Chapter 3: The Constant Grocer

Every shift, now from 2:30 to midnight, George stood his post at the cash register. He was satisfied with the extra hours at his increased wage. Daniel had provided him with a new name tag: he was no longer “Juan.”

A tricky task was checking the age of customers before selling tobacco or alcohol. A little sign reminded him, “You Must be Born Before this date, 200#, To Purchase Adult Products.”

One of the reasons George had lengthened his shift time was to greet the after-school rush at the Peppy Pig. Freed students would swarm the Smushie machine, ravage the candy aisle, and depopulate the drinks coolers. George would be left by 4:00 with a pile of multi-folded dollars, and a pillaged store to restock.

At home, he kept busy on two new projects. First, he was learning to cook in his mother’s cocina (kitchen). Although written recipes were difficult, Emmy would coach him. And, she taught him how to cook authentic comida mexicana. Paul’s job was doing the dishes, while not gaining weight!

Second, George had acquired a modest personal computer, which he used to harvest internet streams. Besides plowing through acres of NetFlicks, documentaries, and even TEDDY talks; George watched many clips on TubeYou. He even began to learn some jokes and funny stories. Music and dancing rounded out his visual diet.

Winter and Spring passed by with no further changes, until June.

Schools being out for summer break, George was having a quiet afternoon at the store. Bea, a middle-aged woman approached the counter and handed him a package. “Uh, young man, I’ve forgotten my reading glasses. Can you read the ingredients and tell me if these cookies contain almonds? I’m allergic to those nuts.”

George swallowed audibly and said, “OK, Ma’am. Let’s see, um, wheat, lamp oil, sugar...”

Bea put her hand on George’s arm, squinting at his name tag. “Stop, that’s fine. How long have you had trouble reading?”

George stiffened. “I get along all right.” “George, we’ve just met. My name is Bea Barlow. And it’s not polite to greet someone new with a lie. Now, how long?”

“But, how did you know?” “George! Lamp oil is kerosene. That package says palm oil, in other words, tropical grease. For the third time, how long?”

“All my life, I think,” George admitted.

“I see. Well, I’m enrolling you tomorrow.” George was startled. “What?” “You, my new friend, are going to come to my home for intensive therapy for your dyslexia. No arguments, I will explain everything tomorrow. Here’s my card, be there at 10:00 a.m.”

“It’s 452 Hum-dolt Avenue?” “Yes, Humboldt, that’s right.”