It is a fact I learned while working the night shift at a cheap hotel: the weird ones come out at night.  Still true, I realize as I zip my collar up and tuck my chin away from the cold.  I round the camper of an old truck and come face-to-face with another weirdo.  In daylight he would look like a regular guy, but everyone looks creepy this late.  It doesn’t help that I get jumpy at night.

I dodge into the store, wrap a basket over my arm, and hide in the Produce section.  Everyone knows weirdoes don’t buy produce.  I stuff three Big Hass Avocados in my basket, thinking Jake will appreciate a Big Hass laugh when I show them to him.

Two past-their-prime college students peruse the potatoes at the other end of Produce.  Don’t they know the Produce rule?

I escape into Dairy, slip a gallon of milk off the shelf, and shove it next to the avocados and the cardboard cookies this store passes off as food.  With a full basket and a half gallon of pulp free orange juice in my left hand, I duck into the only open check stand.  A set of giggling women close their cart in behind me, and I mentally beg the clerk to get me and my Big Hass avocados out of here before it gets too weird.

She passes me a receipt, and I dart into the parking lot, passing the unusual number of shadowy forms getting in and out of their cars and ancient vans—I hate vans.  In the movies there’s always something or someone sinister waiting inside the van.  The salted ice patches crunch under my feet, and though I know I’m being silly, I can’t get inside my car fast enough.  I fumble with my keys between plastic grocery bags.  The headlights flash as I press the unlock button.  I bump the door wide with my hip, and throw my bags over the console.  Soon I’m inside with the doors locked.

My Big Hass avocados and I are safe.