What Were the Chances?

Shuffling in your Old Navy flip-flops you wander into the grocery store past eleven on a Saturday night. The harsh lighting burns your eyes, long since glazed from hours in the university library. Wilson Phillips welcomes you: don’t you know things can change; things’ll go your way if you hold on for one more day? Thank you, Wilson Phillips. You pick up an empty cart and run your list through your crowded mind as you make your way through bins and stacks of this week’s specials.

Toilet paper—it’s your turn to buy

Yogurt

Some sort of fruit—gotta stay healthy

New sponge—the one in the sink smells like something died inside

Chocolate chips—you’ve got the treat for FHE on Monday

You remember you need bread and grab one of the last loaves off the sale rack on your way toward the produce. A pyramid of Red Delicious apples welcomes you to the fresh fruits and vegetables. They are on sale, and the deal is great. You don’t like Red Delicious apples. You move toward the green bananas when you notice an average looking man in a black t-shirt and faded blue jeans having a loud phone conversation. He’s staring at you from behind the oranges. He sees you’ve noticed him and begins to wave frantically. You glance around and see no one else he could be waving to. The only other person in sight is a pale, skinny guy in a Rex Lee Run t-shirt intently inspecting the portabellas. Hesitantly you lift your hand from the cart handle and give a little wave.

“Hey, can I call you back?” Black Shirt almost yells into his phone. “Yeah, okay, thanks. See ya.”

“Hi!” he says, “It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah.” You glance down at the citrus. Rio Star grapefruit, nothing like a good Texas grapefruit.

“It’s Kelly, right?”

“Uh, no.”

“Oh, I’m sorry; I’m not so good with names.” He slips his Motorola Razr into his back pocket.

“’Ts alright.”

“Remind me of your name again.” He picks up an orange and begins to toss it around. You rest your right foot on the axle of the cart and roll it back and forth. Rex Lee Run has given up on the mushrooms and is headed for the cereal aisle. You and Black Shirt are alone. “You’re in the ward, right?”

“Maybe. I just moved so I don’t really know anyone; where do you live?”

“The Glenwood.”

You laugh. “Yeah, definitely not.”

“Oh . . . I thought you were someone else.” He smirks.

“Obviously.” You take your foot off the axle and shift your weight. Artichokes are expensive right now which is really too bad. You would like to serve them at a dinner party next Thursday night. “What’s your name?”

“Jeremy.” The persistent eye contact makes you uneasy.

“Nice to meet you, Jeremy.”

“Yeah,” he says smiling. He goes back to his oranges. You pick up a grapefruit; they should still be good this time of year. You circle your cart around the island to browse the pears. Head down, you glance up expectantly at Mr. Black Shirt. He selects three oranges, plops them into his basket, and walks toward the bread.

~ ~ ~

You are trying to decide if you will get regular or mini chips for the cookies when you look down the cereal aisle and notice that black shirt. He’s picking up a bag of Honey Nut Toasty O’s. He winks at you, and you keep walking. Strangers in the night exchanging glances, wondering in the night . . . Strolling past a variety of animal parts neatly encased in plastic and styrofoam, you realize you’ve been singing along with the background music. What were the chances we’d be sharing love before the night was through? You laugh out loud. You look around quickly; no one heard you. The thought makes you smile and chuckle to yourself. What were the chances?

~ ~ ~

Strawberry. Strawberry banana. Strawberry mango. Wild Strawberry. Strawberry banana. Berry Banana. You are searching through the discount yogurt bin wondering who likes strawberry anyway. Maybe that’s exactly the point—no one likes strawberry and that’s why there’s so much of it left over. You’re hoping to get lucky and find a French Vanilla or Key Lime Pie or White Chocolate Raspberry in the 3/$1 bin. If there are any good ones left they’ll definitely be at the bottom. You dive in, systematically searching, hoping to find that nugget of gold in this pan of strawberry silt. Before long you’ve created a sort of yogurt castle in the middle of the bin; the trench you’ve been digging looks like the beginnings of a good moat.

You spot a hint of green label way at the bottom of the moat. Key Lime Pie! You go for it excitedly when another hand invades from across the yogurt castle. This hand appears to you a hairy barbarian which must be stopped, even if it does sport a nice Tag Heuer. Wait! No. This is childish; you refuse to be one of those people. You look up sheepishly, and—hello again, Mr. Black Shirt. He wasn’t going for the yogurt. His hand is surprisingly rough and thick. You smile. Your face is hot. You pull away; the little spaces between his fingers are satiny smooth.

~ ~ ~

Something in your eyes was so inviting, something in your smile was so exciting. Is this song still playing? Something in my heart told me I must have you. Unreal. This is just too weird. Since when did your life become a bad telenovela with cheesy theme music? Shut up, Frank!

~ ~ ~

Black Shirt raises his eyebrows and disappears down the pet food aisle. Of all the aisles, why did he have to choose pet food? Most likely isolated, a plus for romantic intrigue. It smells like those barley pills your health nut roommate takes—gross. You deem the temporary offense to your olfactory system worth enduring for the possibility of . . . well . . . whatever, and you slip around the corner into the realm of rawhide chew toys and kitty litter.

Rex Lee Run! You would be in the pet food aisle! Mr. Black Shirt is noticeably absent.

~ ~ ~

Emerging from the stench of pet products, Ol’ Blue Eyes is still crooning. Strangers in the night, two lonely people we were strangers in the night. How long is this song? The Sultan of Swoon has got to go. You head for the self check-out.

“Welcome. Do you have any coupons?” The smooth voice of the self check-out greets you. You’ve named her Sabah; a friend of yours has an Aunt Sabah and, although you’ve never met her, you like the name. Sabah’s voice is supposed to be reassuring but borders on demeaning. You don’t have any coupons.

“Please scan your first item and place it in the bag.”

You scan yogurt, grapefruit, wheat bread, chocolate chips. You look over your right shoulder and notice the pubescent employee supervising the self check-out. He looks comfortable in his ill-fitting polo shirt and khaki pants, vegetating on a stool.

“Please place your item in the bag.” Sabah explains every step.

Toilet paper, sponge.

“Select your method of payment.”

Credit card.

“Please follow the instructions on the keypad.”

You wonder why you come here. The prices aren’t that good, and you do all the work while some teenage “employee” texts his friends and chats with his homies about puppy love and teen angst. What do they pay him for anyway, breathing?

“Thank you. Please take your receipt.”

At least Sabah is polite.

~ ~ ~

The parking lot glistens in the street lamps. It’s wet and just cold enough that ice patches might be lurking. Your old Honda is waiting for you. The two of you have been together since senior year of high school. Her paint is peeling and she’s got a dent on the driver’s side from the time you turned too tightly and scraped a pole at a gas station. She’s in good condition for how old she is. You load your bags into the back seat and take your cart to the cage three spaces down. The Honda’s got a dent in the front from a shopping cart left loose in another grocery store parking lot. You know all her scars.

Mr. Black Shirt strikes again! He’s been waiting for you at the cart cage.

“Hey, I was just thinking—are you going to the CES fireside tomorrow night?”

You give your cart that extra shove, nestling it in line with the others. “I wasn’t planning on it, but my mind could be changed.”

He rests his elbow on the red plastic handle of the cart you’ve just returned. “Glad to hear that. You really should go; they’re spiritually uplifting and intellectually enlarging.”

“Are you offering to go with me?”

“No.”

He’s smiling.

~ ~ ~

You sit on the couch, alone, wondering what were the chances. Who ever would have guessed that you would meet Jeremy—it’s been a long time since you’ve thought of him as Mr. Black Shirt—at the grocery store on a Saturday night? Knowing him has changed your life. Forever. Your parents had their own chance meeting: at the DMV. You should have known, should have seen the signs. You never used to believe in omens. What were the chances?

Afterward

I was intrigued by Frederick Barthelme’s stories; I had never read anything like them. At first they bothered me because I didn’t understand them. After reading several and discussing them, I became increasingly interested in the craft of their writing (I’m not sure that makes sense, but I think you know what I mean).

In writing “What Were the Chances?” I attempted to emulate Barthelme’s fiction, or at least used him as inspiration. This is why I chose a second person narrator speaking in the present tense. I tried to keep the narration as sparse as possible to allow, and require, readers to really think about the story. I had to do that with Barthleme’s fiction because he didn’t just tell me everything.

I wanted to capture a slice of BYU life in little details like a Rex Lee Run t-shirt, a CES fireside, and a quote from BYU’s mission or aims or whatever it is they quote from on the teacher evaluations. These details, which one might call prosaic, give, I hope, a sense of presentness and accuracy to the story. I wanted it to have little things like the price of yogurt or what’s on sale or the shirt someone is wearing. These are little things that make up a trip to the grocery store which may or may not turn out to be important later but which are noticed all the same. It’s all contingency. I tried to capture that in the final paragraph. Meeting Jeremy was an entirely contingent event, something prosaic. The character’s life will never be the same because of a case of mistaken identity in the produce section on a Saturday night.

Does that apply to me?

Over the last several weeks I have read a multitude of talks by President Hinckley. In a few of these talks he gave very direct counsel about divorce and preventing it--that its main cause is selfishness and what is needed to remedy a struggling marriage is repentance. He also talked about parenting and protecting children. The talks were given in the years and months immediately preceding the time when my family broke apart. I wonder if my parents listened to and/or those General Conference addresses. What happened that they decided that that counsel did not apply to them? Did they hear it and forget it? Did they decide they were an exception?

Being a young single adult in the church I hear a lot about dating, relationships, and marriage. The theme recently seems to have been that we should be willing to accept the responsibilities of marriage. (I've been reading lots of talks because I am in a religion class on the teachings of the living prophets. It's neat to feel more in touch with what they are saying to us now.) Other talks discuss how we should not be looking for perfection in a potential mate and that we should understand that marriage relationships are not full of romance all day every day. We should be looking for a partner who has a testimony of the gospel, who is active, loves the Savior, and has the similar life goals to our own. I hesitate to continue with this topic for fear of sounding like a bitter ex, but here I go. I have had more than one man end a relationship saying something like this, "You are great. I really love you. I know we could work out our differences and be very happy together. BUT I don't feel a spark anymore. You're just not my ideal woman. I want to see what else is out there." Those are direct quotes from three different men spliced together. Again I wonder: do they not hear the same messages I do? Do they really think those things don't apply to them? Or are they not self reflective enough to realize they are the very people the prophets are talking to and about?

I don't bring these topics up to justify myself and my actions or to point fingers at others. It's actually made me think seriously about myself. I wonder if there is counsel given by the prophets that I completely disregard. Are there times when I think that something doesn't apply to me? It's a scary thought, really. I mean, it has the potential of causing exaltation to be lost. I know that might sound over dramatic, but falling away starts with things that are small and simple and gets out of hand before you realize it. In a less dramatic sense, I would hate to realize too late that something did apply to me, that I screwed up big time and hurt someone else and/or myself.

So the question is then, how do I avoid being in that situation? I don't think my parents or ex-boyfriends intentionally flouted the words of God's prophets. They're more faithful than that. But how does it happen? And how can it be prevented? The only solution I've come up with so far is to diligently keep tabs on what the prophets are saying. I can't follow counsel I don't hear. When I hear or read that counsel I will ask "how does that apply to me?" instead of "Does that apply to me?" It seems safer to go under the assumption that everything applies to me.