THE INVENTION OF HOW
No algebra or chemistry equations required. Each Sunday at precisely seven a.m., he walked through the automatic doors of the giant, automatic supermarket, pushing a shopping cart full of potatoes, milk, bread, cheese and peanut butter, napkins and chicken cutlets, dozens of items for the cupboards, freezer and fridge. As his truck was parked in a space alongside the cart hangar, where the orange sign read Return Shopping Carts Here, the rest was simple. Removing each item from the cart he carefully stacked the heaviest ones on the bottom, the light ones on the top, building a small pyramid of perishable food on the asphalt. Smiling at such architecture (a single lemon like the star atop a Christmas tree), he’d release the door to the truck’s empty bed, place the shopping cart on its side, push it in, shut the door, climb into the cab, twist the key, and–without hesitation, nostalgia, remorse–drive off.
—from Rattle #24, Winter 2005