Page 33 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
She stares at me for half a beat, smacking the chewing gum in her mouth. “Hon, there’s a CVS right there.” She points a manicured finger to the drugstore across the street.
“Of course. Right. Thanks!”
Not exactly what I had in mind, but what can I expect from a small town? I hurry through the aggressively air-conditioned drugstore, making do with the brands they have. No Kiehl’s or Deva-Curl here. Oh well, I’ll survive, and it’s better for my wallet anyway.
Next up, I need to find a grocery store. Should be easy enough. I scan my surroundings for a Publix. I hoof up and down a couple of blocks, and it quickly becomes apparent that there’s no big-box grocery store with a bright-green sign. I stop and type “groceries” inmy maps app. Thereisa Publix… ten miles away in St. Pete. Farther north, there’s a Walmart Supercenter. Closer to me, there’s something called Paddy’s Fisherman’s Supply—I’m guessing that’s not the store I’m looking for—and a place called Foxy’s Market. I guess I’m going to Foxy’s.
By the time I get there, my sandals are rubbing painfully on my heat-swollen feet. How do peoplelivehere?
I just need to get a few things, and then I’ll be on my way back to the comfort of Gramps’s condo. I fully intend to spend the rest of the day in the AC with my feet up.
“Welcome in!” a chirpy voice greets me as I step through the sliding doors. Ugh, I’m in no condition to make small talk, what with my sweaty tomato face. I give a tight smile and nod. “What can I help you with?”
“Uh…” I look from the beaming smile of this middle-aged woman with dyed brown hair, to the list on my phone, to the well-labeled grocery aisles. “I think I’ll be okay.”
She looks disappointed, but I mean really, I have a short list, and it’s a grocery store—a small one. I truly don’t need help. The introvert in me is chafing at the overt friendliness around here.
I grab my wine, snacks, smoothie ingredients, and frozen pizza, and head to the checkout. I was crossing my fingers for a self-checkout, but no luck. There’s one staffed checkout lane, and it’s staffed by Foxy herself. I might be imagining it, but it feels like she’s scowling at me.
“Thank you,” I say as she bags my groceries. “Foxy.” I add her name in an attempt to be small-town polite. I’m rather proud of myself.
She glances up at me and for a second I think she’s going to say something rude or not say anything at all. But then she says, “You’re welcome. Have a nice day.”
Ha! Small-town manners win the day.
Outside, I shuffle the plastic CVS bag and the plastic grocery bags from one hand to another, trying to find the right balance. I wish I’d thought to bring tote bags, but Gramps probably doesn’t even have any. He would be aghast if I told him Seattle has outlawed plastic bags. Or maybe he wouldn’t actually have an opinion, given that he doesn’t grocery shop.
I should probably teach him how.
It takes me a full ten minutes to find the bus stop, by which point I’m certain I have contracted heatstroke. It takes me another five minutes to figure out if this is, in fact, the stop for the bus that will take me back to Gramps’s. It is, but I’m on the wrong side of the street. I figure it out just in time; this bus only comes every half hour. Clearly, people here don’t rely on the bus for everyday transportation the way we do back home.
When the bus finally comes, I’m wilting. The sun has been beating down on me for so long, I can barely remember my own name. So I think I’m hallucinating when a bright-red, open-air trolley playing jingly music stops in front of me.
“Uh…” I say eloquently when the driver looks at me expectantly. “Is this… the bus?”
“It’s the trolley.” The driver’s deadpan voice does not match the jingly trolley vibe.
“And the trolley is… the bus?” I realize on some level that I sound like an alien, but I can barely think straight, and this situation isn’t helping.
“Only bus around these parts, unless you want a Greyhound, and that’s only from the depot in Tampa.”
Dazed, I step up onto the touristy contraption and drop the fare in the coin slot. Rather than normal bus seats, there are two long wooden benches on either side. I take a seat and try to balance all my bags on my lap. There are a few other passengers on board,hanging their heads out the open windows like happy dogs. Despite the old-fashioned look and the ice-cream-truck-esque music, it does appear to function like a normal bus. It stops by the boardwalk and then again by a public beach, each time after a passenger has pulled the pulley with a cheerfulding.
The driver lets me out outside of Sandy Shores and I thank her and stumble down the steps. By the time I cross the green lawn and hoof it all the way to building C, I’m ready to collapse. I let myself into the condo and drop my bags in the entryway, gasping in the sweet, cold AC. My hair is matted to my face, and my clothes are soaked through with sweat. I limp to the kitchen to stash my groceries in the fridge and freezer. I’m kind of hoping Gramps is napping so he won’t see me like this, but he is sitting right there at the kitchen table.
“Wow,” he says, and I await some sardonic comment about my appearance. He swims slightly in my vision, and I think I might actually faint.
“You finally got some color,” he says.
Chapter 15
That afternoon, I send my neighbor Sam a text saying I’m extending my trip by a few days. They respond with:You got eleven packages. They’re clogging up my living room.
Really?I ask.
No, you got four. But they are clogging up my apartment.
I really, really appreciate it! I’ll be home in a week, max. I’ll bring you something from Florida.
