It takes me a long time to buy a few groceries. I’m not a very efficient shopper. I tend to wander from one end of the store to the other, picking things up as I think of them.
I came around the corner from the bulk food section and started to pull my shopping cart along the long aisle at the back of the store. Up ahead of me, a little boy was dancing beside one of the freezers. He looked to be about six or seven.
He was doing some sort of dirty boogie dance, complete with sassy pelvic thrusts. When I came closer, he saw me looking at him and stopped.
“Who are you?” he said.
“I’m Philip,” I said. There was fresh mud all over his Toronto Raptors cap. “Who are you?”
“Jackson,” he said. Then he started into his little dance again. I realized he’d been singing to himself:
“Why was I born, ko-ee-yo-ee-yo, why was I born, ko-ee-yo-ee-yo, why was I born, ko-ee-yo-ee-yo, why was I born…WHY!”
He went up on his tippytoes to shout the last word at me. Then he turned and ran away up the cat food aisle.