most conservative, serious, ascetic scholar would drink the beer rather than let it go to waste. Except my father-in-law, who serendipitously found a lone hefty plant in a hotel lobby corner to graciously accept the frothy pint. But we won’t talk any more about that conference in Munich. I sheepishly retrieved my favorite IPA six-pack. But I had to wait a minute before picking it up, as I saw a 70-something guy nearby who was limping and teetering and who closely resembled one of my patients. Didn’t want to give him the wrong idea about me and didn’t feel obligated to ask him how he was doing after his rocky hip surgery, especially if it was not the person whom I had in mind. Checkout time. Finally! My mini-Odyssey, except I felt like Cyclops. I went to the immaculate counter and started loading my items. Pasta, rice, tomato sauce, orange juice, fish, produce. Beer last, of course. A familiar looking 17 or 18something girl started scanning and then packaging my items. She looked so familiar, I kept wondering. Likely a South Asian, she could have been my wife’s avatar. She shuffled my fish and well-sealed produce efficiently with her lithe fingers. She stopped once she got to the beer. She paused a bit longer, almost painfully, and looked around, almost helplessly. She looked at me curiously, then looked at the beer. I froze again. Now what? “Damien,” she beckoned. Who is Damien? What did I do wrong? I fumbled for my wallet to check that I still had my driver’s license. A rather portly 47-and-a-half-something who wore a leafy vest came jingling down the aisle to meet me at the counter. He was carrying a dungeon master’s ring of keys that kept asynchronously careening off his corduroy buttock. “Will that be all, sir?” politely inquired Damien (I read his name tag!) as he rang up my beer. “I think so.” Does he mean I should get more, I thought. Quit while you’re ahead, just like my risk-averse mother used to say (of course in Bengali, and more eloquently, typically employing a metaphor involving a rice paddy). The girl kept looking at me the whole time during the arduous “don’t have a minor ring up your liquor” process, possibly even giggling behind her mask. I don’t need this derision. Not my first time at The Fresh Market. We come here every week. And we buy their best pre-cut overpriced salmon. And I usually don’t even need to put my fruit in a plastic bag. And I wanted this eco-friendly girl in a silly Upahaar 2020
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