The Pursuit of Other Interests: A Novel by Jim Kokoris

innocent eyes, smooth soft skin. His thick black hair hung low over his eyes.
    “You need a haircut,” Charlie said.
    Kyle didn’t respond. Instead, he turned toward the dining room.
    “Where are you going?”
    “Nowhere. Upstairs.”
    “What are you going to do up there?”
    “Nothing.”
    “I thought you said you were hungry.”
    “There’s nothing to eat.”
    “Well, maybe I’ll go shopping, then.”
    Kyle stopped and turned back to face his father. “What?”
    “I’m going to the store.”
    “Mom always shops.”
    “Yeah, well, this time I am. What do we need?”
    “I don’t know, everything.”
    “Everything,” Charlie said. “Can you be more specific? What do you want to eat?”
    “I don’t know. Chips and stuff.”
    “Anything else?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “What about for dinner?”
    “Dinner?”
    “Yes, you know, dinner. When we all sit down together and eat food at the end of the day. At night.”
    Kyle considered this concept. “When do we do that?”
    “Never mind,” Charlie said. He reached for his keys on the island. “I’ll be back.”
    “Don’t forget chips,” Kyle said.
     
    It was a mild Indian summer afternoon, and the wide, tree-lined streets of Wilton were, as usual, peaceful. No people, no cars. Driving through the town, on his way to DeVries, a local grocery store, he was reminded of why he had insisted on moving. It was a beautiful community, full of impressive, well-maintained older homes set on deep, well-appointed lawns. Imposing trees arched overhead, their leaves a canopy of colors. Fall was always Charlie’s favorite time of year, and in Wilton it was on majestic display.
    The grocery store was located near the town’s historic district, a two-block “square” featuring cobblestone streets, gas lamps, and original storefronts from the early twentieth century. They had moved into their house on the Fourth of July weekend. Charlie remembered sitting with Donna at a picnic table and watching a flag-raising ceremony in the square and thinking that, for a while at least, they had nowhere higher to climb.
    He parked and walked quickly into the store, his head down. Even though it was after five P.M. and he had every right to be home from work and entering a grocery store, he nonetheless felt self-conscious and wanted to be discreet.
    It had been years since Charlie had done any shopping, so he initially found the grocery store overwhelming. For starters, there were a number of aisles and an infinity of products and he had no idea where anything was located. Fearing he might draw attention to himself, he made a reconnaissance trip to get the lay of the land. Finally, after making a mental map, he doubled back to the front door, grabbed a cart, and began to shop.
    He worked deliberately, checking prices, calculating costs, and evaluating needs. As he suspected, their usual brand of orange juice was pricey, so he bought two cans of frozen concentrate. He resisted the fresh strawberries ($4.95 a container) and instead loaded up on canned fruit cocktail. Then he bought a bag of baking potatoes, some iceberg lettuce, slightly bruised tomatoes which were half price, a can of lima beans, and some other cheap, but, he hoped, filling items. In the frozen food aisle, he stopped to get Donna a pint of Häagen-Dazs Rocky Road, her favorite, but upon seeing its price opted instead for a tub of Mr. Goody’s Chocolate Ice Cream Experience. He worked in advertising and knew that consumers spent millions on brand names, convinced they were getting something they were not. At the end of the day, there was little difference between Häagen-Dazs and Mr. Goody’s, other than maybe a thirty-second spot during The Simpsons.
    There was also very little difference between Starbucks and Aunt Bula’s French Roast Blend, Cheerios and Tasty O’s, Nabisco Fig Newtons and a white box simply stamped FIG COOKIES .
    On his way to the checkout, he stopped at the meat counter. There had been a