Waddles of Walmart: The Series, Part 3

It is true. All of it. A witness account.

If you are going to be married to a woman like Kira, there are certain things you have to reconcile early.

One: she is off the charts wonderful. This is not negotiable and not in question.

Two: she does not pick up on signals particularly well. In Kira's reality, everyone is dialed in, all the time, to the same frequency she's on. I have come to believe this is simply how human personality points get distributed. What Kira has in abundance in charisma, she gives up a little in awareness.

It is not a flaw. It is a trade.

You just have to know going in.

I want to be clear that I did not choose to be at Walmart at eleven on a Sunday morning.

I was brought here. There's a difference.

Kira has a whole system. "Church runs ten to noon," she says, every single week, with the confidence of a woman who has cracked a code that has eluded the rest of civilization. "You do not shop at Walmart at twelve-fifteen. You just don't." I have never asked how she knows this. Some things you learn by surviving them, and whatever happened to Kira in that parking lot, she has moved on and so have I.

So here we are. Eleven a.m. Produce section. I'm pushing the cart.

She finds Waddles near the back.

I don't know his actual name. Kira calls him Waddles and I have absorbed this without question because that is what marriage is.

"The olives," she says, by way of greeting.

Waddles turns around. I have seen this man's face go through a lot of things in the weeks we've been coming here, and what's on it right now is a very specific kind of peace. The peace of a man who has accepted his life.

"Condiments," she says. "Again."

"Ma'am."

"They're seeds, Waddles. Or they're vegetables. I genuinely don't know which, but I know they're not condiments. A condiment is something you put on something. You don't put an olive on a thing. You eat the olive. It's a standalone food."

I study the soup cans.

"We do this every Sunday," Waddles says. "At eleven."

"Because it keeps being an issue." She says this like it's obvious, because to her it is. "Also I want to say thank you for putting my books on Walmart.com. That was really lovely."

Here we go.

Waddles looks at her. Then, briefly, at me. I give him nothing. I have a cart to push.

"My books," Kira says. "I'm an author. The Color Beneath the Story? It's a romance. Well, there's a threesome. Actually there are a few. But it's very moving, people have genuinely cried."

Waddles is absorbing the word threesome with the stillness of a man in the presence of something larger than himself.

"Shelterlight?" she tries. "Outdoor setting. Very emotional. Also some scenes."

Nothing.

"The glazed donut." She says it like a password. "You read it. You put it online for people to purchase with actual money. I told you about it. I told you specifically."

"Ma'am," Waddles says, and I can hear him choosing every word like he's defusing something, "I'm the store manager. I don't select the titles on Walmart.com. My discount doesn't even work on the website. I barely look at it."

Kira stares at him.

"So you just...do the store?"

"Just the store."

She nods slowly, genuinely rearranging her understanding of how Walmart corporate functions. This is new information. She is processing it in good faith.

"Well," she says finally, "the books are there, so someone did it, and I appreciate that person very much." She pats his arm. "I'll bring you a copy anyway. The donut one. I'll sign it."

Waddles stands very still.

"The donut," he says.

"Well," she says finally, "the books are there, so someone did it, and I appreciate that person very much." She pats his arm. "I'll bring you a copy anyway. The donut one. I'll sign it."

Waddles stands very still.

"The donut," he says.

"Well." Kira smiles, and I know that smile. I have seen that smile at dinner parties, at her sister's baby shower, at a Applebee's in Cape Girardeau. It is the smile of a woman who believes everyone in the room is already in on it. "You know it's not actually a donut."

I look down at the cart handle.

Here we go.

Waddles waits.

"The scene." She looks at him encouragingly. "You were so diligent, Waddles. Very thorough, putting it up there. I was impressed, honestly."

Waddles does not move.

Kira tilts her head, helpful, patient, giving him every opportunity to arrive where she already is.

"With the sperm?"

The condiment aisle is very quiet.

"The glazed donut," she says, slower now, the way you'd help someone with a crossword. "The sperm. I told you about it. I remember telling you specifically." She pauses. "I was actually a little surprised it met Walmart's standards, if I'm being honest. Good for them."

Waddles is not moving. Waddles is not blinking. Waddles is a man who has just been swatted clean out of the air and has not yet located the ground.

I study a jar of pickle relish like it contains information I urgently need.

"Remember?" Kira says.

"You'll love it," she tells him. "It's very relatable."

I don't know what he was expecting his Sunday to look like. But I know it wasn't this.

"I'll look into the olives," he says.

"Thank you!" She finds me without looking, just reaches back and grabs the cart. "He remembered the donut," she whispers, like this is significant news.

"I know. I was standing right here."

"He's coming around."

"Sure."

"Do you think he reads romance?"

I look back at Waddles. He's standing in the condiment aisle. He's not moving. Just looking at the middle distance like a man recalculating something fundamental about the world.

"He might," I say.

This story is true. All of it. Waddles, if you're reading this, I want you to know she will bring the book next Sunday. She will sign it she will add a heart in glitter pen.

Cody