Trixie’s divorce had just been finalized, and she had robbed her husband blind. Newt Forsythe Bartleby III looked like his namesake, the newt, with small, bulging eyes and slimy skin, and Trixie had only married him for the sake of her art, lounge singing. The divorce had been messy. Newt claimed that Trixie had never loved him, that she had been disloyal in her heart, and Trixie, unsure how to navigate the fact that this was true, burst into song and dance in the courtroom. The judge was so charmed by this that he gave her millions in alimony.
Trixie wasn’t sure what to do with her mountains of money, which meant she had a lot in common with many white people in the Mission, so she made that her first stop after the courthouse. At the corner of 16th and Valencia, she hailed a man wearing hip sunglasses. “Excuse me,” she said, tapping his shoulder. “Would you mind telling me what you do for fun?”
“I refresh Facebook over and over again, trying to fill the void in my soul,” the sunglasses man said.
“Oh.” Trixie was disappointed. “Well, what else?”
“Why, what do you think?” cried the sunglasses man. “I go to Whole Foods!”
At this, Trixie’s disappointment turned to euphoria. Whole Foods! She would buy Kombucha and kale to start her life as an independent woman. Too excited to even thank the sunglasses man, she hurried up Valencia Street in the direction of the famed grocery mart.
Inside, Trixie’s eyes landed on a blue-haired man at Register 7. She had heard about Register 7 on Twitter and on the national news, and saw fans clambering to visit, but the man seemed brooding and unhappy, unceremoniously tossing groceries to the end of the conveyor belt, scowling at his customers. Instantly, Trixie was smitten. She liked men who felt despair in grocery stores—she believed that it reflected depth of character—and, after grabbing a $9 energy drink, she joined the bustling queue. What would she say to him? She would ask him to meet her at midnight by the bottles of Kombucha. Surely it was fate. Ages seemed to pass, and Trixie’s excitement mounted, nervousness making her heartbeat quicken—but just as she neared the front of the line, a woman emerged from nowhere and said to the blue-haired man, “I’m taking you out. It’s your ten.”
The blue-haired man made no response, but threw his arms around his coworker and wept into her shoulder for a long moment. Then he hurried in the direction of the break room, while Trixie’s heart broke. Their love would never come to fruition. Nothing could ease her pain. This was the aisle of disdain.