Holy Smoke

            I have a smoker problem. The only cure for my smoker addiction is more smoker paraphernalia. That’s what took us to a Big Box Store seeking out a fire box for the smoker I acquired just over a year ago. A fire box, for the uninitiated is an attachment where one can place the coals which renders all of the heat within the smoker, indirect. That’s the money. Indirect heat can help ensure that meat does not end up looking like the charcoal that is being used to cook it with.

            Last week while in another location, Wade spotted the fire box which is compatible with my smoker. Cocksure that no one in their right mind would buy the only one in stock, we walked away with the plan to come back later. The next day we did go back. I grabbed a cart and a scanner (which was dead) and went back in search of the smoker accessory of my dreams. I walked into the seasonal department with pep in my step. I am going to elevate my game. I went to the spot where the object of my desire was spotted only to find a whole smoker in its place. I walked around, hoping that they had just moved it. Nothing. I also noticed that there is a pretty good sale on the upgraded version of my smoker. I sadly wandered for a good twenty minutes.

            Dejected, I took the empty cart and dead [foreshadowing] scanner back to their places. I slowly walked back to the car where my family was waiting, due to an unsanctioned nap in progress.

            Fast forward four days.

            We were in the area of yet another location of the same Big Box Store. It was just me and my little side kick. Traffic on Deerfoot was nightmarish since it was rush hour and I decided to waste a little time checking for the fire box of my dreams.

            We entered the store and walked right past the carts. I had already been burned by my lofty expectations. Hand in hand, we went to the seasonal department. We walked past barbeques and hibachis. Then we rounded a corner and saw a stack from smoker heaven. There was an ethereal light and angels were singing. I had hit the motherload of fire boxes. These ones happen to double as a table top smoker, but I didn’t care. The sole purpose of this purchase is to ensure that I crush the competition at the annual Rib Off where I have won and lost (last year) hard.

            Elated, I looked down at my daughter, “we’re going to get a cart.” We walked all the way back to the door. There they were, glistening in the fluorescent lighting; hundreds of carts. All awaiting precious cargo. But what’s this? A box for a loonie? I may have let loose a string of obscenities which was fully under my breath. I am not in the habit of carrying loose change. I took my child’s hand and started back to the seasonal department.

            “Why aren’t we getting a cart Mama?”

            “Because this is a sketchy neighbourhood and Big Box Store doesn’t want to lose their carts.”

            “Oh. But how are we going to get the smoky thing to the car?”

            “We are going to carry it.” And by “we” I meant me.

            Arriving back at the stack of fire boxes, I chose one with the least dented box. While I was occupied, my child opted to push one out from behind the pile, smiling proudly at her strength. Impressed with her She-Ra-ness, I hefted one of the fire boxes into my arms while instructing her to put the one that she had pushed into the tripping zone of the aisle back into its place. As usual, she ignored my desperate and annoyed requests. I put the fire box down and pushed the other back in place to ensure the next person wouldn’t sue the Big Box Store.

            “OK, we’re going to pay for this now. You have to stay right beside me OK?”

            “I’m hungry, I want a cookie.” I started walking.

            “I’m hungry too and I’m pretty sure they don’t do free cookies like the Bakery Store. Now let’s go, this is heavy and awkward,” I said loudly over my shoulder.

            “I’M HUNGRY!” I could abandon her and she’d be able to blend into a large family.

            “I get that, but we have to get this to the register.” I could feel beads of stress sweat starting to line my upper lip. “Let’s go, you have snacks in the car.” Grudgingly she started to move. I walked maybe fifty feet and she halted next to boxes of cookies. Who the fuck put those there?

            “Cookie.” Grunting and pointing ensued.

            “No. This is heavy and I don’t have time for this.”

            “COOKIE!” I had one of those moments where I wanted to shout fuck off and keep going. Instead, I put the smoker on the floor. I gathered my patience which was scattered all over the place.

            “Listen,” I said while getting down to her level. “You have a snack in the car. Remember? You have to help me get this to the front to pay for it. Can you help me?” In response, her lower lip stuck out and she looked me in the eyes.

“OK.” Holy shit, it worked. Being patient worked.

“Should we push it? Maybe that’d be fun?”

“OK!” I put my hands on the top corner and pushed. It blissfully whizzed along the floor. This was so much easier than that carrying bullshit. But how to get to the car? Shut up brain, we’ll figure it out. Navigating a sea of adult legs, we bobbed and slid to our heart’s content to the self-checkout, while narrowly avoiding a brown substance on the floor. Being in the Big Box Store who has a website dedicated to such oddities, I was briefly horrified at the thought of making a photographic appearance. The feeling passed with each quick step toward paying.

Thankfully my child was elated by my silliness and mostly stayed with me. I hoisted it up onto the counter and scanned it. I noted that we, the self-checkout crowd, aren’t good enough for a scanning gun. When given the option to bag, I may have muttered “fuck that shit” and put it back on the floor. Once I was given the approval from the pay machine, we carried on our adventure of sliding until the unthinkable happened. Carpet and an elderly security guard. I picked it up again and flashed my receipt. I proceeded out the door. Looking back, I expected my kid to be hot on my heels. Instead she and the security guard were having a high five moment.

Briefly, my vision blurred with the colour red. Clearly, I wasn’t struggling enough with this fucking fire box. Let’s play with the child who is obviously with the dishevelled woman carrying what looks like a nice light box. “Come on!” They broke up their little party and she eventually followed. More stress sweat. I couldn’t give her shit because I don’t want her avoiding uniformed people of authority. It didn’t mean I couldn’t grind my teeth while I smiled back at him.

Once outside, the next step was figuring out where the fuck I parked. I rested my cumbersome cargo on what I hoped was a cement pillar somewhere under a  decorative triangular cardboard post cozy. The child opted to sit on my feet directly under the suspended load. Patience was draining away faster than booze at a Stampede party. Satisfied that I may have parked down the aisle in front of me, we walked to the car. Traffic stopped. My child dawdled. We finally found the car. I ended up dropping the box a little bit in an effort to coral my kid in the car on the proper side, in her seat and to find my ever-elusive keys.

Once she was in the car I set to the task of getting my new purchase in the trunk of the car. I started to push and noticed that it was too tall. A little Tetris action and it was in. Sweating I may have texted my friend the following:

“Fuck carrying $1 and making things easy,” with a photo of my new fire box in the trunk of the car.

            In case you’re wondering, the box weighed 19.1kg or 42lb. Now that doesn’t seem like much, but it is dead weight in a box slightly larger than my torso. And my hands are child-like in their size and grip strength. I felt powerful as I got in the car and went home.

To Big Box Stores everywhere, maybe stop being so snooty and make your carts free at ALL of the locations, even the sketchy ones.