No Chips for You

One knows the universe is conspiring against one’s self when even one’s most basic life requests are answered with emphasis so loud it cannot be ignored.

Am I describing paranoia? For once, I think not. And I can prove my point.

All I wanted was a bag of chips. You know, the crispy blue variety touted to be healthy? As a veteran chip eater, I know my chip characteristics. So on Saturday afternoon I decided to pick up an assortment of my favorite medium-to-high brow snacks. On my mental list were multi-grain crackers, hummus, Boursin cheese and the previously mentioned tasty blue corn chips.

So I climbed into my car for the short drive to Kroger. I love my Kroger. I think of it as mine because it’s right down the street from my house. I know where all the products I purchase are located. I know when to visit for minimal waiting at the checkout line. I know I’ll save moola when I use my Kroger card. And I know the amount of moola I save will be printed at the bottom of my receipt in type so large I can read it without squinting.

With this short shopping list I figure I’ll be in and out in record time. I’ll put the car in park, engage the emergency brake and leave the keys in the ignition with the engine running. Because I can navigate self checkout like a pro.

All this knowledge is at my finger tips because I love my Kroger.

So imagine the shock than permeated my brain when I arrived at the intersection in suburban River City to see this scene.

Someone demolished my Kroger.

It’s gone.

Really.

One must ask oneself, ‘Who makes these decisions?’ Because I was certainly not consulted. Someone, I suspect a tall man wearing a white shirt and a dark tie sitting behind a large desk looking out of his corner office window, did not ask for my permission to demolish my Kroger.

A quick call to Kroger corporate offices in downtown River City filled in the needed details.

All service representatives were serving other callers when I called. For long time. I used this time to begin praying that the person who destined to answer my call speaks English and not Indian. The length of time I’m left waiting on the phone leads me me consider that a disturbing number of Kroger stores may have disappeared on Saturday afternoon.

A Happy Kroger Answering Person answering my call in the order it was received.

“Thank you for calling Kroger. My name is Diane. How can I help you?” I like Diane already since she not only sounds American, she sounds like she’s from River City.

“Hi I’m Leslie. My Kroger is gone and I wonder when it was scheduled to return. Can you give me some details?”

“Really? Your Kroger is gone?” (Notice how Diane knows it’s “My Kroger”? She’s right. Because it is. I love it when corporate America agrees with me.)

“Oh it’s gone alright. Rubble on the ground and everything. Really gone.”

“Golly. That’s news. Let me look into this.”

I spend a non-productive but nonetheless relaxing five minutes listening to fake computerized harpsichord muzak while I’m on hold.

“Hello Leslie, Diane here. I’m still checking with management to obtain some details for you.”

Now I’m left to wonder what irritated intern has to scurry up to the corner office where the tall guy wearing the white shirt and the dark tie sitting behind the large desk is looking out of his window to get an answer. Surly this intern is counting the days until he / she retreats to Wharton for his / her 3rd year of B-School to avoid answering my inane questions. How I want to tell him / her that there’ i no need to hurry back to school. Few, if any, big fat Corporate America jobs waiting for him / her upon graduation.

Diane returns. “Leslie. Yes, the store is being remodeled.”

“Remodeled? How about ‘rebuilt’?” How can something be remodeled when it simply disappeared?

“What’s there now?”

“A pile of rubble. But a Kart Korral was left standing as a sort of pop culture parking lot monument. I paid my respects.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

Me like Diane.  She assisted me in locating other Kroger stores convenient to my house. But, of course, none can replace My Kroger.

I can now honestly state that I do not suffer from paranoia, because it really happened. And paranoia occurs only between ones ears and not in neighborhood demolition sites.

The universe really did speak to me in unequivocally emphatic terms. “Leslie, no chips for you.”