Don't Cook The Goose! Ricky Ginsburg - September 2006

Jack held the package in his hands and shook his head. "Three bucks for a head of lettuce, are they for real?" He glared at the white-haired woman in the motorized shopping cart and moaned, "Someone ought to call the cops. This is highway robbery!" The woman turned and twisted the handgrip, sending the cart silently a safe distance from the raving madman. "Special diet, my ass! I'm making less than thirty grand a year from goose eggs, and I must have spent most of it just to keep the damn duck alive!" He turned and looked down at the produce manager, an escapee from Oz. "Do you set the prices in this place?"
The little man put up his hands. "No sir, I just order the vegetables and make sure the shelves are fully stocked. Is there a problem with the lettuce?"
Jack raised his eyebrows and yanked the plastic price sign from the shelf. "Yeah, there's a problem, junior frolics. Three bucks for a head of lettuce is twice what any normal supermarket charges."
"That's correct, sir. But these are organically grown, pesticide free."
With a looping toss, Jack returned the film-wrapped greenery to its display. He bent down to retie his sneakers and looked the manager in the eye. "So those are grown in better cow shit than the ones for a buck-fifty-nine? Do you think my friggin' goose is going to know the difference? Maybe for three dollars apiece, he can crap out more than one egg a month. Maybe if I cut the god damn lettuce into bite-size pieces, he'll be happier eating it, while I'm going broke buying groceries at prices that would choke a Rockefeller!"
As his diminutive right hand came up to cover the donut hole that popped open in the produce picker's face, the man let out a gasp. "You're 'him'! Oh. My. God! You're the guy-"
"Yes, I'm the guy that got the goose that lays the golden eggs." Jack whipped a gold felt-tip pen from his shirt pocket. "Where do you want the autograph? The women want it on their tits, little kids on the back of both greasy hands, and the old folk have me endorse their walkers. I've never tagged a dwarf before, so give me a clue."
Taking several steps back, the midget declined. "No, that's okay, thank you. I'm just pleased to meet you, sir. And I want to thank you for shopping in our store. If there's anything I can do to help you."
Jack stood, rested his arms on the shopping cart, already loaded high enough to hide a small child, and smirked, "You want to help me? Okay." He took the plastic sign, crossed out the 3, and added a 1. "Put your initials next to that so when the cashier starts the argument, I can show her who made the only intelligent corporate decision of his career." He dropped the sign into the man's palm and turned the cart around. "Hey, pint-size," he called over his shoulder, "where do you keep the halvah?"
"Halvah?"
"Yeah, halvah. It's a tahini-based confection packed with sugar and honey that normally runs around four dollars a pound in the supermarkets where we used to live. Of course here, I wouldn't be surprised if I had to sell my right testicle to buy a pound." Jack pulled his shopping list from his pants pocket. "The goose only eats the ones without nuts. The nuts give him gas."
"The candy is in aisle four. Anything else I can help you with?"
"You don't want the autograph?" Jack wizardly waved the pen in the air over his head.
"No thank you, sir. I've got to keep my hands clean to handle fresh produce all day."
Jack tucked the pen back in his pocket and strolled off toward aisle four.

The jingle of his cell phone gave Jack an excuse to stop in the magazine section and gaze at the covers of several 'R' rated covers. He snapped the phone from its spring-loaded cradle and hit the Talk button.
"Hello?"
"Jack, the health inspector is here again. The goose got out this morning and crapped all over Mrs. Simon's rutabaga."
"Did she call the cops, mom?"
"Wait a minute, I'll ask him...Jack?"
He held the phone several inches from his ear. "I'm here, mom. Stop yelling."
"I'm not yelling. It's the damn goose yakking in the background. Stupid duck sounds like a tablespoon caught in the sink disposal. It hasn't shut up since the movers left an hour ago. I've got nothing to feed it and it keeps snapping at the cage. Are you done shopping yet?"
"Almost, I'm just looking for the halvah and the anchovies."
"Make it fast, Jack. If this damn bird doesn't shut up soon, I'm gonna stuff it and slide its noisy ass into the oven."
"And find yourself a full-time nursing job?" he sneered.
"At my age? I don't think so. You'd best give some thought to going back to that diner we ate at last night and see if they need an experienced line cook. You might start with this overweight fowl for practice."
Jack leaned against the rack. "Mom, just remember, that webbed-foot boat horn still dumps a twenty-four hundred dollar dividend on the table once a month. Your social security check isn't half that much. You cook the bird, and we're headed back to the trailer park before the last feather floats out the window."
"Jack, the health inspector says no police report, but you've got to keep the goose on our property or they're going to fine us."
Skipping the formality of a goodbye, Jack tapped the End button and clipped the phone back onto his belt. He flipped open a magazine bearing the image of a bikini-clad teenager on its cover and ruffled several of the pages looking for a more revealing shot. Bah, false advertising strikes again! He flipped the journal upside-down onto the top shelf of the rack and hustled away looking for the candy aisle.

At nine dollars a pound, Jack had only enough cash left to buy three pounds of halvah and six tins of rolled anchovies - neither the goose nor his mother would eat the flats. For his pleasures, Jack selected the one home-brewed, organic beer without flowers on the label - in a four-pack, and was counting the items in his cart in the hopes of entering the express lane when his phone rang again.
"Jack?"
"Yeah, mom. Who else did you expect to answer this line, Cary Grant?"
"Cary Grant's dead, sweetheart, and even if he were alive, I'd probably get his agent instead."
Jack pulled his shopping cart back into the spices and baking accessories aisle to let a two-legged hippo and her three squealing children take his place in line. "What's the problem, mom?"
"Mrs. Simon is at the front door with a laundry basket full of crushed arugala that's dripping wet topsoil all over the welcome mat."
He groaned and held the phone at arm's length before he pulled it back to his face and answered. "Tell her the goose doesn't eat arugala."
"I don't think she's offering the greens as our 'welcome to the neighborhood' package."
"Look, I'm trying to get out of the market with food for the stupid bird. Tell her you're awfully sorry about the damage, but the goose got out by accident and we'll make sure it'll never happen again."
"You can't possibly imagine how accurate that last statement is, Jack."
"Mom, don't go nuts on me. It was your idea to move out of the trailer park and into a real house. Nobody gave a shit what the goose did or what the goose ate back in Springfield. We were the king and queen of the neighborhood. These folks are the next step up the evolutionary ladder from the knuckle-draggers we left behind. Tell her I'll autograph both her boobs for free as soon as I get back." He clicked off the phone and stowed it on his belt. The cayenne pepper was buy one/get one free. Jack considered the effects of a load of hot spices mixed in with the halvah on his gold-dumping goose and snatched two bottles from the rack.

The checkout lines were all several patrons deep. Jack slid into the lane with the least number of runny-nosed children, just ahead of a pair of still bubbling honeymooners pushing a cart together. There were two cartloads of groceries waiting in front of his, with a third already on the cashier's conveyor. Jack did the math again in his head and grumbled, as he was now sure he was going to have to use the high-interest credit card as well as all of his cash. Today's the twenty-first. We have a least five more days until the goose drops another egg, and two days after that for Sammy to get the thing assayed and cashed. He pulled out of the line and rolled his cart back to the beer selection.

A manly-looking bottle took second place to the least expensive, as Jack put his original choice back in the cooler. A twelve pack of Twisted Tulip offered the deal of the day. He tugged two sleeves of the translucent blue bottles from the center shelf and squeezed them in between the tofu and the gallon can of cod liver oil. The airborne connection to his mother opened for the third time.

"What now, mom?" he spat. "Did I miss an egg laying? Has the goose suddenly started speaking in ancient Phoenician? Or has the mayor and city council voted to forego our taxes for the coming year?"
"Jack, Mr. Simon is here now and he's dumped a load of cracked and crumbled carrots on the doormat. He's got a shovel, and I think he's going to dig up the azaleas by the front door!"
Jack slid down the frosted door of the glass front refrigerator and tapped the phone on his forehead several times, while he listened to his mother's voice fade in and out. And when he heard his mother finally take a breath, he lifted the cellular back to his ear.
"Mom, ask him if he's seen any large, stray dogs or a pack of ravenous rabbits in search of a free snack. Then give him an oatmeal cookie, tell him we don't like the azaleas anyhow, and take the broken carrots with a smile."
"Jack, this isn't funny. That goose is going to get us evicted from our own house! I swear I'm going to cook him if you don't get home quick and put out these fires!" The call ended before he could say another word.

Jack grabbed the handle of his rolling cart, and pulled himself to his feet. With a glance at the two dozen bottles of sweating beer, he wondered if they were going to be enough. There's a liquor store at the other end of the mall. A bottle of whiskey might not be a bad idea. He stuffed the phone into the belt clip and shoved the cart toward the front of the store.

With the approach of the dinner hour, the lines had dwindled somewhat and the choice of cashiers was no longer governed by crying children. Jack walked the length of the store and selected a smiling brunette over a redhead with braces. The elderly pensioner in line was completing his purchase and had trouble figuring out how to use the credit card machine. The girl came around the counter to push the appropriate buttons while Jack unloaded his cart. She winked at him as he lifted a pair of beer bottles from their cardboard sleeves and tilted his head suggestively in her direction. The ancient shopper hooked the single bag of groceries with his fingers, grabbed his cane, and shuffled off toward the exit.

"Do you want paper or plastic, sir?" she asked.
Jack shrugged, "Do you still use paper bags?"
The cashier pointed to a large red sign by the lottery machine. "I don't have any here, but there's a supply at the Customer Service counter for those customers who'd rather not have plastic bags."
"Plastic is fine." He smiled and pulled his wallet from his pants pocket. With a look of deep concern, Jack thumbed the currency and frowned, "Do you take Hawaiian money?"
The girl paused and considered the question for a few seconds. "No sir, cash, credit cards, or personal checks with proper ID only."
Jack pulled a twenty and showed Andrew Jackson's placid face to the undereducated cashier. "This is Hawaiian money, doll. You do remember we voted them into the United States several decades ago?"
A cherry-tinted blush spread across the cashier's face. "Very funny, yes we do take 'Hawaiian' money…but I'm still going to need proper ID." She laughed and began bagging the groceries.

Jack cringed as the cell phone tinkled to life.
"Mom?"
The sounds of sobbing mixed with the agitated quacks of his goose, crackled out from the tiny speaker for several moments before his mother was able to compose herself enough to scream at him. "Your god forsaken goose bit off the tip of my finger! Jack, I swear by all that's holy I'm going to kill this monster! It's over. I can't take this anymore! The police are here. Mr. Simon filed a formal complaint. The health inspector just called and we're in violation of all sorts of city, county, and state codes. And now I'm bleeding all over the linoleum floor in the kitchen. Jack, we're having duck for dinner!"
It took Jack a long, breathless moment to jump into the tirade. "Mom, stop! Just stop for a second, and think what you're doing."
"No Jack, you stop! We've lived like this for two years - waiting every month for the damn goose to push out a gold egg that brings us barely enough money to feed it and ourselves. You sit around drinking beer for twenty-nine days a month like you're the prince of paradise, and I do just enough private duty nursing to cover the rest of the bills. I have had it!"

The crash of the wall-mounted handset bouncing off the floor jarred the phone away from Jack's ear and, despite his repeated, "Mom?" into the phone, no one answered back. He heard the metallic crash of carving knives and spatulas hitting the kitchen floor and at least one loud male voice yelling "Ma'am?" as he stood there, still holding the two beers. The racket of a scuffle and shouts pierced the silence surrounding the checkout lane, as everyone who could hear the phone he held in midair strained to listen.

The goose got close enough to her phone to squawk several times before the sound of metal slamming into Formica brought on the deadly silence Jack could not bear to endure. He punched the End button and threw the phone into the bag with his beer. "Forget the rest of the crap," he snarled at the cashier, "Just charge me for the beer and the anchovies." He turned and looked back into the market, "Where would I find Stove-Top Stuffing?"