...packing big iron on his hip cuz you know in Texas it's dangerous shopping for root beer and chips.
He seemed a little timid as he walked among the fruit and veggies, like some dangerous illegal avocado might accost him in a foreign tongue and give him a foreign wedgie.
The bread and English muffin aisle looked pretty tame to me, but this dude spied every loaf and tortilla with a wary eye as if it had been radicalized by a just-out-of-prison Rye Bread ready to spread its own brand of misery.
Beans, never trust a bean, you could see it written all over his face, as he scurried past legume and peas looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed by a chameleon-like not-from-this-world alien race.
He seemed a bit more relaxed as he gathered up his white milk and white eggs, without even bothering to acknowledge the chocolate and brown, those inferior products, the dregs of the dregs.
Finally, at the register, on high alert, he looked ready to slap leather at anyone who even thought about stealing his ready-made Key Lime Pie, giving them their ready-made just desserts.
And then he was out the door, pushing his cart to his trusted loyal truck, me watching this whole ridiculous scene and thinking, "Oh my god," and "What the ....?"