Frank Grubstein

Here's my take on that whole expired milk jug business
* * *

He didn’t have a thermometer on him, and he was far too guarded to hazard a guess. But it was enough for him to tell himself that it was cold and that he probably shouldn’t have left his jacket on the car seat. He also knew that it didn’t matter one bit, as this mission was much too important to give up now just because he had a few extra bumps multiplying below his shirt sleeves.

3/9. 3/9. 3/8. 3/9. No, this wasn’t going to work at all. That was less than a week away. The only thing to do was hunker down against the refrigerated blast and dig deeper.

Frank was allergic to eggs, syrups, and most jams. He suspected he was allergic to nooks and crannies as well. Staunch, conservative, devout, he shied away from any meat that came from a pig – bacons, sausages, hams. Couldn’t stand grits, oatmeal, cream of wheat. Butter, cream cheese, salted fish. Any form of bread or pastry with a hole at the center. No, there was only one breakfast food that Frank could stomach with gusto at seven in the morning before heading out to tend to Grubstein’s Family-owned Fish Farm. He had five boxes of it in his shopping cart already. And this being his only trip into town for another two weeks, he needed a sufficiently distant expiration date on his requisite three gallons of milk.

He dug deeper.

The jugs were scattered around his blue jeans in all directions. Extracted from their neat queues with increasing violence. He was getting down to it now, just a single column of milk left to weed through. Grab a jug, check the side, throw it down on the tile below. 3/8. 3/8. 3/9. Nothing. Somewhere around here he had set down a jug with 3/10 inked on the side. Still terrible, just terrible, but it was the best he could find. Now where was it? White condensating jugs radiated out like layers of an onion. Too much effort to search them all a second time.

And what about skim? Whole? One percent?

No, he shouldn’t have to sacrifice his standards. He was better than that.

He got up, brushed the dust of his knees. Leaving behind a half full cart and the sea of white jugs, he slowly walked toward the double doors in the nearest corner. Opened one slightly with his right hand.

“Hey. Anyone back there or what? Hey. Got a customer that needs help.”

No answer.

“HEY.”

With still no answer, Frank burst through the doors, toward the stacks of palates. Not finding anyone by the dry goods, the produce, the freezers, the loading bays, he headed straight to the backside of the dairy refrigerators and started looking for more jugs to weed through.

“Excuse me? Can I help you?” A man in a white collared shirt and a green tie was approaching. He had a pen in his front pocket, just a cheap one, with just the blue cap sticking out.

“Ah, finally. Finally somebody to help. Where do you keep the milk with the longer expiration dates?”

“Sir, you really shouldn’t be back here.”

“If you don’t put out the milk with the long expiration dates, then where else am I supposed to go? Who do I talk to about this?”

“I’m the manager on this shift.”

“Perfect. Then you can direct me to the right jugs of milk.”

"We’ve had some problems with shipping—”

“What? What problems?”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask that we finish this conversation out on the floor.”

“How can you tell me you have problems with shipping now when I drove fifty miles into town to shop at your store?”

“Sir.”

“I am a paying customer.”

“Do I need to call security?”

Frank thought about this for a moment before letting his mouth run. He looked at the man before him, the gelled strands on his head, the patient smirk. Then he stormed out of the backroom, past the stockboy who was slowly putting the milk jugs back into the refrigerator. Past his abandoned cart, past produce, past the checkout aisles. Outside, into the warm March air. He stepped up to his pickup, contemplated the twenty mile drive to the next town, the next grocery store. Opened the door, stepped in, keyed the ignition, and rolled out into the parking lot.