I started, buying as much butter as we could afford. I’d just gotten paid so that was a lot of butter, more butter than the closest store had on its shelves. The look on the girl’s face when I parked the first cart in her aisle, then told her I’d be right back, returning with another cart, then doing it one more time. The manager was there that third time and asked if he could help me. I said I needed a bag boy to help get all this butter in my van. He explained they don’t have “bag boys” anymore, adding, “Who’s going to pay for all this?” I pulled out my cards. People—the checkout girl, the manager, other customers—kept asking what I was doing, and I just said I needed butter, so I was buying butter. One lady was mad because she needed butter and they were out (because of me), petitioning for one of my butters, to which I firmly said, “No.” After I paid, nearly $3000, the manager and someone from the deli helped me push the butter out and load it into my van. The manager said something like, “Don’t come back to my store, weirdo,” and I answered, “You’re out of butter. Why would I come back?”
I was on my way to a second store, this one across town, when my wife called. “I’m done. I’m waiting outside.” I told her I was on my way to pick up some butter and she said, “Oooh. Watcha makin’?” I said I had to go, that I would get her later, maybe much later, thinking I still had substantial money left in our accounts and didn’t want to make any promises. She started to say something else, but I hung up, put my phone down, the car harder to handle, all that butter weighing me down.
At the next store, I was filling the first cart with butter when that store’s manager approached, asking if he could help me. I told him he could get another cart and help fill it with butter. He said, “No, I mean, what do you think you’re doing?” It seemed pretty obvious, but when I didn’t answer, he pulled out his phone and showed me a video of me at the previous store, filling carts with butter, piling the boxes and tubs onto the conveyer, paying for it all. This second manager said, “You’re not going to clean us out of butter like you did to them,” to which I replied, “This is America. I need butter and I have money.” He said he was going to call the police. I just kept loading butter into my cart.
When I got to the checkout, cops had arrived, asking if I was okay. I said I was. I started to unload butter in Aisle 4 but that manager was there and turned the open light off. “This aisle is closed.” I moved toward Aisle 3—the checkout kid was staring at me with fearful eyes—but the manager and the police said they needed to talk to me. “You can’t buy all our butter,” the manager said, and one of the cops asked, “Is there someone we can call?” I told them I just needed a lot of butter, and I had money to pay. They conferenced a bit. The other cop said, “He’s not breaking any laws,” and they started to leave. The manager didn’t look happy. He said I could only buy ten butters. I repeated I had money. Then some customer, this guy with hippie braids, shouted, “This store won’t sell this guy butter!” and another guy, this guy with a Bass Pro cap and Carhartts, said, “I thought this was America!” Everyone started chanting USA! USA! USA! as I paid and refilled my cart. Most everyone was recording it with their phones, then nearly everyone in the store grabbed a bag of butter and helped me load it into my car. As I drove off, they cheered, more USA!s. I thought, for just a second, that the world was an okay place.
I considered what store I’d go to next, guessing I’d be out of money soon. I checked my phone and saw that my wife had called fourteen times. I wanted to pick her up, but I wouldn’t have the space, butter stacked wherever she might sit, plus I had to get it all home before it went soft. I had to find someplace to keep it all, our fridge not nearly as big as our van, even if I threw out all the other food already in there. I pulled into the driveway and immediately, my wife, in an Uber, pulled in behind me, told the driver not to move, ordered him to not let me leave. Amy, scarlet with fury, demanded to know where I was, why I’d left her at the hospital in the first place, then whey I didn’t pick her up when she called. I said I was out getting butter. She said that was several hours ago. That’s when I opened the hatch, revealing all the butter in the van, wall to wall, floor to ceiling. Amy stared, then signaled for the Uber driver to leave. He was taking pictures of the van, of the butter. He told Amy she’d be getting one star.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were getting the butter?”
“I wanted to surprise you,” I said. “Plus, I did tell you I was getting butter.”
“But not the butter.”
“Not the butter.”
Amy’s color normalized. She leaned against me. I put one arm around her shoulders and placed the other hand on her stomach.
“What do you know?” I asked.
“Nothing yet.”
I nodded.
She said, “Let’s turn the van back on, get the air going. Keep that butter solid.”
Amy’s phone buzzed. She didn’t answer. We needed to tend to the butter. After, we could worry about whatever was coming next.
