I screamed in the middle of the pasta aisle, my voice shaking with rage as she deliberately placed the last box of my son’s specialty food into her cart.
This wasn’t just any shopping trip; it was a weekly battle for my son’s survival against my grocery store nemesis, a master of petty warfare.
For weeks, her campaign of tiny aggressions—a blocked aisle here, a stolen apple there—had worn me down to a raw nerve.
But the pasta was different. This was a declaration of war.
She thought she was just winning a stupid grocery store feud, but I was about to discover the one thing she held dear, and I would use it to deliver a kind of justice she never saw coming.
The Art of War, Aisle Four: The Anaphylaxis List
My grocery list wasn’t just a list. It was a high-stakes, laminated document of survival. A roadmap through a minefield of cross-contamination and mislabeled ingredients. For my son, Leo, the wrong brand of crackers or a granola bar with a trace of peanut dust wasn’t an inconvenience; it was a trip to the ER, an EpiPen jabbed into his thigh, the terrifying wheeze of his airways closing.
So, every Tuesday morning at 9:15 AM, I’d walk into the sterile, fluorescent hum of Market Basket with the focus of a bomb squad technician. The mission: acquire the twelve specific, non-negotiable items on Leo’s Safe List. Everything else was secondary.
This Tuesday was no different. I grabbed a cart with four functioning wheels—a small, treasured victory—and made a beeline for the produce section. The plan was always the same: get the safe stuff first, then circle back for the things Mark and I could eat without risking our son’s life. Predictability was my armor.
My target was the organic Gala apples, the only ones Leo’s sensitive system could tolerate. They were stacked in a perfect pyramid at the end of the aisle. I could see them from twenty feet away, a beacon of crimson and gold. I pushed my cart forward, a sense of calm efficiency settling over me.
That’s when I saw her. A disturbance in the force. A glitch in the matrix of my well-ordered routine. She was standing by the avocados, her cart parked sideways, a perfect blockade. The Cart-Witch.
The Avocado Gambit
She had a tense, wiry energy, her graying hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to stretch the skin over her cheekbones. She wasn’t looking at the avocados. She was watching me approach. Her eyes, small and dark, held a glint of competitive fury that was profoundly out of place next to a display of Hass avocados.
I gave a tight, polite smile—the universal signal for *I see you, please move your cart so I can get by*. She didn’t budge. Instead, she picked up an avocado, squeezed it with unnecessary force, and put it back, her gaze never leaving mine. It was a power move, a declaration. *This aisle is mine*.
I took a breath. This was a weekly ritual, a stupid, silent war I never asked to fight. I tried to maneuver around her, scraping my cart against the potato display. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard. She flinched, then glared as if I’d personally insulted her ancestors.
I finally cleared her blockade and reached the Gala apples. My hand hovered over the perfect one on top. Just as my fingers were about to close around it, her hand shot out like a viper, snatching the exact apple I was reaching for. She didn’t even look at it. She just dropped it into her cart with a dull thud and moved on to inspect the organic kale, her back ramrod straight.
My jaw tightened. It was so petty, so deliberate, it was almost comical. But with the weight of Leo’s safety on my shoulders, it didn’t feel funny. It felt like a personal attack.
A Calculated Retreat
I grabbed three other apples, my movements jerky. Fine. She could have the perfect apple. I wasn’t going to let her get to me. I had a mission. SunButter, rice-flour bread, the specific brand of soy-free chocolate chips that cost nine dollars a bag.
I navigated to the health food aisle, a sanctuary of overpriced goods that kept my son breathing. I saw her cart parked at the far end and felt a spike of anxiety. I slowed my pace, pretending to be intensely interested in a bag of chia seeds. I would wait her out. This was a strategic retreat, not a surrender.
From behind a tower of protein powder, I watched her. She moved with a jerky, aggressive efficiency, grabbing items without reading labels, her cart a weapon she used to claim her space. She wasn’t shopping; she was conquering.
Another woman, a young mom with a toddler in her cart, tried to reach around her for a box of gluten-free crackers. The Cart-Witch shifted her weight, a subtle but unmistakable block. The young mom murmured, “Excuse me,” and the witch turned her head slowly, a silent glare that made the woman recoil and mumble, “Never mind.”
I felt a surge of something ugly—a weird mix of vindication and disgust. It wasn’t just me. She was an equal-opportunity menace. I waited until her cart squeaked its way around the corner before I emerged from my hiding place and grabbed Leo’s bread. The coast was clear, for now.
The Checkout Stare-Down
With all twelve of Leo’s items secured, a wave of relief washed over me. The tension in my shoulders eased. I could finally grab the milk, coffee, and whatever sad, pre-packaged salad I’d eat for lunch. The rest of the trip was a blur. My focus was on the finish line: the checkout.
I saw an open lane, number seven, and made for it. The light was on, the cashier was waiting. Freedom was so close I could almost taste it. Then I heard it—the tell-tale squeak of a single, uncooperative wheel moving at an alarming speed.
She came out of nowhere, cutting across the main thoroughfare from the frozen foods section. Her cart was half-empty, but she pushed it with the determination of a linebacker. She was aiming for my lane. We were going to arrive at the exact same time. It was a game of chicken I was determined to win.
I put my head down and pushed faster. I was closer. By any sane social contract, it was my lane. I got there a half-second before her, swinging my cart into position with a triumphant thud.
I didn’t look at her, but I could feel her presence burning a hole in the side of my head. I started unloading my items onto the belt, my hands trembling slightly. “Did you find everything okay today?” the cashier asked, her voice a cheerful balm.
“Yes, thank you,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Unbelievable,” a voice behind me muttered, low and venomous. “Some people have no shame. Just steal your spot right out from under you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I put Leo’s precious, nine-dollar chocolate chips on the belt and promised myself that one day, I would find a new grocery store.
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