Free Fowl
After an hour and a half at my attorney’s office finalizing my “estate documents” (this term makes me feel like a much wealthier woman than I am), I went to the bank to install these important papers in my safe box, the post office to pick up mail, dropped my car at Wallie-World for an oil change, did my grocery shopping, picked up my car, drove to the vet to pick up animal meds, and finally went home—tired.
While removing groceries from the veritable hurricane of plastic bags, I discovered a rotisserie chicken that I did not buy. It was still warm. OMG. The poor woman in front of me in the checkout line. She got home and her intended dinner was not in her bevy of bags.
I felt awful. I wanted to drive back to Wal-Mart and ask the associate who scanned my groceries if she could track down the woman she checked out before me, based on debit card info or something. And then what? I would call this stranger and say—“You! I have your chicken!”
Tempting. I hated thinking of her swearing at her kitchen counter because her dinner plans had been foiled. She had inadvertently left the ‘chicken bag’ on the twirly bag dispenser, and I had inadvertently put it in my basket. (From now on I will do an inspection before I start putting the bags in my buggy.)
If I was the one who was missing something, I could handle it better. I would holler at Wal-Mart (in the privacy of my own home) about how their clerks should better supervise their bags—(Heaven forbid they should be human and miss one every now and again), and I would curse myself for not double-checking that I picked up all my purchases. Then I’d get over it. And move on.
But when I have taken somebody else’s belongings, it’s far worse on my psyche. I know the poor woman is swearing. Mad at Walmart, herself, and likely the unknown person (me) who wound up with her missing item (chicken). And I can’t bear it. I want to do penance. I want to make it right.
I don’t eat much meat. And if I am going to eat it, I prefer to cook it myself, so I can control the amount of salt, sugar, or other undesirable additive that goes into the recipe. But taking the chicken back to Walmart would take another hour, minimum. And it wasn’t very likely they could track down it’s owner. And probably since it’s been in my hands—and my house—Walmart wouldn’t be allowed to pass it on. So I thought it best to eat the damned thing out of respect for the woman who paid for it. Illogical, perhaps. But that was my thinking.
I had a taste of it for lunch. (Nothing to write home about.) Then I deboned the remainder for chicken salad. If only I could invite its owner over for a sandwich.
I knew there was something about this grocery bag set-up that disturbed me. I thought it was merely the wanton use of plastic—but there’s more to it. If the bags had been paper, and there had been a “bag boy” loading the groceries into the paper bags, this human error of leaving your family’s dinner behind would be less likely to happen. And bag boys would be making a paycheck. And I wouldn’t feel bad.
So, if you’re reading this, and you lost a chicken, thank you. If we meet again, you get a free fowl—on me.