Contact: norsebarddk@gmail.com
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DISCLAIMERS:
This flimsy vignette belongs in the Uber/Original category. All characters are created by me, though they may remind you of someone.
All characters depicted, names used, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons is intended nor should be inferred. Any resemblance of the characters portrayed to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
The registered trademarks mentioned in this story are © of their respective owners. No infringement of their rights is intended, and no profit is gained.
This story depicts a loving relationship between consenting adult women. If such a story frightens you, you better click on the X in the top-right corner and find something else to read.
This story contains a touch of profanity. Readers who are easily offended by bad language may wish to read something other than this story.
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NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:
Written: September 2nd - 3rd, 2018.
As usual, I'd like to say a great, big THANK YOU to my mates at AUSXIP Talking Xena, especially to the gals and guys in Subtext Central. I really appreciate your support - Thanks, everybody! :D
Description: The simplest of projects can sometimes be the most difficult to accomplish - like when Cecilie Clausen is sent to Fjordby to buy a couple of cans of H.E. Fenwyck's Master Brew. The beer is meant to be a surprise gift for her choosy father-in-law so only the real McCoy will do. The town's four supermarkets provide plenty of highs and lows as Cecilie goes on a tireless, fearless quest to find the elusive cans of beer…
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TO BEER OR NOT TO BEER…
Saturday, September eighth - a date that would long be remembered in the Clausen household as the very definition of the old saying 'It may be funny now, but it was a non-stop pain in the you-know-what at the time…'
The residential area in the sleepy, rural village that Cecilie and Regitze Clausen had moved to as newlyweds a few years ago was quiet and peaceful for fifty-two weeks a year; however, it resembled an open-air heavy metal concert for at least twenty-five weekends a year when all the residents took to their gardens to sow new flowers for the coming season, mow the lawn, trim the bushes and hedges, mow the lawn, use their brand new motor-driven weed whacker, mow the lawn, trim the hedges a little more, mow the lawn, use their motor-driven weed whacker all over again, mow the lawn, use their brand new motor-driven cultivator, mow the lawn, use their brand new motor-driven leaf blower, mow the lawn, pluck apples and pears from their fruit trees to make home-made jam and fruit-stew, mow the lawn, cuss and swear while bending over nine-hundred-and-sixty-two times to pick up all the windfalls, mow the lawn, use their brand new motor-driven chainsaw to cut down the fruit trees, and finally mow the lawn for the last time after the first tender ground frost.
As summer slowly gave way to autumn, Cecilie Clausen was approaching the end of that lengthy list of chores, but there was still plenty of work for her to do in their garden and around the one-storey bungalow. She was the outdoorsy type who took great pride in keeping every last bit of greenery and the exterior of the house in tip-top shape - so much so that she had chosen it as her profession: she worked for a gardening service company so she could cavort merrily in her true element day-in, day-out. She could hardly fathom she was paid solid wages for practicing her hobby; she would happily continue to work even for peanuts or less.
At present, she stored the lawn mower in their garden shed and worked the heavy-duty padlock to keep all her expensive tools, equipment and gardening gadgets safe. Flipping open the PlastiSteel visor on her protective headgear - that also included hearing protection and a sturdy, cushioned chin strap - she let her pale-brown eyes roam over her expert handiwork. Not a blade of grass was out of place, not a single piece of weed had been left standing and not a single dandelion dared to show its face on the golf-course-smooth lawn.
Cecilie broke out in a grin as the usual sense of satisfaction of getting the job done, and done well, flowed through her. She would have to do it all over again the following weekend, and she was already looking forward to it; in fact, she could hardly wait.
---
After she had showered and donned her regular weekend clothes - a black sweatsuit carrying the logo of the company she worked for - she strolled into the living room where her wife of the past two years, Regitze, sat with her feet up on their leather couch while speaking to her mother on the telephone.
As Cecilie inevitably did, she smiled at the sight of the inherently cute woman whose nut-brown hair had recently been trimmed into the perfect length for having fingers run through it while sharing a quality moment.
Working as a book translator, Regitze Clausen did nearly all of her business online. She had rented office space in another of the small, local towns, but she only needed to drive there once or twice a week to pick up the physical mail. Beyond that, she spent most of the working days at home - and she was the supreme ruler over every last detail when it came to the interior of their house.
A self-proclaimed knitting and sewing fanatic, she was an expert in the ancient arts and crafts, and often developed new projects that she shared with her followers on her blog. Her handiwork could be found everywhere in their home: cushions, plaids, dish mats, pot holders, bed spreads, and even the curtains in the living room were home-made.
They had been married for just over two years, and although they had gone through the same highs and lows as any other married couple during that time, they had always rebounded to grow stronger.
The two women made eye-contact and waved at each other before Cecilie shuffled over to the TV. Picking up the remote, she went on a channel-cruise with the sound muted so she would not intrude upon her wife's telephone conversation. Saturdays at noon had never been all that exciting TV-wise, and this particular day was no exception. After zapping through all sixty channels without pausing even once - save for checking out the weather report for the coming week - she turned off the TV and shuffled over to the couch arrangement to join her wife.
Cecilie's rear had just finished making an impact with the leather armchair when Regitze said goodbye to her mother and closed the connection. "We've been invited over for dinner tonight. At six-thirty," Regitze said in her trademark silky voice that carried a sexy trill just beneath the rich layer of honey. Sitting up straight, she slid her smartphone onto the coffee table while she waited for a reply.
"That's nice. Better than the pizza we had planned for tonight," Cecilie said with a smile. She knew better than most that life was a lottery with regards to the people any given individual would need to interact with. The less said about her own parents the better, but she had been very lucky when it came to the in-laws. Jens-Christian and Bente Andersen lived in the next town over. In their late-sixties, they were both retired which meant they finally had time for the active lifestyle that hadn't been granted them while they had been participating in the rat race: they went to music festivals, drove across the country at the drop of a hat to visit exciting exhibitions and often invited their friends and neighbors over for a grand barbecue. Best of all: they had a large garden where Cecilie could really get into her stride with all her gadgets - and she did so on a regular basis. Better still, she had been given free reigns to do whatever she wished out there.
"Yeah," Regitze said and leaned back on the couch. It was clear by the furrow that appeared between her expressive eyebrows that she was thinking hard about something.
Cecilie knew there was no point in fishing for details - they would follow whenever Regitze was ready to give them.
Only a short time went by before Regitze smacked her lips and leaned forward again. "You know what? I think it would be fun if we bought Dad some of that special beer he loves… but I can't remember what it's called…"
"Oh… uh…" Cecilie said, rubbing her brow as she tried to recall the name of the imported beer. "Uh… uh… uh… H.E. Fenwyck's Master Brew!"
"Oh, that's right!" Regitze said with a grin. "The washing machine is almost done so I don't have time to go anywhere, but how soon can you drive down to Fjordby to buy a few cans?"
Cecilie sat up straight and stared at the clock on the wall - it was ten to noon, meaning that lunch was about to be made and served. "Uh-buh, now? I mean, it's lunchtime… and I worked hard out there… now?"
"Please," Regitze said with the sweet, honeyed smile that always worked wonders when it came to breaking down Cecilie's defenses - and this time was no different.
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Ten minutes later at the stroke of noon, Cecilie drove out of their carport and headed into the maze of living streets crisscrossing the residential area. Her initial target was the country road that ran straight through the village.
They owned a Skoda Fabia hatchback in a fetching shade of metallic-blue. It had been bought new after her old car had given up the ghost following the heavy work of transporting all their worldly possessions to their first mutual home. Regitze loved the car, loved the color even more, and loved all the fine, little details most of all, but Cecilie had secretly dreamt of buying either a touring motorcycle or a big, ol' honkin' American pickup truck with a proper V8 and all the chrome trimmings that could possibly be squeezed onto the chassis.
Alas, such an exotic vehicle would out-price the Skoda at a factor of five to one - close to a million Kroner all in all - so the dream would have to be put off until much, much later.
When she arrived at the two-lane country road, she found it as devoid of traffic as ever. At times, it was possible to drive from the sleepy village where they lived and all eleven kilometers south to the nearest larger town, Fjordby, without seeing a single human being. At other times, they would be unlucky and get stuck behind an agricultural tractor dragging several, grossly overweight trailers loaded with sugar beets. Beet season was just around the corner, but the road would remain free of the dog-slow vehicles for another couple of weeks.
Only one set of traffic lights existed within a thirty-kilometer radius, and it turned red just as Cecilie drove up to it. She briefly considered taking the scenic route south to the town where she needed to do her shopping, but decided against it. Though the narrow, winding stretch of road that ran along the inlet of the fjord was prettier and more picturesque, the many curves made it a lot slower. The two-lane country road was arrow-straight all the way which was far duller, but faster.
In the rear-view mirror, she noticed that a semi-truck with all its running lights turned on was only a short distance behind her; though she liked to consider herself a tough chick, being tailgated by semis was one thing she flat-out hated with a passion.
As the traffic lights changed to green, she drove away from the intersection and onto the wide open country road itself. She checked the mirror at regular intervals to keep up with the progress of the semi - it was still some distance behind her, but the diesel smoke that rose from the twin stacks proved the driver had his or her foot on the loud pedal.
Then her telephone rang deep down in the pocket of her windbreaker. Grunting, she reached into the pocket and retrieved the phone - it was Regitze. Grunting again, Cecilie attached the telephone to the car's integrated hands-free system so she would not break any laws while answering. "Hi again, sweetie," she said after accepting the call. "Did ya forget something before?"
'No, but you did,' Regitze's voice said from the sound system's speakers mounted in the doors and under the dashboard.
Cecilie furrowed her brow. Making a quick inventory of the things she had put on the front seat, she failed to see what she could have forgotten: two empty shopping bags, an empty carrier bag and a second carrier bag that held three plastic bottles for recycling. "Uh… I did?"
'Yeah. Like the shopping list.'
"Oh… shit," Cecilie said, rolling her eyes at herself.
'You did take the cooler bag, right?'
"Oh-yeah. It's in the trunk."
'All right. When you get to The Food Market, you need to buy… oh, perhaps you should write it down-'
"I can't, sweetie… I'm still on the road," Cecilie said, glancing in the rear-view mirror at the semi-truck behind her. The truck's four round headlights took up much of the space in the mirror as it had already gained a good bit of distance on her.
'Oh… then you'll have to memorize it. We need ketchup, a 'sixty plus' brie, pasta fusili, the tasty bacon-liver paté… you know, the regular brand… a pack of baking powder, frankfurters and a jar of coffee creamer. Just the regular-sized coffee creamer, not the extra-large one we tried the last time that went bad long before we had used it all 'cos there was so much of it.'
Cecilie let out a chuckle as she shook her head. "Regitze, wait… I can't remember all that… I've already forgotten half of it. I'll call you back once I get to the shop so it's fresh in my mind, okay?"
'Well… okay. I guess we can do that. Love you. Bye.'
"Love you too," Cecilie said and closed the connection. Chuckling again, she glanced in the rear-view mirror; her chuckle got stuck in her throat when she realized the semi-truck was riding ten feet behind her with all four headlights trying to burn the metallic-blue paint off the back of the Skoda. "Oh, man… I hate that. Hate it, hate it, hate it," she mumbled, looking down at the speedometer to see if she had been going too slowly. The needle was glued to eighty kilometers per hour, so she was right at the speed limit.
The country road formed a shortcut from the expressway to the industrial zone of a larger city some twenty kilometers to the south; the semi-trucks that needed to go there to unload their cargo or drop off their refrigerated trailers often used it instead of the twistier off-ramp that led directly into the zone. Unfortunately, the truck drivers frequently forgot the country road had a far lower speed limit than the expressway.
Cecilie grumbled as she kept glancing at the bright headlights in her rear-view mirror. An escape route would soon present itself to her in the shape of a short, narrow rest stop that was located at the crest of a small hill, but with the semi so close behind her, she needed to throw her car into it without being able to brake for it first - if she did try to brake, the truck would just run over her like a steamroller.
The familiar blue road sign with the white 'P' soon appeared ahead of her. Gripping the steering wheel, she flicked the Skoda into the rest stop and stood on the brake pedal to stop before the end of the short strip of asphalt. She had barely left the inner lane of the country road before the semi-truck thundered past her with its airhorns blasting away.
A few choice curses escaped Cecilie's lips as she shot several Evil Eyes at the large truck roaring past. Rather than being one of the long-haul eighteen-wheelers, the tailgater turned out to be an eight-axled articulated grain tanker working for the large agricultural production plant a few kilometers to the south. The columns of black smoke that rose from the stacks proved the driver was still going foot-to-the-floor; perhaps he or she needed to make up for lost time.
Though the rest stop was situated at an idyllic spot in the middle of open fields not too far from three tall windmills, Cecilie had no time to admire the countryside. After backing up to have room to swing onto the country road without dropping into any of the deep potholes or kicking up the scattered stones that had been pulled loose from them, she checked the road behind her thoroughly. With everything clear for as far as she could see, she resumed driving the last eight kilometers to her destination.
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The rest of the journey went without drama for Cecilie, and it only took a short fifteen minutes before she drove her Skoda past the Fjordby town sign and onto the quiet streets. She had to shake her head when she noticed that someone had used the sign for target practice. When she passed by the entrance to the park belonging to the historic Swan Manor, she sneaked a peek at the imposing building like she always did.
No less than four fair-sized supermarkets rubbed shoulders over a distance of eight-hundred meters. It was unusual that such a relatively small rural town - just shy of three thousand residents at last count - offered so many opportunities for shopping, but it was all down to the fact that the surrounding stretch of undisturbed nature was popular with tourists.
Turning into the large parking lot in front of the first supermarket she was going to try - The Food Market which was by far the biggest of the four - she had barely found a good spot to park before her telephone rang again. "Oh… hi, sweetie… did you think of something else I need to buy while I'm down here?" she said as she turned off the engine and unbuckled her seat belt.
'Not exactly… are you there yet?'
"Yep. I've just landed at The Food Market…"
'Oh, good. You can forget the frankfurters. I found a pack in the freezer that we're going to have for dinner tomorrow evening. But we still need the other items.'
"Right," Cecilie said, nodding to herself as she reached across the dashboard to set the parking disc. "Uh… and they were…?"
A deep sigh was heard over the airwaves. Cecilie's inability to remember such everyday items as shopping lists, birthdays and anniversaries was legendary. That she was able to memorize the instruction manuals for all her home electronic and gardening gadgets cover-to-cover but very little else was a constant source of frustration for Regitze. Cecilie just chuckled at the sound.
'Ketchup, a 'sixty plus' brie, a five-hundred gram pack of pasta fusili, a tasty bacon-liver paté, a pack of baking powder and a jar of coffee creamer.'
"Right. Ketchup… a brie… five-hundred grams of pasta fusili… bacon-liver paté… baking powder… coffee creamer," Cecilie echoed, rummaging around in the Skoda's glove box to find a pen and something to write on.
'Not just any old brie… it needs to carry a 'sixty plus' label. They're creamier and far more tasty than the regular dull ones.'
"Of course, of course…"
'Do you have it now?'
When Cecilie finally found a pen and some paper, she jotted down the items while they were fresh in her mind. The ball point pen was old and dry, and only lasted for the first three-and-a-half items, but she was sure she could remember the last two. "A-yup! Got it. All done and dusted," she said, dotting the Is and crossing the Ts with the dried-up pen that had indeed almost turned to dust.
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Stepping inside The Food Market after getting her deposit voucher from the machine that recycled their plastic bottles, she took one of the shopping carts and made a beeline for the section containing soft drinks and alcoholic beverages to try to find the important items she had been sent there for in the first place.
Aisle after aisle of colorful cans and bottles presented themselves to her; the beers were lined up in alphabetical order of the brewery, so she shuffled along one aisle, then the next, then the next, then the next to get to F-for-Fenwyck. When she finally found the right aisle, the right shelf, and the right section of the right shelf in the right aisle, she came to a record-scratching halt.
Although the label on the leading edge of the shelf proclaimed it to hold products made by 'The H.E. Fenwyck Brewery, Virginia, the U.S.A. ' the cans and bottles that were lined up had nothing to do with Fenwyck. They were from a different brewery altogether: a local one from just down the road that had no connection whatsoever to the United States of America .
"Oh, fer cryin' out loud," Cecilie mumbled as she took a step back to look at the nearby shelves. No H.E. Fenwyck anywhere. Stepping back even further, she checked out the entire aisle. No H.E. Fenwyck anywhere. She turned around to check out the shelves behind her. No H.E. Fenwyck anywhere. Then she moved down to the end of the aisles to see if the brewery had its own special display like some of its competitors did. No H.E. Fenwyck anywhere. A dark mask of annoyance fell over her that not even the happy-happy-joy-joy Muzak playing over the supermarket's many speakers could soften.
Spinning the shopping cart around, she strode back to the first aisle - the one with beers from breweries starting with an 'A' - to begin her quest to find the all-important cans of Master Brew.
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She found hundreds and hundreds of cans and bottles of beer from no less than forty-seven different breweries. Some were local, some were from a different part of the country, some had been imported from the Republic of Ireland , Great Britain , the other Scandinavian countries or continental Europe, some had been imported from the United States or Canada , and some even came from as far away as Australia , Japan or Indonesia . Not a single one of them was from H.E. Fenwyck Breweries.
Letting out a deep, tormented sigh, she rubbed her face and spun the shopping cart around again. Since she would not be able to get the fabled Master Brew at The Food Market , she would obviously need to try her luck in one of the other supermarkets.
The remaining items on the shopping list were quickly taken care of - or at least those she could read. Even squinting, she could not decipher the last two lines she had written with the busted ball point pen. She had found a bottle of brand-name ketchup, a brand-name brie that carried the all-important 'sixty plus' rating for extra-extra creaminess, a five-hundred gram pack of pasta fusili and a brand-name bacon-liver paté.
When the remaining two items refused to reveal themselves to her, she broke out in a shrug and stuffed the incomplete shopping list into the pocket of her windbreaker next to her telephone - she knew that Regitze would get annoyed with her if she called home to ask one more time, so she left the phone where it was.
The merciless hands of time waited for no one. Lunch had already been and gone as personified by the gnawing hunger in her gut. To finish off her visit to the first supermarket, she made a striding beeline for the shiny aluminum counter at the delicatessen where she ordered a cheese-and-baloney sandwich that she watched the award-winning deli team prepare for her on the spot.
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After storing the brie and the paté in the cooler bag that she had put in the trunk of her Skoda so it would be in the shade, she proceeded to stuff her face with the sandwich - it lasted less than two minutes and nineteen seconds before it was all gone. Swapping the shopping bags to get an empty one, she locked up again before she strode across the parking lot and the adjacent bus terminal to get to the next stop on her tour of the town's supermarkets: Nettie's .
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The weather was nice and sunny if a little breezy as it invariably was; the close proximity of the wide open fjord meant it was never calm. Despite the pleasant ambient temperatures, Cecilie zipped up her windbreaker until it reached the top stop just under her nose. Only then was she ready to enter the local Nettie's which was a branch of the country's largest chain of discount supermarkets.
Tourists from near and far flocked to the attractive areas around Fjordby during the height of summer. Numbering in the hundreds, if not thousands, they drove their camper trailers or recreational vehicles into the small town, or moored their sailing boats in the world-class Marina . Different though they all were, each and every one of them would suffer a rude awakening whenever they entered Nettie's Supermarket .
For reasons Cecilie had never been able to understand, the store manager insisted on having the air-conditioning set to a mere notch above freezing. It never took more than a second or two to recognize the tourists visiting the supermarket for the first time: their fingers, noses and ears were always blue from the strong chill that fell over them like the January frost upon entering the store.
Cecilie had looked the same the first few times she had used the supermarket, but since the early dramas where she had experienced frozen eyebrows, creaking fingers and chattering teeth, she had always made sure to wear a long-sleeved shirt, a windbreaker, or better yet a fur-lined winter coat whenever she needed to go there.
She had barely stepped into the store before she needed to make way for a four-strong family of foreign tourists dressed in sun hats, shorts and loose t-shirts. They all had bare feet in bathing slippers, and they all looked like they had just been on a month-long trek through snowy Siberia . The two children were howling, the mother carried a look of sublime annoyance, and the father seemed to make a mental note of never visiting that particular supermarket ever again. The only upside was that the ice cream cones they had bought would remain frozen - of course, the upside had an equally strong downside as well: the cones were frozen solid to such a degree they would each need a hammer and a chisel in order to eat them.
Chuckling, Cecilie moved past the court hosting fruit and vegetables, the bread cabinets and the refrigerated counters featuring all sorts of meat, fish and dairy products on her way over to the beverages. She knew from the start that Nettie's had far fewer brands of beer on offer, but there was a chance - however remote - that they had the proper Master Brew.
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Two minutes later, her upper lip curled into a disappointed sneer. No H.E. Fenwyck anywhere. Dozens of other beers from local, national and European breweries in a variety of colorful cans and bottles were readily available, but products from H.E. Fenwyck of Virginia were nowhere to be found. Just to be on the safe side, she did a slow tour of the shelves to give them all an eagle-eyed check. She found several beers of interest from Belgium and the Czech Republic that she would love to sample later on, but nothing that matched the Master Brew so beloved by Regitze's father.
A deep sigh escaped her when she realized that her quest to find the right beer proved to be far more difficult than she had initially imagined. There was nothing to be gained from spending another minute in the frosty conditions of Nettie's - except perhaps a runny nose or a double pneumonia - so she spun around and strode back to the check-out so she could move onto the next supermarket.
On her way to the exit, she happened to pass by an employee who was filling the shelves of the bread cabinets - her feet came to a screeching halt even before she knew what had happened. When her mind caught up with the fact that her eyes were already devouring the countless cakes, pastries and raisin buns on offer, her lips formed an 'O' that was soon translated into an "Ooooooh… look at those neat strawberry pies… yum!"
Step One in the process of making Regitze putty in her hands was to serve anything containing strawberries - even regular jam on a digestive cracker would do the trick. A strawberry pie with a cover of fruit-flavored jelly and a little whipped cream on the side would see them move from Step One to Step Oh-Yes-Baby in less time than it took Cecilie to envision the sequence of events in her mind.
The restocking of the shelves had apparently worked as a homing beacon, because it only took a second for the aisle in front of the bread cabinets to be filled with customers eager to get their hands on one of the fresh pastries.
Cecilie's sweet tooth knocked on the proverbial inside of her skull to make her realize she had better grab one of the strawberry pies before they were gone for good, so she flung open the glass door and snatched a protective paper bag. Once a healthy specimen of the pastry was in the bag - literally as well as metaphorically - she closed the glass door and strolled off to the check-out lines carrying the bag and a broad grin on her face.
---
The grin soon melted and turned into a deep, dark frown. She had only been allowed a short minute of happiness before she had clapped eyes on the back of the person standing in front of her in the check-out line. Not that the individual in question posed any sort of problem to her, but the fourteen other people standing ahead of them certainly did.
Everything happened for a reason, and the cause for the long line was soon revealed: the person manning the cash register was a trainee. The young man tried desperately to keep up with the stressful demands of the job as he moved one article after the other across the advanced piece of electronic equipment that scanned the barcode and thus the price. If he did it right, it would send out a single beep. If he did something wrong, it would send out a fast double-beep. Every single one was a fast double-beep.
Cecilie's eyes went on a rolling tour of the premises; she didn't want to be too bitchy about it because she had been in the exact same position in her very first job while she had gone to vocational college. Still, the minutes ticked away as the fast double-beeps were repeated ad nauseam.
The trainee finally had to throw in the towel. Pressing a button, he called for help from one of his more experienced colleagues. Nobody showed up. He called again. Nobody showed up. He called for a third time. After another lengthy wait, a young man - whose slouchy shuffle and careless exterior made Cecilie's hackles raise up at once - came to his even younger colleague's rescue.
---
Six minutes later, Cecilie was finally able to put the strawberry pie into the cooler bag in the back of her Skoda. Since she had been unable to buy what she had actually gone to Nettie's for, the shopping bag was still empty so there was no need to swap them over. The third supermarket beckoned - and her enthusiasm had taken a severe hit.
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The next scene in Cecilie's personal remake of the forty days in the wilderness - or to be less flowery: the next stop on her trip through Fjordby's four supermarkets - was Alvin 's with its familiar pale-blue logo. The building that housed the branch was the oldest of the four and the one that had been maintained the least due to the chain's legendary focus on pinching every last penny. It showed in places as everything was just a little run down, basic and bare-bones. On top of that, it was the supermarket the furthest from the central spot at the town's square which left it all on its own on the outskirts of town not too far from the imposing Swan Manor.
To offset the few negatives, the employees working there were never any less than professional and friendly, the products offered were of a high quality but far cheaper than those found at their main competitors, and the shelves were pretty much always fully stocked unless the delivery truck had dropped off the fresh supplies at a wrong store - it had happened.
Cecilie used Alvin 's a lot; not a week went by without at least one visit. Most often, she would go there on Mondays and Thursdays to stock up on the articles they went through at an alarming rate at the gardening service company where she worked. Alvin 's ground, roasted coffee in particular was a strong favorite among her colleagues, but such varied products as potato chips, soft drinks, dairy products and washing powder were right behind it.
Therefore, it was like stepping into her own living room when she entered the store. After nodding a brief 'hello' to the sales clerk at the cash register, she took a shopping basket and set off on a tour of the premises.
---
Reaching the aisle where the cans and bottles of beer were located, she put down her basket to rub her chin as she took in the colorful display. Alvin 's had never sold products made by H.E. Fenwyck, but she knew that from the start. Instead, they had their own store brand, Schatzkammerbräu - the Treasure Chest Brewery - that offered a good selection of beers that were of a similar, if not higher, quality compared to many of the well-known brands, Fenwyck included.
The Dark Pilsner and the Premium Weissbier - a well-known German type of beer made from wheat - were firm favorites of hers, but that was not why she had decided to try Alvin 's ; the can labeled Schatzkammerbräu Master Brew was.
She picked up one of the cans to give the description of the contents a thorough inspection. For all she knew, the product was similar to the one offered by Fenwyck. The list of ingredients was similar and the percentage of alcohol was exactly the same. At ten-and-a-half percent, it was far too strong for her liking - she preferred to drink beer that was in the five to six percent range.
Her own preferences aside, the Schatzkammerbräu Master Brew seemed to be a suitable stand-in for the one she had been sent to town to buy. The best part was the price: it was possible to buy three half-liter cans of the special Schatzkammerbräu for what one of H.E. Fenwyck's similar-sized products cost over at The Food Market .
She put the can back on the shelf and turned it around so she could stare at the carefully designed label a little more. Weighing the pros and cons for a while, she decided to go straight to the source and ask her wife. The telephone was soon in her hand. "Hi, honey," she said once Regitze had established contact. "Listen, I'm having a hard time finding the right beer for your Dad-"
'Oh? We usually buy them at The Food Market.'
"Well, they weren't there today," Cecilie said and picked up the can of Schatzkammerbräu Master Brew once more. "So… instead of the Fenwycks, how about I bought a couple or three of the Schatzkamm-"
'No.'
"-erbräu… no?"
'No.'
"The Schatzkammerbräu brewery makes quality beers, you know that. And I'll bet they're just as tasty as-"
'No. You know my Dad… he's very, very choosy when it comes to beer.'
"Can't argue with that," Cecilie said and let out a knowing chuckle.
'So it's H.E. Fenwyck's Master Brew… or forget it.'
"Okay. I think we may need to forget it, then, 'cos they're nowhere to be found today," Cecilie said and put the can back onto the shelf. Scrunching up her face in disappointment, she picked up a half-liter can of Schatzkammerbräu Premium Weissbier instead and put it into her shopping basket to get back onto an even keel. It cost eight Kroner, but the great taste would have made it a steal at double that.
'Have you tried that store that imports special beer from around the world? It's got a weird, weird name… oh, what's it called?'
Cecilie chuckled again - "Konstantin Brewski. I hope I can find the right beer over at Riema's instead 'cos the import store is so dang expensive compared to the regular supermarkets. Oh, and better news before it slips my mind, heh-heh… I bought a strawberry pie for our afternoon coffee."
'Ooooh, you know how to spoil a girl!'
"I knew you'd say that. Mmmm-hmmm-yeah," Cecilie said with a cheeky grin. "Anyway, talk to you later. Love ya."
'Love ya too.'
Closing the connection, Cecilie turned back to the shelf carrying the beers from the Schatzkammerbräu brewery located somewhere in central Germany . A half-liter can of the Dark Pilsner seemed to cry out to her, so she snatched one of those as well before she moved on.
---
She was about ready to head to the check-out when it struck her that she had been unable to read the final few lines on her own makeshift shopping list - it also struck her that Regitze had mentioned baking powder and something else that refused to spring to mind.
Retrieving the half-written list from her jacket pocket, she found the strongest light source in the store and held up the piece of paper to test if she could see through it. She was able to spot the indentations where she had pressed the bone-dry ball point pen down onto the paper to extend its life, but there was no pot of gold waiting at the end of the rainbow as she failed to read what the indentations actually said. "Well, it was definitely baking powder," she mumbled to herself as she picked up the shopping basket and shuffled over to the aisle with all the baking articles.
A medium-sized pack of the white powder was soon found and put in the basket before she returned to the strong light source to at least try to decipher the encoded shopping list. "Co… co… co… co… oh, what the hell was it?" she mumbled as she held the paper upside down, turned it around to the left, turned it around to the right, held it right-side up and finally upside down all over again. "Cocoa? No. Cornflakes? No. Co… co- something-something-something. Cola? No. Hmmm. Is it even an O? Or is it an A? Ca… ca… ca… ca… candy bar? No. Cantaloupes? No. Huh. Curry? No."
Although she resumed shuffling through the store to get to the check-out, she never let up trying to figure out what the shopping list actually said. The end of the line leading to the cash registers was soon reached. Unlike the line from hell she had found herself in over at Nettie's , the present one only saw three customers so it moved much faster.
"But it's definitely an A," she said in a mumble after she had put the two cans of Schatzkammerbräu beer onto the conveyor belt. She focused so hard on the reluctant shopping list that it failed to register with her that she was drawing a certain amount of attention from the people near her. A few snickers could be heard from her fellow shoppers as she went back to the list. "Or is it an O? Whichever, it's definitely an N. Con… con… con… con… ca… ca… ca… can… cap… cappuccino? Coff- coffee creamer! Oh-fer-Pete's-sake! It's the frickin'-frackin' coffee creamer!" she croaked out loud while giving her forehead a fair smack.
While she had been busy deciphering the shopping list, the sales clerk had already put her Premium Weissbier and the Dark Pilsner through the barcode scanner, so she could not go back for the jar of coffee creamer without creating a delay for all the other customers.
Groaning, she paid the twenty Kroner for the two beers and the baking powder, got the sales slip, left the shop, came straight back in, found the regular-sized jar of coffee creamer and went back to the cash register where she wound up being third in line all over again. Once she had paid eight Kroner for the jar and got a second sales slip, she left Alvin 's for the second time in three minutes and strode the short distance back to her Skoda so she could put everything she had bought in the trunk.
And she was no closer to finding the elusive cans of H.E. Fenwyck Master Brew for Regitze's father. She simply had to continue her tireless, fearless, quest in Fjordby's final supermarket, Riema's .
-*-*-*-
Riema's Supermarket had become highly popular among the customers during the two decades it had been in the country, but Cecilie could not fathom why it was so. It was the newest chain of stores of the four in the town, but that fact alone could not explain the massive turnout that inevitably created a full parking lot and long, dog-slow lines at the cash registers.
It had established itself through a clever promotional campaign that claimed their focus was on animal welfare and on keeping the environment safe and healthy - in short, things that nobody could disagree with. That all the chain's main competitors had already done that for years without tooting their horns about it was conveniently ignored in the occasionally tasteless and self-glorifying, and certainly holier-than-thou ad campaign.
Another thing often highlighted in the massive amount of print and TV ads was that the individual stores were owned by professional grocers on a franchise-basis. Professional they may have been, but it certainly did nothing to improve the quality of the workmanship found in the chain's many stores.
Whenever Cecilie flipped open a newspaper and saw one of the countless ads, she was reminded of a variation of the old saying: that some can be fooled some of the time, but nobody can be fooled all the time. It seemed the PR-gurus working for Riema's had been able to find the golden key that unlocked the mystery. Now, they had everybody fooled twenty-four-seven.
She disliked Riema's to the point where she never, ever visited it unless she was forced to due to circumstances beyond her control - like the missing beer. She had barely taken a shopping basket in the store's windbreak before all her prejudices against the store itself and the chain as a whole had been confirmed once more.
Moving past the large reed baskets that were supposed to be home to pre-packed buns, loaves and other types of industrially-produced bread - in other words, basic articles that even a tenth-rate supermarket on the far side of the moon should have in stock - she had to let out a dark grunt at the sight of acres of empty space. A piece of paper that had been sticky-taped onto the leading edge of one of the shelves close to the baskets carried a hand-written note apologizing for an 'unfortunate human error.'
A cluster of potential customers holding empty shopping baskets stood in front of the equally empty shelves with looks of puzzlement or annoyance written all over their faces. Cecilie briefly considered suggesting to her fellow customers that they should try Alvin 's instead since it was always fully stocked, but she moved on without doing so.
On her way through the store, she stopped here and there to check out the prices of articles compatible to those she had already bought over at The Food Market when she had first arrived in town. Though the bacon-liver paté turned out to be cheaper, most of what she found cost more than what she had paid for them in the larger supermarket; in several instances, all she found was an empty shelf.
The aisle with the alcoholic beverages beckoned, and she began a thorough search for products from H.E. Fenwyck's Brewery. The number of cans and bottles on offer at Riema's was far smaller than in the other supermarkets she had visited, so it only took her a scant two minutes to realize that she had drawn another blank in the great lottery of finding the Master Brew before time ran out.
As her in-depth scan took her past the different shelves, she counted no less than eight instances where the actual cans or bottles of beer on display failed to match what the label said they should be. Through a sheer miracle, she had found a label that proudly proclaimed the shelf held products from the H.E. Fenwyck Brewery, the U.S.A. , but - of course - it was another bust. One half of the section of the shelf in question was empty, and the other half held cans of beer from a brewery that had nothing to do with Fenwyck whatsoever.
Sighing, Cecilie let her eyes go on yet another tour of the adjacent shelves in the vain hope that the same 'unfortunate human error' who had fouled up the bread baskets at the entrance to the store had caused the right beer to be put in the wrong spot. Her luck had not improved in the intervening ten seconds - there were no cans from H.E. Fenwyck anywhere.
She was about to leave the store when a female Riema's employee wheeled a large, wrapped pallet containing dozens of cardboard crates of beer into the aisle. Cecilie tried to look through the wrapping to see if but a single crate of the elusive Master Brew would be there, but the plastic wasn't sheer enough.
With yet another tendril of hope gone up in smoke, all that was left for her to do was to ask the employee though she knew the chances of getting any help would be slim to none - and if Slim was anything like her, he would refuse to even set foot in Riema's . "Ah… hello. I'm sorry to interrupt you," she said as she approached the young employee, "but would you happen to know if your pallet there has any crates from H.E. Fenwyck on it?"
In her mind, she already heard an echo of what the young woman was about to say: 'I don't know,' or at least a variation of it.
"Oh… uh… I dunno," the young employee said as she continued to strip off the wrapping plastic with a boxcutter.
"Right," Cecilie said while sporting a smile that was far from being genuine. Her good mood had already plunged into her shoes along with her slumping shoulders by the time the young employee continued:
"But if you wait a second, I'll have the plastic off so we can check it out."
Cecilie's smile instantly grew wider and even reached her eyes. "Sure. No problem," she said, putting down her shopping basket and stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets while she waited.
When the wrapping had been fully removed and thrown onto the floor in an unruly heap, Cecilie's eyes lit up as Christmas candles when a crate from H.E. Fenwyck Breweries presented itself to her on the pallet. That it was nine crates down from the top was some cause for concern, but the store's employee worked fast and efficiently to take the other cardboard crates off the top.
The sixth layer had just been removed when the employee was called away from the aisle with the soft drinks and alcoholic beverages to help someplace else. "I'll only be a minute," she said to Cecilie as she left.
"Uh… okay…"
Cecilie knew what was coming, and she was proven right. One minute became two. Two became four. Four became six, then eight. By then, her patience had long since reached a flat zero. Grumbling hard under her breath, she stared daggers at the cardboard crate that was still pinned down under two layers of beer.
Instead of waiting any longer for the young employee to return, Cecilie jumped head-first into an endless sequence of fumbles and scraped fingers to get the Fenwyck crate free of the two on top. Much growling, grunting and groaning ensued until she finally managed to get it clear of the rest. She had barely put it on a vacant shelf before she ripped open the cardboard and snatched one of the cans.
Her eyelids slipped shut and a sigh of disappointment that came from the bottom of her soul escaped her lips. All her hard work had added up to a big, fat nothing - all she had accomplished was to dig out a crate of the wrong beer. Instead of the strong Master Brew, the cans she had found were at the exact opposite end of the scale: they contained H.E. Fenwyck's Non-Alcoholic Beer.
Biting her tongue to stop the hefty barrage of profanity that was on the verge of spilling over, she did a slow three-hundred-and-sixty-degree tour of the entire pallet to see if another cardboard crate from Fenwyck's Brewery had hid from her relentless pursuit of it. She had no such luck - there was no H.E. Fenwyck anywhere.
To be kind to the female employee who had tried to help her - although she had never returned from whatever she had gone off to do - Cecilie put the can of non-alcoholic beer into the cardboard box and stuffed the whole thing back onto the half-done pallet.
Then she picked up her empty shopping basket and shuffled out of Riema's - only one store remained: the outrageously expensive Konstantin Brewski Special Imports .
-*-*-*-
To get to the store with the weird name, she had to go back to the parking lot where she had left her Skoda, cross over the bus terminal once more, head onto the town square - where the delightful scents that wafted out of the open doors of a takeout place did their worst to remind her of the gnawing hunger that had returned after she had chowed down the cheese-and-baloney deli sandwich - walk down an alley that saw nothing but closed shops, and finally onto the town's original main street.
The Konstantin Brewski shop was located a hundred meters further up the street from her present position, so she turned left and continued along the sidewalk moving past a clothes boutique, a bookstore and a second-hand store run by a religious aid organization in the process.
A two-tone ding-dong greeted her as she opened the door to the import shop. Although the shop's peculiar name had been meticulously designed to give the customers an illusion of the wide, exotic world of beers, it was run by a couple of locals who had grown tired of the selection offered by the town's supermarkets - Cecilie could certainly sympathize with that.
She rarely visited the Konstantin Brewski shop because it was just too expensive for her tastes - not to mention her wallet - but on her infrequent visits for anniversaries or the like, she always had to chuckle at the huge amount of canned and bottled beer that lined the shelves along the shop's walls. Today was no different as she let her eyes roam over the hundreds of colorful products with a grin on her face.
In addition to the beer presented on the countless shelves, large cardboard displays had been put up on the floor promoting various alcoholic beverages from all over the world using somewhat stereotypical imagery, like a picture of the Copacabana that was used to sell a Brazilian drinks mixer, an aerial view of Neuschwanstein Castle that promoted a Bavarian Oktoberfest beer, or a heavily artistic charcoal rendering of Mount Fuji that was used as the backdrop to a Japanese beverage.
Moving into the shop, Cecilie did not have to wait long before a sales clerk came out from behind a bead curtain to assist her. The elderly gentleman, who was one of the two owners, offered her a polite smile as he moved behind an elegant counter made of dark-brown wood. "Hello," Cecilie said, walking up to the counter. "I'm in a fix here so I hope you can help me. Please tell me you have a couple of cans of H.E. Fenwyck's Master Brew somewhere around here…"
"Oh, we certainly do, Miss. We have all of H.E. Fenwyck's products. The Master Brew?"
A huge sigh of relief escaped Cecilie's lips; she was powerless to stop a wide smile from breaking onto her lips. "Yes! The Master Brew. It's for my father-in-law who's really choosy…"
The clerk offered his customer a smile before he let out a short grunt. "Well, the H.E. Fenwyck Breweries doesn't necessarily have the best of reputations among connoisseurs, but the Master Brew is an award-winning beer. It's right over here, Miss," he said and stepped away from the counter.
Following in the man's tracks as she moved over to one of the countless heavily-laden shelves, Cecilie grinned at the sight of a whole row of cans of H.E. Fenwyck's Master Brew that were ripe for the picking. She had already put out her hand to reach for the first one when her eyes fell on the price tag. She froze to the spot as she read it. Then she had to read it again: a single, half-liter can of the special beer cost nearly as much as all the other items she had bought combined - forty-nine ninety-five Kroner. "Uh… how much?" she said, squinting at the price.
"Fifty kroner per can, Miss. It's a top-quality product."
"Uh… uh-huh. I'm sure it is. Okay. Fifty Kroner a piece. Okay," Cecilie said before she fell quiet. She took several deep breaths while a few different scenarios and subsequent outcomes flashed across her mind's eye:
If she bought the hugely expensive beer, her father-in-law would be pleased which would mean that Regitze would be pleased which in turn would mean they could share some quality time together later on. Throw the strawberry pie and some whipped cream into the mix, and the quality time would be of the highest level.
If she did not buy the hugely expensive beer, her father-in-law would never know the difference since it was supposed to be a surprise, but Regitze would be sorely disappointed which would mean that all hopes of spending quality time together could be thrown out of the window - regardless of the whipped cream or even the strawberry pie itself.
Ultimately, she only had one option: "Well… okay. I'll grab two cans," she said as she took a pair of H.E. Fenwyck's Master Brew down off the shelf.
"Very well, Miss," the sales clerk said before he moved back to the counter to fire up the cash register.
---
After she had put the two cans of beer - that her mind referred to as liquid gold considering their expensive nature, relatively speaking - into the trunk of the Skoda, she needed a moment to recover from the shock of paying one hundred Kroner for something as simple and basic as beer.
Doing a quick count-off using her fingers, she came to the staggering conclusion that she could have bought no less than thirty bottles of the Schatzkammerbräu Regular Pilsner sold over at Alvin 's - a beer that she enjoyed greatly because it had a solid, rich taste despite its meager price.
Still, the sparkle that would appear in Regitze's voice - and later on in her eyes - was more than enough to outweigh all the hassle and dramas, so she found her telephone and called home while leaning against the rear of the car. "Hi, honey!" she said once the contact had been established. "I have good news!"
'Oh? I love good news.'
"I got the Master Brew! I only bought two cans 'cos they were grotesquely expensive at Konstantin Brewski's like I knew they would be, but… uh… I got the Master Brew.'
'Well… that's nice.'
Furrowing her brow, Cecilie pushed herself off the tail of the metallic-blue Skoda and began to shuffle around in a lazy circle. " 'That's nice?' You don't sound too enthusiastic, honey. Is something wrong?"
'No, but… there's been a small change of plans.'
"Uh-huh? Of the good or bad kind?" Cecilie said, stepping into the Skoda and closing the door behind her so she could conduct the rest of the conversation in private without having the other people in the parking lot eavesdropping on her.
'Well… Mom just called to cancel the dinner invitation. They found out they wanted to see the latest Mission Impossible instead… it premieres tonight. So they canceled.'
"Canceled… they canceled… the- din- the dinner invi…" Cecilie croaked, staring at herself in the rear-view mirror. A frozen mask of disbelief stared back at her as all the trials and tribulations she had experienced on her tireless, fearless, and above all costly, quest to find and buy the Master Brew flashed through her mind.
'Yeah, so I guess it's going to be a pizza after all. Now that you're down in Fjordby, would you mind buying a bottle of red for tonight? One of the good brands. Not too strong or too weak, just a solid red wine. Oh, you know what I like. We already have garlic bread in the freezer that we can nuke… and I'm looking at a glass of black olives and some sun-dried tomatoes in our cupboard. We could have an Italian-themed dinner!'
Silence.
'Cecilie?'
More silence.
'Cecilie, are you still there? Hello? Hello?'
"Uh… I'm here, I'm here," Cecilie said in a croak before she rubbed her chin, cheeks, nose, brow, ears, neck and every other part of her face and head that she could reach with her free hand. "Red wine. Okay. Sure. I can do that. A bottle of solid red. Right. Okay."
'Are you all right? Your voice sounds really funny…'
"Oh, I'm just… just… just… fine, sweetie. Just fine! Red wine. Okay."
'Is it inconvenient?'
"No, no… not at all," Cecilie said with a slow shaking of the head.
'Thanks a bunch… mmmmua! I'll have the afternoon coffee ready when you get home… and I'm definitely looking forward to the strawberry pie! You know what… I think I'll whip some cream to go with it. Love you!'
"Love you too…" Cecilie croaked as she closed the connection. Her arm fell into her lap; her hand kept the telephone in a tight grip that only gradually eased off.
She sat like that, staring into space but seeing nothing, for nearly three minutes before she stepped out of the Skoda to go on a tireless quest through all four supermarkets of Fjordby to find a modest-priced bottle of red wine they would both enjoy…
*
*
THE END.