure he'd be humiliated for the sin of supermarket disobedience. Frozen Cornish-hens were sure to be launched at his large frame. If only he knew

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Evanichko
• Release date: May 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990636767

Michael Evanichko

Michael Evanichko began to write at a very young age. Inspired by the early works of Stephen King and the schlocky horror and suspense books of the eighties, he attempted his first novel at age twelve. It wasn't until much later in life that he actually completed his first novel, Life in a Supermarket Basket. Life in a Savage Landfill, and Life in a Neon Knapsack soon followed, and his "Trilogy of Life" was completed. Each novel is connected by a character and is unique in its tone and story.

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Life in a Supermarket Basket

By

Michael Evanichko

Internal and cover illustrations by

Thomas Gaadt

Edited by

Denna Holm

© Michael Evanichko 2022 All Rights Reserved 2nd Edition

This book is a work of Fiction. Names, characters, events, or locations are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. This book is licensed for private, individual entertainment only. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into an information retrieval system or transmitted in any form by ANY means (electrical, mechanical, photographic, audio recording or otherwise) for any reason (excepting the uses permitted by the licensee by copyright law under terms of fair use) without the specific written permission of the author.

Publishers Publication in Data

Evanichko, Michael

Life in a Supermarket Basket

1. Fiction 2. Illustrated 3. Black and white 4. Humor

5. Lifestyle comedy

Dedicated to:

Ronald Hambel

A great friend and supporter of the arts who is currently visiting the frozen pizza aisle at the big supermarket in the sky.

CONTENTS

THE GROCERY KALEIDOSCOPE

TOMATO SOUP

SHAMPOO

BANDAGES

LETTUCE

COFFEE

PORK CHOPS

HAMBURGERS

ALLERGY PILLS

BROWNIES

ZIT CREAM

INTERLUDE

LIP BALM

SOY MILK

GRAPES

DOG TREATS

BEEP

THE HUMAN KALEIDOSCOPE

Acknowledgments

T

hank you to Thomas Gaadt for bringing this story to life through his amazing illustrations. Also, many thanks to the following people who helped support me during the initial and subsequent phases of writing and editing: Quinn Miller, Tom Miller, Chuck McIlvane, Todd Bernstein, and Rich Cholar. Special thanks to William Hunt for his interest in my book and connecting me to the wonderful team at Crimson Cloak Publishing. I am very grateful to my family and friends who inspired some stories and situations included in this book. Much gratitude to my parents, Stanley and Nancy Evanichko, for their amazing support, and accommodating me during my creative endeavors.

Chapter 0 - Cover

THE GROCERY KALEIDOSCOPE

T

he source of the red stream is a large male lying face down in the supermarket parking lot. I’m the first person on the scene, a brag-worthy distinction for the morbid mind. My eyes are glued to his midsection, waiting for a sign of life. I’m good at spotting the breathing actor playing dead on the gory crime shows. Screams, gasps, and crinkling grocery bags fill the air as a crowd gathers. I scan the horrified faces and realize my reaction is quite the opposite.

My visit to the supermarket was prompted by the one-year anniversary of my broken engagement. My fiancée dumped me. I returned from an out-of-town work assignment to find her gone, and I haven’t heard from her since. I needed to celebrate this occasion by indulging in a comfort food … or six. The clattering of damaged shopping cart wheels and crowded aisles, combined with the foul odor of deep-fried onions and dirty socks, motivated me to gather my list of supplies quickly. I filled my basket to the rim with an odd assortment of food and household items, then hurried toward the front of the supermarket, eager to get back to my sofa and my dog, a Great Pyrenees, to bring on season three of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.

Would you like to try a blueberry-melon granola bar? Only fifty calories, propositioned an elderly woman standing behind a folding table.

She’d sought my three-hundred-pound body out of the mob, I was sure of it. Only fifty calories, she’d added. Should have just called me lard-ass.

Blueberry and melon together? I asked. 

She smiled and nodded. It seemed a weird pairing, but I dared not share that with the frail old woman. Instead, I made the yuck face and shook my head as I continued through her cloud of judgment.  

I was almost to the registers when I crossed the path of another demo associate. Senorita Esmeralda was handing out ice-cream, an ideal product on this hot summer day. 

I approached her for a cup. 

"No mas. Excusa."  She grabbed her scooper and her plastic container of rocky-road and disappeared behind the freezer. Was her shift completed? I wanted to follow her to find out why she was discriminating. I was her target audience. One scoop and I would have been sold. I smelled a demo-lady conspiracy.

When I reached the self-scan registers, I discovered the three people ahead of me only had a couple items in their hands, or in a basket, clearly under the posted ten items or less requirement. As I waited patiently for my turn, a substantial line built up behind me. A quick scan concluded these shoppers were also following the ten items or less rule. I didn’t know the item count in my basket but thought it was over ten.   

I was the only disobedient idiot. 

I began to count the items in my basket, at the same time thinking the other customers were watching and would expect me to exit the line upon realizing I was in excess. I played the clueless card and looked up at the nun in front of me. Yes, a stinking nun was standing five feet away, covered in the required costume. What a show-off.

If she turned around, she would say, ‘God knows, dear. You’re going straight to hell for this.’ 

‘That’s impossible,’ I would reply. ‘Hell doesn’t exist. Nor does heaven. As a matter of fact, Sister, you should be unemployed.’ If she was listening to my thoughts, my deceased, God-fearing mother would be so proud of me.

I began to fidget. What if I was called out for my indiscretion? What if the guy behind me yelled at me in front of the other shoppers? My palms perspired as I ran different visuals of embarrassment. I took a couple of deep breaths. I certainly didn’t want a panic attack right now, as I’d been prone to them since speech classes in grade school. I initially lacked the lip, cheek, and tongue action needed to properly enunciate. Rs and Ss were disastrous. Classmates teased me, saying I talked like I had a mouthful of horse shit. Why the crap of choice belonged to a horse was unknown. The teasing and anxiety led me to excel in my English courses, but I refused to thank those tormenters for that. I can’t say they helped me with my math skills, and I may get an ‘F’ at any moment. 

You’re up, bud, the big guy behind me said, and suddenly I was out of grade school and back in my forty-year-old body. 

I mumbled a thank you and quickly approached the checkout scanner. I scanned my shopper’s discount card and grabbed item number one from my basket. If I scanned quickly, nobody could tell I had over ten items. I waved the zit cream across the glass panel, covering the label, as I wanted people to think this was a toothpaste box. A guy my age buying acne medication was pathetic.    

No beep.

I again passed the box across the glass, bar code facing the red laser.

No beep.

I heard a police siren in the distance and my stomach knotted. I scanned the item again, and it finally beeped. I exhaled, smiled, and looked back at the giant of a man behind me—who would look like The Hulk if his color had been green. He did not smile back. I continued scanning, each item taking a couple of tries before the scanner accepted the bar code. When finished, I felt perspiration on my forehead, but so far so good. No panic attack or wrist slapping.

I grabbed my three bags and headed for the exit, almost two steps away when I heard a Hey, buddy! I pretended not to hear The Incredible Hulk and kept walking; convinced I was in for an ear beating. I wouldn’t like him if he was angry. I continued out the first set of sliding double doors, the police sirens ear-piercing, though I didn’t see any flashing lights. As I passed the empty shopping cart area and exited the building, I found I had to know the exact number of items in my bags. I looked down at the receipt in my hand and noticed the count at the bottom next to the total. 

Moments away from a serious anxiety attack over four extra items?

Buddy!? I heard him say again. He’d followed me outside to beat my ass, but now I had some ammunition. Only four extra items, Buddy!

I turned to see him approaching me with his arm extended and what looked like a couple of coupons in his hand. I’d left those stupid coupons that spit out after the receipt. A look of terror appeared in his eyes as he turned to his left. I realized I was in the middle of the parking lot lane and about to get creamed by a rusted-blue car, a screeching cop car right behind it, the uniformed driver clearly trying to protect and serve. Sadly, I was not protected, although I got served a potential death sentence for breaking a supermarket law.    

I’ve been gawking at my own mangled body, which has me puzzled, yet perfectly calm. The assembled crowd made zero attempts to help me. I imagine they fear getting bloody shoes. Not even The Hulk steps forward. His hand covers his mouth like a frightened little girl, and I once again hear sirens in the distance. Hopefully, somebody will attempt to resuscitate the grotesque, broken figure below.

The driver of the killer-mobile is handcuffed and escorted to another cop car. As he is placed inside, his hood catches on the door frame and exposes his profile.

I recognize him.

Somehow, I know the man who has punched out on my life’s timecard, yet I can’t grasp our relationship. I’ll find out soon enough. I look again at the pavement pulverization yet feel no physical pain in my current state—a state that hasn’t been clarified but was obviously spiritual. I’d heard about experiences like this, but only from individuals who survived their trauma. I’m not sure if survival is imminent for me, and I don’t really care.

As I float higher above the scene, not a single person appears aware of my presence. I check out the cleavage of a bleach-blonde and fail in my attempt to lower myself for a closer look. It seems I’m not in control of my ghost.

And then my scattered supermarket items take on an orange glow, allowing me to spot all of them: a can of tomato soup, smashed under a wheel of the cop car, and a destroyed tray of brownies, inches from my left hand. All fourteen items rise and hover above the accident site like glowing fireflies. They approach me and begin circling, almost tauntingly. Even though I made it out of the store verbally unscathed for my excess, I’m paying for it physically via the automobile, and mentally via the merchandise. I’m in a kaleidoscope, and each of my purchased items represents a chapter of my life. As I await my earthly fate, I’m forced to relive their significance—in no particular order.

Oh, and that light at the end of the tunnel is glorious and soothing, which surprised me.  

I never believed it existed.

Chapter 1

TOMATO SOUP

M

y purchased grocery items continue to circle me as I wait for a bystander below to look up in awe. This never happens. The actual items haven’t moved from below, yet somehow their spiritual forms have decided to follow me, which is bizarre. Who would’ve thought a can of tomato soup had a spiritual identity? It quickly becomes apparent I have projected my feelings onto these items. I have a connection with each of them. Fate or coincidence?

Tomato has long been my favorite soup, the condensed variety, mixed with a can of water, allowing a stronger tomato-flavor. When mixed with milk, the tomato flavor is stifled. Growing up, my four siblings liked it with milk, so I was the unhappy one at the table when the evening’s meal was grilled cheese and tomato soup.

But there was one instance when I got this creamy red soup the way I wanted it.

My mother wouldn’t step foot into the kitchen on Thanksgiving, so my dad cooked the bird. Aunts and uncles and extended family who visited on the holidays didn’t know what to make of this. For years they’d whispered but never confronted my dad about their suspicions, though my cousin Heather confronted me about it. We were the same age on the Thanksgiving of 1980, a whopping ten.

Aunt Maggie is a freak of nature, Heather said.

Aunt Maggie is my mom, you know, so you pwobably shouldn’t be telling me this, I replied.

Why does she think the devil is in the oven?

I don’t know. Because it’s hot in nair, like in hell. I’d already answered this question more times than I could remember in this same way, so the reasoning rolled off my tongue quickly and effortlessly, unlike the actual words I was trying to articulate. I’d begun speech therapy, so there was a slight improvement.

Heather wouldn’t let up. If that were the case, wouldn’t the devil be eating all the food in there?

It hurt my feelings that everyone in the family discussed and laughed at my mother’s odd behavior, thinking she was a freak of nature. Yeah, why don’t we put you in nair and led him ead you too?

We were hiding in the shoe closet, playing hide and seek, while my brother counted to ten. Done counting, we could hear his feet thumping around on the linoleum floor on the other side of the door.

That’s mean, Heather continued, once the footsteps faded.

Oh, and calling my mom a fweak isn’t mean?

Not if it’s true.

The door flew open, scaring the crap out of us. My twelve-year-old brother, Dennis, stuck his head inside the closet and punched me.

You’re it, he declared as he spotted Heather. What are you two doing in here together? Playing doctor? 

I kicked Dennis in the crotch, then stood and pulled Heather up and out of the closet as Dennis fell screaming to the floor.

What are you doing? Heather asked as I led her to the kitchen. 

Dinner had ended a couple hours before and everyone was lounging in the living room. I took her to the oven and opened the door. A little warmth still oozed from it and the smell of burnt turkey grease filled my nostrils. Look in there, I said as we both crouched a bit and peered into the blackness of the oven. Do you see tat? I asked.

What?

The devil, I said in a demonic voice, then I pushed her a little from behind to frighten her, but she lost her footing and slipped and actually fell into the oven. She screamed at the top of her lungs as she struggled to lift herself off the rack that had given way and fallen under her body weight. I tried to help her out as she screamed and cried, the kitchen filling with relatives, including her mom and dad, as well as my parents and a few stray siblings and cousins.

Okay, everyone and their mother suddenly appeared to witness this heinous act of the devil feeding. Our Catholic priest, Father Pearlman, might as well have been in the kitchen with us, peering over someone’s shoulder with a horrified expression.

Heather’s mother rushed to my side to help me pull out a blackened Heather, a potentially great new menu choice at my favorite restaurant, Eat–n-Park.

Vincent pushed me in, Heather cried to her mother.

What have you done? she screamed at me as she pulled her daughter away. 

My dad stormed over and whooped my ass. It hurt a little, but, as in most cases, my feelings were the most hurt. Being the always-crying sensitive boy that I was, and since I’d just been defending my mother, his wife, I felt unjustly branded guilty. So, I did what any polite, well-behaved child would do. I caused a bigger scene. Evewyone thinks Mom’s a fweak, Dad, okay! I was just sticking up foe her! I don’t even know why I was, because it’s stupid that she’s afwaid the devil is in the oven!

My mother just looked on in horror. Not at what I was spouting, but at the open oven door. I slammed it shut. She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t helping the situation.

Don’t you raise your voice at me, my father replied.

Everyone, still crammed into the kitchen, seemed to enjoy what was happening. I continued, Shouldn’t she get help? How can you let this go on?

My father stepped forward, grabbed my shirt, and dragged me out of the kitchen. 

He kicked me in the balls too, Dad, Dennis added. 

What a little dickhead, I thought, adding fuel to the blazing fire. I was thrown into the bedroom I shared with that little dickhead, and the door slammed behind me. Left alone to ponder the error of my ways, I wondered which punishment would be assigned.

My mother proclaimed the devil lived in our oven. He lay mostly dormant in the ashen blackness unless the temperature exceeded three hundred degrees. Why this temperature summoned the Prince of Darkness was a mystery to me and my four siblings, but it definitely kept us away from that place, at least until we reached an age to realize the craziness to the theory. And that could be the reason she’d fabricated such a story. For our safety? We all wished it was the reason but realized at different points in our lives that it wasn’t. That damn devil couldn’t come out of the gas flames on the stove-top to harm us. So, we safely ate lots of soups. This logic seemed unbalanced. The same rang true of my mother. I remember severe mood swings, crying, screaming, doors slamming and ceramic lamps shattering against the walls. I kept waiting for an ambulance or some sort of emergency vehicle to show up, sirens bellowing, to haul my balanced-impaired mother away. It was traumatic for me and most of my siblings. (At least one sibling, one of my older brothers, Samuel, relished these instances and used my father’s vulnerability at the time to get what he wanted.) 

My father’s method for handling my mother was to escort her to their bedroom, on the second floor of our quaint two-story house in Big Beaver, Pennsylvania. I think he gave her sleeping pills, or a couple shots of hard liquor to calm her, and we usually wouldn’t see her again until the next morning, when she appeared perfectly normal and sane. This lasted for a handful of days, and then another episode would erupt.

Being the inferior middle child (two older brothers and two younger twin sisters) meant I had to work ferociously for the slightest bit of attention from my parents. As is common in families with three or more children, the firstborn, or eldest child, receives an overabundance of regard and recognition, as well as a higher expectation. The youngest child seems to be the spoiled one, as the parents have used up all their energies disciplining the previously born brats. That leaves me to suffer with the debilitating condition referred to as The Middle Child Syndrome. Characteristics of this agonizing family position include identity crises and lack of emotional support, as well as a general feeling of being neglected. Sitting alone in my bedroom, I had time to recount the ways I was the least-loved child in the world.  

Being that our holiday dinners were actually at lunchtime, I