The Tory Party

First Assignment: The Dairy Case

Heh heh heh. My first writing assignment was a short narrative told visually (which is to say, what you see is what you get — no internal monologues and shenanigans). I daresay I am the grand high champion of WYSISYG writing, even though that means the characters are always glancing and looking and walking and crossing and it’s a bit demented to read (please consult the Shanda and Dan canon for evidence).

Anyway. I thought y`all might get a snerk out of this. This is what my poor professors are up against.

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   Berkeley consulted his list. He was a regular looking white-collar dude, a little soft at the neck and middle, still wearing his suit from the office, but the light of the dairy case was yellow and unflattering to him. He was alone in the enormous aisle with nothing but the sound of his own asthmatic breath and an instrumental version of “Maybe I’m Amazed.” He lightly bounced his hand-cart on his knee in thought.

   The bottom of the list said “YOGURT.” Berkeley looked at the yogurts. There was a lot to look at. There was plain and fruit on the bottom and fruit mixed in and tubs and cups and plastic lids and foil lids and full fat and non-fat and God help me nowadays there was even low-carb. Berkeley sighed and pulled his mobile phone out of his jacket pocket. Immediately, as if summoned, a young woman appeared at his elbow, and he started so badly he nearly dropped the phone.

   She was college age, maybe older, with two big white girl afro puffs like a Fraggle. She wore a tight tank top with a cow on it for interest and a button-down shirt over it for modesty. She had kohl eyeliner and a hemp necklace and a corduroy skirt and Berkeley could not stop staring at her.

   “Hey,” she said. “Whatcha buying there?”

   “Yogurt.”

   “A most EXCELLENT choice!” she said, clapping her hand onto his shoulder and throwing back her head. Berkeley stared at her hand like he’d just found a dollar in a dumpster. “Protein, calcium and active yogurt cultures,” she said. “An excellent nutritional decision. But which will you choose?” She popped her gum noisily as an ellipsis.

   “That’s kind of the problem,” said Berkeley slowly.

   “Problem? That’s no problem at all. Any of these options would be suitable.” She broke eye contact to wave her arm at the dairy case in a theatrical gesture, and Berkeley took the opportunity to glance at her chest. She looked up and he snapped to attention. “Put that phone away,” she said. He obeyed. “What I would recommend is one of each, my health-conscious friend, my lactose-intelligent compatriot. Each one has its merits as you or your significant other will certainly find. See the ‘YOGURT’ on your list not as a problem - a communication breakdown, a passive-aggressive test of your knowledge - but as an opportunity. Seize that opportunity, sir. Seize it by the convenient individual serving size.”

   Here she cleared her throat and stepped back. The light in the aisle seemed white now, almost holy. Berkeley squared his shoulders, straightened his spine, steadied his gaze and filled his basket with yogurt as high as it would pile. He looked at the girl with the afro puffs and gave her a stiff nod. She nodded back and raised him a small salute. He marched down the aisle out of sight, his basket so heavy he had to hold it with both hands.

   When he was gone, the girl stepped back toward the shadows of the beer case. There she pulled a pen and notepad out of her back pocket and wrote furiously. She flipped it closed. The cover read “NATIONAL DAIRY COUNCIL, Guerilla Division.”

   Just then a man in a work shirt and blue jeans appeared in the aisle, studying the cheeses and the list in his hand with a furrowed brow. The girl with the afro puffs smiled and watched, chewing the end of her pen.