The rotisserie chicken from Costco

“Costco?”

I looked at the large man wearing a silly smile standing across from me on the train platform. I furrowed my brow because at first I didn’t know what he was talking about. He noticed my concerned look and smiled, “Costco?” he repeated but this time pointing to my pants.

“Yes,” I replied surprised by his question. The platform was packed and there was no place to sit. I pointed to his shirt, “Costco,” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied enthusiastically and then pointed to my shirt, “Costco?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied brightening up. I was beginning to like this game. I pointed to his hat, “Costco?” He smiled and pointed to mine, “yes,” I replied.

The tempo was picking up, but we were running out of clothing items. He pointed to my Adidas shoes, “Costco?” he asked excitedly.

I smiled my reply. I pointed to his sneakers, “Costco?” I asked.

“Walmart,” he replied with enthusiasm believing he had stumped me, or so he thought.

“Are you sure?” I asked thinking that I had seen the same sneakers at Costco.

“No, sorry, Walmart,” he replied bouncing on his feet like a child. But then before I could challenge him, he turned and faced a woman who I presumed was his wife sitting on an uncomfortable looking bench reading People magazine. He didn’t say anything. She understood her husband’s question.

“Costco,” she replied and I smiled.

“But, but, I thought you said you bought these sneakers from Walmart.”
“No, Costco,” she interrupted him. “You told me I was spending too much at Costco, so I told you I bought them at Walmart.”
He wasn’t sure what to say. “Come here often?” he finally asked.
“Only on Costco sale days,” I replied.

“No,” my wife added. She was sitting behind me looking at a sale booklet. “I never send my husband to Costco. I tell him,” and here she raised her voice, “I tell him buy a chicken and he comes home with you know what?”
“What?” asked the people around us who had by now been drawn into the conversation. They all had a point of interest.

“A chicken, one lousy chicken.”

They gasped. “What!” shouted a young woman with bags filled with items she would never use.

“Yes, exactly a chicken. One chicken, that’s it one chicken.”
I was embarrassed. “But you sent me there for a chicken, you didn’t say ‘and buy half the store’ did you? So, that’s what I bought and came home with. One chicken,” I hesitated for a second and then added, “for dinner.”
“No!” shouted the same woman with the bags of stuff she would never use, “that’s not what you do. When your wife sends you to buy a chicken, it’s permission to buy half the store.” Well, I had to regain some semblance of respect on the packed platform. “That’s why I don’t send my wife for a chicken because she comes home with bags of stuff. I never know what she’s bought until I open all the closets and stuff falls out on to the floor. I found a Banana Republic black sweater in the container of dog food the other day.”
“Isn’t it fun?” asked the man who started this whole affair. I couldn’t see the humour in his question, especially now that it was me against the entire crowded train platform.

“Now, you know why I don’t send him,” added my wife looking around at all her well wishers.

“Yes!” they replied in unison, “that’s horrible. I bet you’re the kind of guy who buys just one hot dog and soda and then leaves.”
What was I to do. This was most upsetting. Here I was believing that I wasn’t wrong in my position only to find out that I was. “Two!” I shouted holding up two fingers, “two,” I repeated looking around at the crowded platform. “I buy two hotdogs,” I added feeling that I had bought myself some respect, but I was wrong.

“And just one soda?” it was a little evil man in the back of the group. I had seen him earlier. He was busy looking down at the floor, so I naturally felt he wasn’t going to get drawn into this silly discussion, but he did. He wanted his 15 minutes of fame. But was I going to give it to him? I had a decision to make. No, damn it, I wasn’t!

“No, two sodas,” I shouted in reply and there was a gasp.

“I don’t believe you,” replied the man still standing in front of me.

“What don’t you believe?” I asked desperately trying to keep my head above water.

“That you buy two sodas.”
“You weren’t there, so how do you know?” I felt confident of my position on this subject. “You’re right, he doesn’t!” it was my wife looking up from the same sale booklet. “He doesn’t eat anything that isn’t healthy or drinks any soda, for that matter.”
The gasp went up again. The train pulled in and with speed I didn’t know I possessed, I pushed through the crowd and jumped on the train. I didn’t even know where my wife was.

“Costco?” asked the train conductor pointing to my Adidas sneakers.

“No!” I replied smirking, “Walmart!” He didn’t believe me.