Disclaimer: See chapter 1
Summary:  Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?
AN: 1) If bad taste offends you, hit that Back button now. 2) Well, the consensus seems to be for the lobotomy (see footnote chapter 1)—so here's chapter two.

This Makes No Sense Whatsoever
Chapter 2: Freezer Burn

He had to say it. It was big. "It's really big."

"Biggest I've ever seen," Max smiled appreciatively. "Not that size is everything."

But you had to love big. It had been a long time, and he hadn't shown it to that many people, in fact, he'd almost forgotten what it looked like. Valerie hadn't been that impressed, but then she'd been sloshed most of the time. However, Daphne had liked it immensely. And Max was starting to get that same glint in her eyes . . ..

"They say it's the biggest in the North American continent."

"Wow."

Who would have thought that taking Max to this, the mother of all grocery stores, would have such an effect on her? Women—you just never could tell. Maybe having to clip coupons and shop at emporiums like Save-a-Bunch wasn't such a bad thing after all. Not that he didn't miss the select delicatessens and the small specialty grocers he was used to, but now he was one of the poverty-stricken masses. Yeah, just a regular Joe, spending an evening shopping with the most stunningly beautiful woman in the world.

"What are you smirking at?" She actually sounded happy with him, unlike her mood on their previous outing. He smirked even more, almost wheeling over an old woman trying to pry a cart from the row lined up outside the entrance. Max stopped to help her. She was really becoming very civic spirited—his good influence, no doubt.

This evening was turning out just fine. Logan relaxed--what could possibly go wrong? OK, maybe the store manager would be a little upset at what Max had just done to that cart, but they could recycle it surely—in its present condition, it would make excellent coat hangers. Besides, if they moved really fast—as fast as that little old lady for instance—they could avoid any unpleasantness altogether.

Apparently, Max had had the same brilliant idea and had beaten him into the store. She stood transfixed, looking at aisle upon aisle of semi-stocked shelves, cart at the ready. He stopped abruptly, faced with a sudden dilemma. Should they share the cart? That might seem presumptuous on his part, their groceries in such close proximity. She probably wasn't ready for such intimacy. No, he would have to have his own--but how was he going to push and wheel at the same time? Maybe he could just rustle up a Manticore geneticist to grow him a couple of extra arms. He glanced over at Max, possibly the only girl on the planet who looked ravishing under fluorescent lighting. She really was perfect. A couple of extra arms could come in handy.

Max seemed to sense his confusion. "Why don't you try one of those?" She was pointing to a row of motorized chairs with baskets on front. Man--wonder how much horsepower those babies pack? He made the transfer and settled in for the ride. OK, where was the throttle? Top speed?  Well, he'd just have to find out.

This reminded him of that motorized, miniature, ride-along jeep he'd had as a kid—at least he'd had it until he'd run over Margo's cat. Not that he was trying to mind you—he'd really expected the cat to move a lot faster. Ah . . . old memories. They were actually close to Margo's part of town, maybe she was grocery shopping. How fast could she move, he wondered. No-- she'd have the maids do the shop, and they were no challenge, they'd always been smart enough to get out of the way.

He wondered if Max would mind if he did a lap of the store right off. He could say it was a reconnaissance mission. Surely, she would appreciate that. Turning to present his plan for approval, he caught a glimpse of perfection disappearing into aisle seven. What was she doing? The aisles were clearly numbered, one to . . . he couldn't see that far. Clearly, reconnaissance was a good idea—what if she got lost amid the baguettes and pitted ripe olives.

He motored after her. This was typical Max, rush right in, no plan of action. He would extract her and they would proceed to aisle one. She was filling her cart already. What was that stuff? Canned vegetables? What  . . . they came in cans? And he had been shopping at the farmers' market all these years, paying exorbitant prices and struggling through crowds. Although, he had become really good at it. The last time strawberries had come to town he had left a trail of bodies in his wake. Sometimes the chair had is uses, especially if you had an umbrella or two sticking out of the sides. Now where was she off to? You just had to wonder what would happen if Max were leading the U.S. into battle: total disorganization, but plenty of canned carrots.

He was trying to catch up to her, but there were too many distractions. This place was amazing. Just look at that . . . Little Debbie snack cakes. He hadn't seen those since he was a kid. Hey, the expiration date was almost as old as he was, how nostalgic.  He popped them into his basket.

Still no sign of Max, might as well see what was down the next aisle. He stopped abruptly, unable to believe his eyes. This had to be some kind of nasty joke. No . . . the package definitely said "Jell-O." He had always assumed that gunk was produced in hospital basements from . . . well he'd tried not to think about that. People actually ate this stuff voluntarily? It truly was a sick, sick world. Better find Max, before she stumbled on anything as horrific.

He varoomed along the back aisle. There she was, in the freezer section, admiring a row of chest freezers, the fluorescent lighting reflecting off the metal casing surrounding her in an angelic aura. He wished he'd brought his camera.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Well, that kind of ruined the atmosphere. OK, down to business. "Could you grab a couple of packs of ice cream?" Better not risk falling head first into the freezer case. That probably wouldn't impress her a great deal.

He tried not to look as Max bent over. Did she really have to wear her pants so tight—well in public, anyway? He felt his temperature rising. Oh no, speaking of things rising . . .

"Vanilla or chocolate?"

"It doesn't matter," . . . as long as it was cold and he could carry it on his lap. His eyes were riveted as she rummaged through the flavors. Stop it, stop it . . . don't ogle. Ever since the trip to Super Suds, she had seemed a bit suspicious of his motives in asking her on these little expeditions. He'd better not add fuel to the fire. Think of something else; his shopping list for instance. Let's see--things left to get-- cucumber, melons . . . no, no . . . think of . . . dead kittens . . . nuclear war . . . Margo.

"Damn, the packs on top are smushy." She delved deeper into the case. "Found one of each, and they're rock hard." She straightened and turned to face him.

OH MY GOD—they certainly were. Had the woman never heard of the padded bra or the baggy T-shirt? She was out to kill him, torment him to death.   

"Give me those  . . . the ice cream I mean . . . just . . .go . . . go find . . . the painkiller aisle." His head was starting to throb.

A handful of Sominex later, he was starting to feel OK. Although, the tablets Bling usually gave him didn't have this effect. Still the package had promised instant relief – "feel rested and refreshed." Just the ticket. Yeah, this evening was furning out just tine. Max was getting a little impatient though. Better pay attention to what she was saying. Remember lesson 1: pay attention when Max speaks. Focus.

"We should get some produce."

"NO!" God, who was yelling— now his headache was back. Focus; avoid the produce section at all cost. He didn't want to have to wear the ice cream again—it was starting to get smushy.

She was starting to look at him in a strange way--not the strange way he had dreamt of. He had to get out of there. Quickly he turned the chair and started to chug down the aisle--strange, it wouldn't seem to go in a straight line anymore.

"Logan. Look out!"

A wall of Campbells soup cans was rapidly approaching. He pulled on the brakes . . . uh oh . . . he suspected they hadn't been recently inspected. So, this was how it was going to end; death by Andy Wharhol—an artistic, but nonetheless, humiliating way to go. His grandmother would have appreciated it, but she'd liked Hockney for God's sake. Still, no time for aesthetic debate now, destiny was hurtling toward him—Cream of Mushroom—somehow he'd hoped for something more meaningful.

***

"Logan . . . Logan." There were two of her. At another time, he might find this somewhat exciting but right now he couldn't cope. "Just breath deeply." They were outside in the parking lot. He was alive and apparently unharmed--he checked for damages-- well, except for a bump the size of Mt. Rainer on his head.

She already had the groceries packed in the Aztec. She really was an angel. Now she was helping him transfer back to his chair. No, wait . . . he hadn't had a chance to test this baby's top speed, just one more lap of the store . . . Ouch. His fingers were being pried off the handlebars—hey, angels weren't meant to bend one's fingers backwards, were they?

"Get in the car. I'll drive you home and help put away your groceries. We'd better get that ice cream in the freezer."

She was so sweet and thoughtful. She deserved better than him. He sighed. "Sometimes life just isn't fair."

"I know Logan. It's alright."

No it wasn't. It was upright. His damn freezer was an upright. It truly was a cold, cold world.

Thanks for all the feedback on chapter one. I really appreciate it. Now onto chapter 3 . . . you can take at least one more, can't you? Don't answer that. Let's see, where to on next week's outing . . . any suggestions? Nice ones.