Free The Home for Wayward Clocks by Kathie Giorgio Page B

for the store.
    For a while, James tried doing the grocery shopping just once a week. He thought it would lessen the stress of having to be out in public, facing the long aisles of too much food and too many bodies pushing around carts, if it wasn’t on a daily basis. But only going once a week extended his time actually inside the grocery store. Instead of dashing in and dashing out, laden only with whatever he ran out of that day, he had to push a full-sized store cart and fill it and stand in line behind everyone else who had too many items for the express lane. It was too much. Facing it once a day for only fifteen or so minutes at a time was hard, but manageable; a necessary moment of discomfort.
    Trying to fit in with the theme after the town’s revitalization, the grocery store renamed itself the Shop Around The Clock. It used to be Marv’s 24-Hour Shopper. James’ picture was in a frame at the entry. In it, he held a ridiculously huge pair of scissors, preparing to cut the ribbon for the grand re-opening, the grocery store newly repainted and decorated with psychedelic neon wall clocks. The owner spent weeks creating cassette tapes of songs that mentioned clocks or time. Rock Around The Clock, of course. Time In A Bottle. If I Could Turn Back Time. Clock of the Heart. These songs played continuously, but from the looks on the shoppers’ faces, they never listened so it was an exercise in futility. Other than that, the grocery store was the same. Still just Marv’s 24-Hour Shopper under the glitz and forced glamour. Same food, same prices. Even with James’ picture at the front, the cashiers still asked for James’ identification when he wrote a check. Though they smiled at him now. So he used cash; cash was faster. Another reason for going every day and keeping the order small.
    As James moved through the store, checking his list against each aisle’s index of ingredients, he peeked around every corner. If he saw someone he knew, he ducked back and moved on to another item on the list. Avoiding acquaintances saved him the head nods, the smiles, the passing of inane conversation. It also kept James’ heart from accelerating from already-in-overdrive to panic. Sometimes, when an item was halfway down an aisle, someone would come around the far corner as he dashed for the middle. Then it was a race; could he get the item, toss it into his little rolling cart, and escape before he and the person met? Sometimes, they called his name and then he was stuck. If he tried not to hear them, they only yelled louder.
    On this day, James thought he was safe. He had his toilet paper, bread, day-old doughnuts, and chicken breasts for dinner, along with some fresh corn on the cob and a half-gallon of low-fat milk. There was only the country-meadow air freshener to grab and then he could be out the door. He spun on his heels and headed to the top of Aisle Seven, intending to move quickly past the endcaps to Aisle Twelve and then head for the express lane. But as he shot past Aisle Nine, he heard the mayor’s voice. There was no mistaking or ignoring the mayor’s voice; he had a politician’s command and he demanded an audience.
    “James!” he called. “James, how are you?”
    The question James always found impossible to answer. What did people really want to know? Did they want to know the state of his health or his mind? Did they just want him to say, “Oh, fine, fine,” and then shut up while they loaded their litanies on him, their problems and preachings, the latest town gossip? Did they even hear themselves ask the question, let alone listen for an answer? James faced the mayor and decided just to duck his head and smile.
    “Good, good,” the mayor said, patting James’ shoulder. James stepped quickly backwards, just far enough to be out of reach, so the mayor’s fingers stroked the air. “Listen, I have a favor to ask you.”
    James locked his knees and waited.
    “The wife, she went to this antique mall in