THE BREAD AISLE

Janice liked doing her grocery shopping after work since it was on the way home. Today, she had a short shopping list: cold cuts and bread for sandwiches, milk, tomatoes, canned corn and peas, and ice cream. She also wanted to pick up something quick and fun for dinner; she had to take her 14-year-old to a piano recital in the evening. Burritos would do.

She rolled her shopping cart into the bread aisle, bobbing to the faint music. Apparently, Walmart had updated its playlist. When the next track came on, she looked up. There was a speaker directly overhead; she tuned out the ambient noise, swaying to the melody and bouncing to the meaty bass line. She twirled with two packs of tortillas as she compared the brands. By the time the song had built up to the first drop, she was dancing.

A young woman also in the aisle kept glancing over at her, bothered. Her toddler clung to her leg, staring at Janice. A couple in their sixties looked on from the home goods section, which was across the main walkway and two long shelves down the aisle. Janice didn’t mind them and didn’t blame them; a middle-aged woman dancing through the superstore was no everyday sight. She carefully put back one pack of tortillas, placed the cheaper one in her cart, and then boogied to the sliced bread.

When she turned back toward her cart, she saw the older man two shelves down stumble a bit. It didn’t look like he had tripped. It looked more like he was dizzy or, perhaps, drunk. He leaned heavily on his shopping cart. It could be nothing, or it could be something serious. Janice dropped her loaf, kicked off her dress shoes, and sprinted toward the man. If it proved to be nothing, she would look silly, but she was always willing to look silly for a chance to help someone.

“Are you alright, sir?” she called out.

“He’s fine,” the older man’s wife assured. “People stumble.”

Janice demanded an answer from the man: “Are you alright?”

“Y-ye-ss.” His hand slipped off the handle of the shopping cart.

Janice stepped past the couple, pressed her body to the man’s back, and wrapped her arms around his torso. Bracing herself with one leg, she rammed her other knee into the back of the man’s legs. He would have fallen backward if Janice weren’t pushing the opposite way. She felt like she was being crushed; the man was a hundred pounds heavier than her.

“Stop!” the wife screamed. While calling out for help, she hit Janice with her purse.

Janice dropped to her knees with a grunt and bent almost to the floor, carefully lowering the man into a sitting position. The wife swung her purse again. It hit Janice on the side of the face. The zipper cut into her cheek. Janice grabbed the heavy bag before it could be swung a third time, blood running down to her chin.

She explained, breathlessly but calmly, “Your husband is having a stroke,” and then pulled the woman’s phone from the purse. “He was about to fall on his face.”

Still sitting on the floor, supporting the man, she dialed 911. “There is a man having a stoke at Walmart on Wagner Ridge Road, in Macon. We’re on the right side of the store, in the home goods section.” As soon as she got off the phone, she commanded the wife, “Make a list of all the medications that your husband is on and the dosage. The hospital will need that information. Stay calm.”

The woman didn’t argue but didn’t move either, terrified by what was happening and appalled by her own behavior.

Two other people had hurried over, responding to the woman’s screams. Janice assured them, “An ambulance is on the way.” Using her free hand to keep the blood from dripping, she spoke to the man, “We going to get you through this, sir. Don’t be scared.”

Of course, he couldn’t answer.

Eventually, the wife handed Janice a wipe. “You should have told me what you were doing.”

Janice didn’t think the woman would have believed her, and there hadn’t been a moment to argue. Nonetheless, she only reminded, “Write down his medications.” She stayed with the couple until the ambulance arrived. The paramedics picked the man up and rushed him away on a stretcher; the wife couldn’t even keep up.

Janice returned to her cart, thankful that her purse hadn’t been stolen in the interim. She called her husband. She was about to raise the phone to her cheek but remembered the blood and switched hands. More than one wipe would have been nice. “Honey, you’re going to have to take Laura to her piano recital… I’m still at Walmart. A man was having a stroke,” she explained, stuffing her feet back into her shoes. “… Yes, of course I helped… I hope so. I don’t know. Anyway, we have leftover pancakes in the fridge. You could make grilled cheeses on those for a quick dinner… That’s fine. Use up the rest of the ham as well; I’m getting more cold cuts now… Yeah, I’ll see when you get back. I love you… Oh! Make sure Ezra takes his next dose of cold medicine… Thank you. Love you.”

Other shoppers stared at her red-stained cheek. Of course, Janice didn’t mind them and didn’t blame them. She knew it had to look bad. The small cut had mostly stopped bleeding, but she could feel dried blood on her cheek. She’d clean it off when she checked out since the bathrooms were at the front of the store.

As she loaded her canned veggies, she glanced up at the speaker above her. The song that had caught her attention earlier was playing again. She paused her wondering about her family and ignored the lingering stress from helping the couple. Instead, she gave her attention to the song and swayed. She was in no hurry now, so she danced all the way to the dairy aisle.