License to Shop by Kelly McClymer Page A

an
interaction with the butcher, but if he had to make up an order of
London broil for me it would take more time.
    I rang the bell for the
butcher—though it was hidden, I knew where it was from the last
times I’d had to ring it to satisfy my shop requirements. Of
course, it took a while for someone to come. I’d seen the guy in
the bloody white coat before and thought of him as “the
butcher.”
    I glanced at his nametag.
Tom. Tom the Butcher. He didn’t look friendly. But then again, I
didn’t need friendly, I just needed to complete my shop questions,
and a nice London Broil for eight. No. Nine.
    Tom had dropped a huge
slab of beef in order to answer my buzz on his buzzer. He had a
cleaver in one hand and the other, bloody one, he wiped on his
blood-smeared white smock. “London Broil? Can you give me a
minute?”
    “ I have to get some
cupcakes and some vegetables,” I conceded. He was allowed to ask
for a minute to fulfill my order, but he was supposed to be nice
about asking. I was also allowed to walk away and return at the
specified time.
    “ I’ll have it for you when
you get back.” He still didn’t smile. I wasn’t sure if he could,
his face had that stern look best captured in paintings like the
one of the dour couple with the pitchfork. Only Tom had a cleaver
and wasn’t in overalls, but a bloody white smock.
    I picked up the cupcakes,
asparagus, and new potatoes, giving Tom the time he had requested.
Paradise Farms had the best produce in town, even if you did have
to hock a kidney to pay for it. To my chagrin, I noticed that the
extra time I thought I’d have before I needed to get the kids had
somehow slipped away.
    I needed to hurry for
real, now. I was more relieved than surprised that Tom the Butcher
was also as good as his word. I spied the neatly wrapped London
Broil waiting for me on the “special order” shelf at the meat
counter.
    My mother stood there,
talking to him. I froze. What was she doing? I edged closer, trying
to pretend I didn’t know her, and was just patiently waiting until
it was my turn to be helped.
    Tom the Butcher turned and
saw me, and held up one finger to indicate I should
wait.
    I heard my mother say,
“Really, just a little more fat off?”
    He sighed, nodded, and
took my London broil into the back with him.
    “ Where are you going,” I
asked him, still not acknowledging my mother.
    “ This lady thinks I should
trim off just a little more.”
    “ Oh.” I wanted to strangle
‘this lady’ if it wouldn’t totally blow my cover. “Thank
you.”
    “ No problem.”
    I turned to glare at ‘this
lady’ but she had disappeared.
    The store wasn’t busy, and
since I had under ten items, I calculated I could manage a swift
checkout.
    The little old lady ahead
of me, the same one who had run me over at the entryway, didn’t
seem to realize I was in a hurry. First, she noticed her jar of
honey had a broken seal. Then, when the clerk ran to get a new one,
she dithered for a long moment on whether or not she needed the
honey or not.
    After counting out her
change, she gave the clerk (who was hopping from foot to foot with
impatience) a queenly wave of her hand to indicate he had her
permission to get a new honey. Which he did, pretty quickly
considering the honey was all the way at the other end of the
store.
    Granny Slow Motion smiled
at me and said, “Everyone’s always in a rush these days. Can’t give
a body a moment to think.”
    I wondered if she had
already forgotten that she’d almost knocked me over because I was a
little too slow at the entrance? “He’s young,” I said, in mock
sympathy, though I suspected she was deliberately baiting me to see
if I’d be one of the disrespectful young’uns and speak sharply to
my elder. I’d seen the game before. My mother played it sometimes
when she was annoyed at the person behind her in line for some
reason.
    But I was in a hurry and
so I held my tongue. If I hadn’t, Granny Slow Poke was