Mental Math
From high above, fluorescent strip lights flooded the empty aisles in cold light. A labyrinth of pipes snaked through the produce section, hissing softly as they discharged cool mist over brightly coloured vegetables. Around the corner, a wall of freezers hummed, their low-pitched tune audible from two rows over. Only one cash register was open, and its clerk had spent most of his shift idle, his body slumped over the counter and the tip of his thumb brushing his phone screen in regular vertical strokes. A handful of other employees roamed the deserted aisles, rotating labels and pulling products forward, attending to the store’s appearance of orderly abundance. The two or three shoppers inside rarely came across each other, unconvincing excuses for keeping the grocery store open during the early Wednesday afternoon.
At the entrance, the sliding doors parted before a woman in her mid-twenties. The shopper lifted a handheld basket from the crown of a nearby pile before walking through a second set of doors. She stopped to pluck her phone from her pocket and squinted at it, struggling to read the saved curry recipe. Without her glasses, which her cat had brushed off her dresser last month, it took a few seconds for the blurred bar codes at the top of the screen to crystallise into the first ingredients on the list: yams, kale, and shallots. The shopper started again. Potatoes, broccoli, and an onion, she decided, would make for more affordable alternatives of equivalent nutritional value. In the organic produce section to her right, a row of chlorophyll waterfalls—parsley and chard and beet greens and carrot tops—spilt over the racks. Beads of water, like tiny decorative diamonds, clung to the tips of their leaves. Curious, she leaned over, her face a few inches from a price tag. When the digits sharpened, her eyebrows jumped halfway up her forehead, drawing her eyelids wide open. Next thing you know, Louis Vuitton will be launching an organic foods line, she thought, shaking her head. She veered towards the brown mounds of potatoes a few rows over and picked up one of the larger Yukon Golds. As her fingers rubbed its earth-stained skin, she thought of synthetic fertiliser residue and modified DNA strands, the tiny but heavy ballast fighting the rising tide of inflation. The Yukons were 3.99 per kilo while the 1.8 kg sack of Russets was 5.99. She grabbed the cheaper Russets and chucked them into her basket. In the neighbouring crate, she dug out a grey-looking yellow onion. The shopper then left the fresh produce section and found the freezers, in search of broccoli. She did some more mental math, dividing prices by weight. The chosen ice-cold bag fell next to the bag of tots.
The arithmetic ruling the shopper’s world was brittle. But grocery store visits hadn’t always been exercises in number crunching. Only thirteen months ago, price had been an afterthought, far less important than calorie count or provenance. She had anguished over the ripeness of avocados, the plumpness of tomatoes, or whether salmon or tuna would best pair with the Dijon marinade she wanted to try. Most weeknights after work, she would haul the precious cargo back to her apartment and unashamedly spoil herself for the next three to four hours. She would turn on the stove and take a deep breath, and any stress from the workday would quickly melt away with the butter sizzling in the pan. Until one day, they announced the restructuring. She got fired, along with fifty fellow victims of a “rightsizing exercise”. The marketing agency’s leadership, drunk on vague promises of automation, announced they needed to “reallocate resources to maximise future operational efficiency”. In the ensuing months, as the severance dried up, she accumulated rejection emails in her inbox and survived on ten hours of gig work a month, fifteen if she got lucky. Within half a year, mental math, her old foe from high school, snuck back into her life. Her existence became one long equation to balance. She eliminated some variables, namely gym memberships, concert tickets, and gourmet grocery items. Others, like a ballooning credit card balance, were proving vital. The epic culinary marathons ended, and food, once her hobby, became a crude necessity.
The next items on the list were coconut milk and green curry paste, so the shopper made for the imported food aisle. On the way, she grabbed a block of extra-firm tofu. As she turned into the fourth row, she looked longingly at the neighbouring seafood section. Shrimps, she knew, were a superior protein choice for the dish. The plump white and orange crescents glowed behind their frosted glass prison. Suddenly, her swinging basket collided with something ahead, making her cry out in surprise. She turned to find a stationary metallic cart and behind it, a tall, slim man, looking at her amusedly. He sported a tight-fitting black polo, khaki pants, and polished black leather loafers. Careful grooming gave his mediocre features a handsome look. He had kind eyes and thin, wide-stretching lips that now parted into a broad smile. He looked about her age, but carried himself with both the weightlessness of youth and the self-assurance of old age. The shopper smiled sheepishly and raised her hand in apology. He responded so softly that at first she couldn’t make out the words. Then she recognised a string of financial vernacular uttered in the cold, dispassionate tone of investors and noticed the wireless buds sprouting from his ears. With both hands, he turned his overflowing cart, carrying out his monologue uninterrupted. He kept his soft brown eyes trained on her as he sped past. The shopper looked down at the tiled floor, a wave of animosity surging inside her. The man’s presence felt unnatural, invasive even. Grocery stores in the afternoons are sanctuaries for slow-moving creatures. The retired and unemployed drift up the aisles like sloths meandering across tree branches. But here was a specimen of efficiency, looking to fly out the door as quickly as possible to smash the next items on his to-do list. She looked back and noticed, piled high in his cart, marbled slabs of meat, fresh, never-frozen fish, and vegetables proudly stamped with the green organic ring. This man had no need for arithmetic. Still, she knew, it ran his life, out of habit, obsession, or greed. At night, he dreamed of a different branch of mathematics, an algebra of leverage and margins whose terms had many more zeros. In a handful of stiff, speedy strides, he cruised around the corner and was gone.
Her cheeks burning, the shopper continued down the aisle. Bitter thoughts swam in her head as she stared at the puddles of harsh blue light washing over the dark tiles. Near the front of the store, she set her items down by the Asian goods. Her mind settled as it filled once more with numbers. A can of coconut milk and a bottle of green curry paste won a spot in her basket. As she reached down for the black plastic handle, she felt two quick vibrations in her pocket and jolted upright. The shopper was expecting big news today, a decision that might finally bring her year-long grind to an end. The process had been long: six interviews spread across four interminable weeks. She knew she had aced each one, so she allowed herself to hope for a different outcome. She fumbled for her phone, unlocked the screen, and tapped the email icon. She sighed. Just more promotional junk: a LinkedIn notification about open positions already flooded with thousands of applications and an offer from an airline that was brazenly ignoring her requests to unsubscribe from their newsletter. She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath through her nose. “Be patient. Stay confident. You’ve earned it.” An idea popped into her mind and made her smile. She picked up the basket and scampered back up the aisle, her torso leaning left to counterbalance its now-heavy contents. On the back wall, she opened a freezer and pulled out a massive bag of Argentinian red shrimps. The email would come, she promised herself, and a celebratory feast would be in order. Her head high, she walked defiantly towards the front of the store. There was no one in line for the cash. Near the exit, the man in the polo stood alone at a self-service checkout station, still talking into his earphones, both hands swiftly sliding items across the scanner and into large paper bags. She unloaded the contents of her own leaner grocery run onto the moving belt. As the clerk began scanning items, a woman pushing a cart stopped behind her and placed a divider on the belt. She looked a decade older, but something told the shopper she was at most a couple of years her senior. She herself had aged disturbingly quickly in the last year. Dark circles ringed the woman’s fatigued eyes, frightening against her paper white skin. No muscles seemed to wrap her bones, only a thin layer of fat, the product of eating ultra-processed foods in small portions. One by one, she placed bags and boxes on the belt. The packages were cute and colourful, doing their best to pass the corn-derived foodstuffs within as fit for human consumption.
“Cash or card?” asked the clerk.
“Credit,” the shopper answered.
As she set her phone down to reach for her wallet, it vibrated noisily against the metal countertop. Unable to resist, she unlocked it and stared at the screen. Her heart sank as she scanned the email. “We have decided to eliminate this position.” Panicked, her gaze jerked up to the cashier, then at the woman behind her, and finally back to the phone. “We were very impressed with your profile, but we no longer believe that we require a full-time hire to meet our needs.” She gripped the edge of the counter to steady herself and looked away, her ears ringing. The cashier looked at her expectantly. She cleared her throat and pointed to the shrimps. “I won’t be taking those actually, sorry,” she said, her voice quivering.
The cashier shrugged and placed the bag behind him. He punched a few keys, and the grocery bill dropped by half. She slipped her card out of her wallet and tapped it over the payment terminal. Its vicious screech made her wince. In her mind, she saw the equation of her life expand. A handful of new variables, among them toiletries and subway tickets, nestled their way between the existing terms. Before reaching for her bag, she looked around. Beyond the large windows looking onto the street, the man loaded the last of five paper bags into a black Mercedes SUV, parked illegally with its flashers on. He ran to open the driver-side door, jumped in the seat, and sped off. Behind her, the lady waited silently, eyes downcast. She inched her empty cart forward until it brushed the shopper’s ankles. A sob rose in her throat, but she shoved it back down forcefully. Before the clerk could hand her the receipt, she snatched her bag and ran for the exit. Between the two sets of doors, she crossed paths with a man in his late fifties, reaching for a basket while absently humming a wistful ballad. A greying white shirt hung from his excessively rounded shoulders and folded awkwardly over his slim chest. He nodded and smiled politely as she approached, but she ignored him. Her eyes stung terribly, and she kept them fixed squarely ahead, hoping he wouldn’t notice the rising pool of tears about to spill onto her cheeks. Behind her, the man continued humming.