and placed the groceries on the conveyor belt. The cashier, a lady who looked to be in her 50s, scanned the items.
Quick and painless.
“$52 even, please.”
So much for painless.
“$52? For just these groceries?” Aiden asked in shock.
“Yes, sir. The bottles are $18 each, the steak $6 and the produce comes to $10.”
“Isn’t that a little steep for produce?” he asked.
“Not when you buy local,” the cashier responded. She looked Aiden in the eye, then softened her gaze.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“You’re the second person to ask that in the last 10 minutes,” he said.
“Sorry, not trying to pry,” she said. “Just a little insight into how things work around here: a box of local produce isn’t just a box of produce. This is the heart and soul of the farmer. Time and energy are poured into the craft.”
Here comes the hippie island rhetoric, Aiden grumbled to himself. “So I’ve heard. It’s ‘green,’ I get it. It’s just steep price to pay for a meal.”
She held his eyes with hers. “You consider yourself an investor?”
Aiden didn’t have time for this; his rolling eyes made that clear.
“I like to make my money count, and I enjoy quality. That what you’re looking for?”
The cashier, seeming to have lots of time on her hands, went on. “Islanders live...they live within the environment, for lack of a simpler phrase.” She spoke gently, but with conviction. “People invest themselves deeply into bringing out the best of the island, be it farming, construction, painting, cooking – you name it. When the island’s at its best, nothing can compare with its beauty. But if neglected or poorly attended to, the island loses its luster. It becomes barren.”
Aiden struggled to connect the dots, but he pressed on. He may get socially withdrawn from friends and family, but dialog with strangers was something he could handle.
“I’m failing to see the connection between a ‘barren wasteland of an island’ and overpriced groceries,” he said.
She looked at him again with the same relaxed but strong expression. “That’s what happens when we start importing cheap crap from the mainland. Like it or leave it. That’s just how things are on Cielo.”
“Well Granola it is,” Aiden responded with a mix of sarcasm and disdain. He gave her his Visa card, signed the receipt and turned toward the exit. If his first two interactions were any indication, idle hands aren’t the devil’s playthings but rather a state of being on Cielo.
3. DEFLATION, DIRECTION
Canoe drive felt different when driving east. Aiden couldn’t pin down whether it was the sights, the sounds or the pavement itself.
Whatever it was, it was quickly overshadowed as the passenger side of the car dipped down and a respective grinding noise grew louder.
Flat tire, he realized, slamming his right hand against the well-worn steering wheel.
He pulled to the side of the road, got out of the car and surveyed the damage. A broken bottle 20 feet back, and a deflated passenger-side tire.
He kicked the tire and swore. No spare tire in the back. Less than a quarter mile out of the Borough, Aiden’s annoyance hit an even higher level.
Not only did he not want to be on this island, but now he was stranded in the countryside.
Aiden started walking back to the town, past a few homes and farms. His eyes remained on the road rather than the surroundings. His walk had a single destination; scenery would only deter him from getting back to some solitude.
When he reached the Borough 10 minutes later, he went back into the grocery store.
“Back for more?” the cashier asked, cleaning off the register with a faded blue cloth.
“Dont even get me started,” Aiden thought to himself. He wasn’t interested in conversation. Just wanted some direction.
“Flat tire, no spare,” he said. No other words were needed. He didn’t care to offer a nosey islander further insight into his life or circumstances.
“Ah,” she said. “You’ll want to head over to Dwayne’s.”
“Dwayne’s?”
“Mechanic down the road. We can hold your food here in the fridge.”
Aiden cursed to himself. After the head ache of buying the overpriced food, it was now going to waste in his car.
“You need a ride to pick it up and bring it back here?” the cashier asked, pointing at a nearby teenage boy. Store employee, Aiden guessed given the black apron. The boy didn’t appear especially happy at the suggestion.
“Forget it, I just want my tire fixed.”
“You’ve got a free ride here,” she said.
“I didn’t ask for charity.”
“Then consider it product insurance,” the old woman retorted. “Plus, you’ll get to Dwayne’s faster than you would on foot.”
At this point, efficiency was Aiden’s best friend, so he accepted.
He followed the young worker through the double-door entrance toward a green Jetta.
Couldn’t be older than five years, Aiden thought, shocked that a 16-year-old on Cielo would have this nice of a ride.
“Your parents’ car?” Aiden asked as he opened the passenger door.
“Nope, mine.”
“A job at the store pays that well?” he asked.
“I saved. Not much to spend your money on here,” the boy said.
They rode in silence for the rest of the short drive to Aiden’s car. Neither of them wanted to shoot the breeze.
The Jetta stopped in the middle of the road, parallel to the Civic. Aiden hopped out and retrieved the bag of food as the Jetta did a quick U-turn, got back in and then they were off.
“I’ll take it in,” the boy said, reaching for the plastic bag as they pulled into the store lot.
“Where’s the mechanic?” Aiden asked.
“Down the Boulevard one block south, hang a left at Harbor View. Dwayne’s is the last building on the right.”
Aiden gave a slight nod of acknowledgment as the boy walked away.
Five minutes later, he spotted an average-size concrete building, white and blue with the words “Dwayne’s Mechanical Services” painted above the double garage opening.
An overalls-clad man – whom Aiden guessed to be in his 40s – walked out of the right-hand garage. Had to be Dwayne.
“You look stranded, son,” he said, wiping grime off his hands with an oil-stained rag.
“Good call, Sherlock,” Aiden thought to himself.
“Blew a tire just outside the town. No spare,” he finally said. “How much to tow?”
“Nodda, we’ll fix it on site. What do you drive?”
“95 Civic.”
“$150 including a spare,” Dwayne said, stuffing the rag in his back pocket.
Aiden was expecting far more; this was the first bit of good news today.
“Not bad,” he admitted. “You want me to come with?”
“Yup.”