The store was going broke. Who’d be fired first?

IT’S

morbid fascination that has Rachamim inching past the Square Shops mall on this frigid morning. Even though the heat is blasting in his 2014 Camry, the sight of the perfectly aligned wagons waiting outside the supermarket, each with an identical line of snow resting on its handlebar, is enough to make the hairs on Rachamim’s arms stand on end.

DOUBLE-WIDE ISLES! the ads for Mehadrin Shopper proclaimed. DELI! FISH! BUTCHER! PRODUCE! ALL UNDER ONE ROOF!

He remembers his boss Gavriel had snorted at that ad, said the supermarket’s marketing gurus had killed the campaign with one typo. But Rachamim, though he smiled at the joke, knew customers wouldn’t remember that gaffe. They’d remember the flashy interior design, the nifty self-checkout option. And Rachamim knew that Gavriel knew it, too. The marked creases on the ad, which had been refolded so many times, that it practically tucked itself back into Gavriel’s pocket, told him as much.

Rachamim is still counting wagons boasting the cheerful Mehadrin Shopper logo when a jalopy containing an alarming number of young workers pulls into the parking lot. The driver looks over at Rachamim, who loses count. Though he might just be a curious new shopper cruising by, he hits the accelerator and pulls away.

It’s a good thing, too. The dashboard shows 7:58, which means he has two minutes to get to work on time, and Rachamim is late an average of once every three years. It would take more than a newly sprung competition to taint that record, and besides, Gavriel is waiting for him.

The one-point-seven-five minutes it takes to drive from Square Shops to their cozy grocery, simply named Gavriel’s, helps Rachamim beat the clock. But the paltry distance between the two is hardly a blessing.

When Rachamim enters the shop, Gavriel accepts his steaming cup of Rachamim’s home-brewed coffee and turns back to his ledgers. Across the room stands Mrs. Katzenstein, known to her loyal customers as Temima, who is ringing up her first customer of the day.

“Here, Mr. Haimon,” she calls to Rachamim. She motions to a croissant she’s placed at the end of the counter, right near the plastic bin of chocolate coins, and Rachamim gets a whiff of the pastry that smells like a piece of Heaven broke off and dropped down right into the store.

“Wow, thank you, Mrs. Katzenstein,” he says gratefully. This croissant is the closest he gets to homemade food, other than what he bothers to prepare for himself.

“Baked fresh,” she says cheerfully as she slides a bag of bread over the scanner. “This morning.”

“You must make an early morning,” Rachamim replies. He nudges the croissant onto a napkin and takes an appreciative bite.

Mrs. Katzenstein smiles, as though she hasn’t heard Rachamim say the very same thing dozens of times.

“Five a.m., Mr. Haimon. Every morning.”

The croissant disappears much too quickly, and then Rachamim hits the produce section.