Hot Josh and the Grocery Cart Deposit

I spent $237.84 on groceries.

This is important.

Because apparently $237.84 buys food.

It does not buy cart retrieval.

I walked out of the grocery store pushing a cart loaded with enough bags to require structural engineering.

I reached my car.

Opened the trunk.

Loaded everything.

Closed the trunk.

Then I looked at the cart.

The cart looked at me.

We had completed our journey together.

I was prepared to say goodbye.

Unfortunately, the nearest cart return was approximately thirty-seven feet away.

Thirty-seven.

I had already walked through the entire store.

Produce.

Bakery.

Dairy.

Frozen foods.

Then back to dairy because I forgot cheese.

Then halfway across the store because apparently light bulbs belong nowhere near anything else a human being buys.

I had done enough.

I gently positioned the cart beside my parking space.

Then I heard a voice.

“Sir, the cart return is right over there.”

I turned.

A store employee was collecting carts.

Perfect.

Problem solved.

“I know.”

He waited.

I waited.

“The cart needs to go in the corral.”

I nodded.

“Excellent. You’re already headed that direction.”

He looked at me.

Then at the cart.

Then back at me.

“It’s only a few feet away.”

“Exactly.”

I smiled.

“Should be easy.”

He wasn’t smiling.

Apparently we’d reached an ideological disagreement.

“Customers are supposed to return their carts.”

I looked toward the building.

“Customers?”

“Yes.”

“The people who just paid you?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

I pointed toward my car.

“I just completed a $237 transaction.”

He nodded cautiously.

“I selected the merchandise.”

“Yes.”

“I transported it through the store.”

“Yes.”

“I used self-checkout.”

That changed things.

Now I had evidence.

“So I scanned the merchandise.”

He knew where this was going.

“I bagged the merchandise.”

He sighed.

“I transported the merchandise to my vehicle.”

“Sir…”

“I loaded the merchandise.”

He rubbed his forehead.

“And now…”

I gestured toward the cart.

“…you’d like me to return company equipment?”

“It’s a shopping cart.”

“Company equipment.”

“It’s thirty-seven feet.”

“You measured it?”

“No.”

“I did.”

I hadn’t.

But confidence often fills gaps left by research.

He grabbed the cart.

“Have a nice day.”

I smiled.

“You too.”

Case closed.

Then he stopped.

Turned around.

And pushed the cart directly toward me.

“For future reference, leaving carts beside cars can damage someone’s vehicle.”

That was annoyingly reasonable.

I looked at the cart.

Then at the surrounding cars.

Then at my own car.

Fine.

He had introduced liability.

I hate when people bring facts into things.

I took the cart.

“I’ll handle it.”

I pushed it toward the corral.

Thirty-seven feet.

Maybe twenty-two.

Distance is subjective when you’re irritated.

I slid the cart into the row.

Done.

Then something caught my attention.

Another cart sat abandoned approximately ten feet away.

Not mine.

Not my responsibility.

I started walking toward my car.

Stopped.

Looked back.

Nobody was around.

I sighed.

I grabbed that cart too.

Pushed it into the corral.

Then another.

By the time I finished, I had returned four carts.

Four.

I had somehow gone from refusing to return one cart to becoming an unpaid parking-lot employee.

The original employee walked past.

“Thanks.”

I pointed at him.

“Don’t get used to this.”

He laughed.

I returned to my car.

Started the engine.

Then I saw a woman finish unloading her groceries two spaces away.

She pushed her empty cart toward the edge of the parking space.

Stopped.

Looked at the cart return.

And started walking toward her car.

Our eyes met.

I pointed toward the corral.

She stared at me.

I stared back.

She sighed.

Then returned her cart.

Unbelievable.

Ten minutes earlier, I would’ve defended her.

Now I was management.

The lesson?

Hot Josh doesn’t believe customers should have to return shopping carts.

Unless Hot Josh has just returned four of them.

Then suddenly there are standards.