Things appear the way he left them. Alex sighs, then almost retches. The apartment reeks. Foul. Where is it? This cat must have dropped a load like a Tyrannosaur. He tosses the cat out the open door, holds his nose to investigate. There are three piles in the bedroom, one in his favorite pair of tennis shoes. Not just on his shoes, but in his shoes. He cleans it up with toilet paper and flushes, and then cranks up the air conditioner. The deodorant can is no use. It’s almost empty and the smell is overpowering. I’ll go to the store. I’ll get some spray. By the time I get back the odor should be less severe. The cat wanders back in and rubs against his leg affec-tionately.

“You shit in my shoes you bastard,” he says and heaves him out the door.

“Meow.” Alex heads for the car.

“Meow yourself, asshole.” I’m just not polite today.

The cat lays down in front of his door. It looks like he’s going to wait Alex out. Won’t work. He’s not getting back in.

He takes his time at the store, picks up some things he needs and some he doesn’t. There’s a bottle of Sangria in the wine section. The price is right. $3.49 for 1.5 liters. Just what he needs. He puts it in the cart with the deodorant, potato chips, and six cans of chicken noodle soup. He’s hungry. By the time he reaches the checkout his collection has grown. The items slide past the laser which reads the bar codes. Prices scroll down a computer monitor. Oreo cookies… $2.49; Chicken noodle 6oz… $0.68; Sangria…$6.98. Wait a minute.

“Excuse me,” he says to the checker. She re-turns a blank look. “I think the price is wrong on the Sangria, it was only $3.49.”

The checker picks up the intercom and calls for a price check, then starts sliding items past the laser. No one responds to the price check. When she finishes, she calls again. Alex writes out a check except for the amount. The lady behind him has a concerned look on her face. Everyone’s in a hurry.

The checker starts to bag the groceries. Alex points to the wine section a few yards away, “It’s just right there,” he says. She sends a bagboy to look. Alex gives him directions. “It’s on the top shelf, right there. In the middle.” They watch as he wanders around the wine section, clearly lost. The woman behind Alex twists her hands on her cart handle like she’s working the controls on a motor-bike. She has teeth like a horse.

“He looks lost,” he says. “I should go help him.”

“No, Sir,” says the cashier. “There’s no need for that.” She fidgets. The bagboy appears again and looks right at the spot, then disappears.

“He missed it,” says Alex. “I’ll go help him.” He squeezes past the lady behind him. She hisses through her teeth.

There are only three bottles of Sangria left, a big seller. Alex points and the bagboy nods his head.

“See? $3.49,” Alex says. The digital unit price under the display reads, “1.5 liters… $3.49.” The bagboy looks at the sign, then the bottles, then back to the sign.

“It’s not the right brand,” he says. There are three prices, three brands. “The brand doesn’t match.”

“That’s okay,” says Alex. “I’ll take it for $3.49.” Sangria is Sangria. He just wants a drink, and doesn’t expect much from a store bought Sangria. They go back to the register where the nervous cashier and the enraged woman wait. Alex tells the cashier the story. The pimple-faced bagboy tells the cashier the story.

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