That Saturday, my mother Carol was already at the community center with Maya taping down tablecloths. Her text came in as I backed out of my driveway. “Maya’s already asking when you’re coming.” I answered at the first stop sign: “On my way. Cake first.” The Harbor Market app had already told me my order was ready. The pickup window was 10:15 and the party started at 11:30, 15 minutes away. I remember thinking the hard part was done. Harbor Market is one of those big suburban grocery stores that seems to add a new department every year and its curbside pickup area runs along the side of the building under a long metal awning. There are six spaces numbered one through six on tall green signs and you check in through the app, choose your space and wait for an associate to bring your order out. On a Saturday in late spring with families gearing up for ball games and cookouts, it can feel like an airport gate. When I rolled in at about 10:12, four of the six spaces were taken. An associate in a green polo stood near the lane waving cars forward and when he caught my eye, he pointed directly at spot four. I nodded, put on my blinker and slowed down to turn my gray SUV into the space.
That was when a white SUV came in from the side lane, new and spotless, and it didn’t slow down the way you slow down when you’re sharing the road. It cut in at an angle and took spot four in one smooth motion, its bumper sliding past mine with a few feet to spare. I hit my brakes hard enough to slosh coffee over the cup holder. There was no collision, but my heart was pounding the way it does when a ladder shifts under you on a roof. I didn’t lean on the horn or try to box her in because the last thing I needed that morning was a fender bender. I just rolled down my window and said, “Excuse me, I was pulling into that space.” The woman who stepped out was in her late 40s with blonde hair styled to her shoulders, a dark red blazer over a white blouse, cream slacks, an expensive watch, and a designer bag hanging from her elbow. Her name, as I’d learn, was Evelyn Price and she ran a small company that planned corporate receptions around the Triangle. She looked at me, then at my 11-year-old car with the scrape along its rear panel. “Then you should have moved faster,” she said, pointing toward the far end of the lot without turning her head. “There’s plenty of parking back there.” I told her the associate had just directed me into that space and my order was already waiting. She said she was late for a very important event and didn’t care who had arrived first. Then she said the sentence that told me exactly how she saw the world. “I’m spending hundreds of dollars here. They’re not going to make me wait behind your groceries.” She was taking the size of her bill and turning it into a ticket to the front of the line as though the store sold priority along with sandwiches. “Your order doesn’t cancel mine,” I said. She didn’t answer. She turned her back, pulled out her phone, and started typing the way you’d dismiss a waiter who brought the wrong drink. Arguing through a car window with someone who has already decided you don’t count is a waste of breath. So I backed up carefully and pulled into one of the striped overflow spaces along the curb.
I called the curbside number printed on the green sign, gave my name and order number, and explained that another driver had taken the space I’d been directed into. The young man on the line apologized, said it happened more than it should on Saturdays, and promised the associate would bring my cart straight to the waiting area. Almost immediately, my mother called. I could hear paper rustling and Maya’s voice in the background, quick and bright the way she sounds when she’s organizing something. Mom said Maya was laying out the plates printed with Jupiter and Mars and had a question for me. Maya came on the line and asked, very seriously, whether I had remembered the rocket cake. “I’ve got it, sweetheart,” I told her, keeping my voice easy. When we hung up, the clock read 10:19 and my cushion had already started to shrink. A moment later, the side doors slid open and a young woman pushed a cart into the pickup lane. She was about 22 with a brown ponytail, a green Harbor Market polo, and a name tag that read Leah. On the lower shelf sat a large white bakery box beside two cupcake containers with clear lids. She paused to check the order number on her handheld scanner and before she could take another step, Evelyn got out of her SUV and planted herself in front of the cart. “Finally,” she said, “put everything in my trunk.” Leah asked for her order number, checked it, and explained politely that these items belonged to another order and that Evelyn’s catering was being staged by a different associate. Evelyn wasn’t listening. She was staring at the rows of blue and white frosting under those clear lids, each cupcake topped with a tiny sugar star. “Are those cupcakes?” she asked. And when Leah said yes for another customer, I watched Evelyn’s whole posture change.