The Gospel of Winco
I Had Already Decided Who She Was Before She Reached for the Drink
I didn’t pick the best time to go through a divorce. It was in the middle of the COVID outbreak. I look back on it now as a time of unbelievable loneliness and stress. Being stuck in the house alone with my two boys was a constant reminder that I was in it alone. Schools closed and if I wasn’t teaching kids online, I was cooking, cleaning or arguing with the boys to take the garbage out. There were times I looked at those four walls and almost screamed.
I will never forget the day, I took the boys to our state park. The plan was to walk the dog; to get a little exercise. They had been jumping off the walls all day and I viewed this outing like a prison reprieve. After the ten minute car ride, I parked the car, but as we walked to the entrance, we found the front gates barricaded.
PARK CLOSED DUE TO COVID.
I burst into tears. I sat in front of that sign bawling. My boys watched me in stunned silence. I had never felt so trapped.
Slowly, we began to poke our heads out of our hovels and venture into the light, baby rabbits, leaving our burrows to explore the world for the first time.
My first day out, I had a bad day with humanity. A very bad day.
I went to the mall.
My nine-year-old son had received a movie gift certificate from his aunt and uncle and wanted to take his friend. I was the chaperone. The movie was sweet and forgettable, but afterward the boys wanted to stop at a toy store.
As they wandered around looking at dinosaurs, I watched three young women arguing with the store owner. Their heads were shaved, their bodies covered in piercings and tattoos. None of that bothered me. I have plenty of friends and students who look the same. But the stream of expletives they unleashed in a toy store full of small children did.
The owner had caught them stealing and was asking them to leave. They responded with shouting, profanity, and lewd gestures before finally storming out.
Anger burned in my cheeks as I tried to act like I wasn’t paying attention. Small business owners had just fought to survive COVID. Watching someone try to steal from one filled me with rage. I bought two cheap items for the boys, smiled at the shopkeeper, and left.
We headed toward the exit, but the boys begged to stop at a Jurassic Park arcade game. The booth was empty—or so it seemed—until a couple in their mid-thirties darted in front of us.
They settled in and started playing.
One game. Then another. Then another.
The boys stood there watching, making quiet comments, waiting. The woman pulled out her credit card and paid for more rounds.
The sheer selfishness of it lit something in me.
What kind of adults cut in front of kids and then don’t give them a turn?
“Boys, we’re leaving.”
“But we want to play.” My son’s friend’s eyes filled with tears. My own son looked at me, disappointed.
“I know. But they aren’t leaving.”
We had just had a good afternoon, but I couldn’t let it go.
“Humanity straight out sucks,” I muttered as I started the car.
That was the mood I carried with me into WinCo.
I didn’t want to go, but my refrigerator was empty. With two growing boys, WinCo saves me nearly $400 a month. It’s a necessary evil.
WinCo is like Walmart on steroids. Every social ill feels like it’s on display. I’ve learned to keep my head down and get through it.
In the beverage aisle, a woman in a leopard print fur jacket stumbled toward us in heels. It was ninety degrees outside. She looked stoned out of her mind. A seventy-year-old man in a stained tank top barked orders at her as they walked.
I took my son’s hand and moved him to the far side.
Don’t make eye contact.
