Produce
Marcus was hiding behind the stacks of Cuties in the orange mesh bags. The bags that make you perceive that the fruit is riper than it actually is. As a daily consumer of Cuties (also Peelz and Halos), I recently learned that a Cutie is actually a Tango Mandarin developed at the University of California, Riverside, in 2006. Makes sense with all the orange groves nearby.
Marcus always tries to hide when he spots me walking with my basket, but he’s not great at it. I’m a basket shopper, never a cart. Sometimes, if I am in a hurry, I’ll try to look for him first, collect my produce, and do self-checkout — that way, we don’t get caught up in conversation. I don’t want to blow him off. I try to make a little time for him. He deserves it.
”Ahh, dog, you caught me.”
”I always see you. You’re always behind the avocados or rapini or some shit,” I said.
”How you doin’, dog? What’s new?”
”Nada. Besides the Dodgers’ slow start on the offensive side.”
”Yo, I know,” Marcus said. “King Tuck, my ass,” he said, referring to the newest Dodger, Kyle Tucker, who signed a four-year, $240 million contract this offseason.
”Pages looks good, though,” I said. “Cuban players can ball.”
”Latinos, dog. I should know, I’m one of ‘em.”
I assume Marcus is Mexican, not Cuban, but I found it sweet that he groups all Latinos under one umbrella. They’re a tribe, of sorts.
Marcus works at my local Ralphs in the fresh produce department and is mostly on the day shift. Well, I’ve only seen him work the day shift, at least. We’ve never formally discussed his schedule. He always wears a logoless baseball hat with tie-dyed sweat stains on the bill, several unzipped jackets, a short, unkempt beard, and a Ralphs-branded, untied apron. The waist ties are always loose and dragging on the floor. He either doesn’t seem to notice or care.
I know Marcus’ name because he wears a name tag, but he also refers to himself in the third person quite a bit. I’m not sure Marcus knows my name, but if he asked, I’d likely tell him Lee, my middle name. It’s the name I use when making reservations or ordering a coffee.
Ralphs resides on my block. I can walk there, and I often jog past it on my daily runs. Some might argue that I go too often — Lydia at the self-checkout will comment, “See you tomorrow when you need beans.” I hate it, but it’s cute and warm and welcoming. Ralphs is close enough that I see the front door at least once per day, either on a walk, a run, while driving by, or during a visit.
One of my favorite movies as a teen, The Big Lebowski (The Coen Brothers, 1998), had a scene at Ralphs where the main character, The Dude, sniffs a half-gallon of half-and-half and writes a $0.69 check. I assumed Ralphs was a fictional grocery mart, but it’s very much real.
Somehow, I’ve managed to live on the same block twice in the past ten years, so I’m truly a regular.
”How are you feeling? Are you back to normal?” I asked.
Marcus had recently become ill after there was a sewage leak in the storage room at work. Due to the inhalation of methane and hydrogen sulfide, he had been experiencing headaches, dizziness, and mild rashes. I could sort of see one on his neck.
”I’m a lot better, dog. That shit had me fucked up, though. Migraines, couldn’t sleep.”
”Are you back to work full-time?”
”Yeah, they had to let me come back. They were afraid I was gonna sue their asses, but I ain’t like that. They didn’t handle that situation with grace, dog. They didn’t even give out masks for the first day. I was breathing that shit in. I’m not the only one who got sick, but they don’t want us talkin’ about it while on the clock. But I don’t give a shit.”
I started sorting through the pomegranates and asked him if there were any better ones in the back. The ones on display looked sad.
”I’d wait until tomorrow, dog. These here are from San Joaquin. Tomorrow will be the Kern shipment. Probably around noon.”
I always take Marcus’ advice regarding produce, and he knows I’ll likely make the trip back after tomorrow’s delivery.
”Look at your ass, looking all six-feet-tall and shit. Standing up straight,” Marcus said. He was being generous — I’m 5’9”.
My pharmacy is also inside Ralphs, and he witnessed me pick up my first bottle of Hydrocodone post-surgery a few weeks ago. “Oh, that’s the good shit, ain’t it?” he yelled as I limped across the produce department, holding up the Rx-stapled brown bag. He noticed and encouraged me as I progressed off the cane, my limp subsided, and my gait corrected.
”Yeah, I’m feeling good. I started running last week. I was out for three and a half months.”
”I know, dog, I know. You’re like an athlete and shit,” Marcus said in jest.
”Come on. Stop. Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better. Methane is no joke.”
Marcus is missing his second bicuspid, and I notice it constantly because he’s always smiling with a wide mouth. Mine is missing, too, but I hide it well.
”I am feeling better, dog. That’s true, but not all is well,” he said.
I moved on to the apples section, hoping to get my hands on some Opals, if possible. They are in season now.
”Dude, what’s up?”
”My grandpa died last week. And earlier this week, one of my customers from my last store texted me to come see her. She has stage 4 cancer and wants to say goodbye to me.”
I replied, “Marcus, man, I am so sorry to hear that. Condolences about your grandfather.”
”Thanks, dog. He had been sick for a bit, so he’s off and out of pain. Doesn’t have to deal with the earthly stuff anymore. But homie, my customer having cancer has fucked me up. Has really got me thinking about purpose.”
”Does she live around here?” I asked.
”Nah, she’s in Oxnard, near my spot. I was at the Ralphs out there before I transferred here in 2022.”
”Yeah, I remember when you transferred here.”
”Yo, when I tell you she helped me get through some shit, I mean it. After COVID, I was all hidin’ inside and shit. I didn’t wanna see nobody. Behind the curtains and shit.” He mimicked and mimed his paranoid state, pretending to hide behind curtains. It was a solid impression, and we both laughed.
”She started inviting me to BBQs and forcing me to get out of the house. I owe a lot to her, breaking me out of my shell and shit. I love my customers.”
”Man, I am so sorry,” I said. “What a rough patch for you. You got sick, your grandpa passed, and now your friend is reaching out for last wishes.”
”I keep telling myself, ‘Marcus, you gotta keep going: you have a story to tell,’ and I mean that, dog. I really do.”
I believed him. I think he does have a story to tell. I also felt slightly bad because I had never invited him over before. Sure, I’m not one to BBQ, but I could extend an invitation for him to stop by after work and watch a couple of innings of the Dodgers game some evening.
Maybe I’ll do that.