The confines of ullage

You are using your razor-sharp logistical skills in order to fit $173.76 worth of groceries into the back of a Mini Cooper. You are sort of humming and sort of singing "Time will Tell," by the Black Crowes.

Just as you are basking in the satisfaction of fitting a plastic jug of milk into a space specifically defined by the walled confines of the hatchback and a bag containing Cocoa Pebbles, a box of Kashi breakfast pilaf and two boxes of frozen pretzels, a voice comes at you from behind.

"Excuse me."

You turn to find an ordinary looking woman behind a shopping loaded with bags that looks much like yours.

"Yes?" you say, trying not to think about the Edy's Double-Churned French Vanilla and the photons of sunlight cascading upon the carton in which it is contained.

"Are you familiar with the Arts and Entertainment Network?" says the woman.

You puzzle for a moment over fielding this question in the parking lot of the Tops Supermarket. "Er … yes," you say. "Yes I am."

"There's this one show on there?" continues the woman. "It's sort of like a lawyer show? On the Arts and Entertainment Network? Do you know the one I mean?"

"I'm not sure I do," you say.

"Oh," says the woman, deflating. "I was wondering if you knew it because I wanted to find out the name of the theme song to that show. I love that theme song." The woman mumble-hums some cryptic notes.

You blink as you process this and stop yourself from saying, "I can name that tune in seven notes!" Instead, you say, "Theme song, huh?" and wonder if you are on Candid Camera. "That's a toughie," you add, which is simultaneously moronic and appropriate.

"It's like a lawyer thing?" she says. "You know?" she continues with an earnest look and slowly begins bobbing her head. She recommences humming.

Edy's Double Churned French Vanilla. Photons. Blinking. Processing.

You sigh.

Why me?

"What you might do," you say because you are you and if you really needed to find the answer to this question you probably could and this broad is not you and clearly needs all the help she can get, "is look through the TV Guide and try to find the name of the program. I'm sure you'll recognize it when you see it. Do you have a computer?"

"Yes," says the woman with some indignation, "of course."

You nod and place your hands on your hips. "And Internet?"

"Of course we have the Internet," she says.

"Well then, pull up Google--you know Google?" you say.

"Of course I know Google," she says.

"Pull up Google and type in the name of the show and the words 'theme song' and see what you come up with."

The woman raises her hand in the glory of revelation. "Why didn't I think of that?"

Good effing question, lady.

"Couldn't say," you say, smiling and nodding politely. "Sometimes a person just needs to think things through out loud."

"That's exactly what I'll do," says the woman. "Google." She turns her cart into the remainder of the day.

Yes, you think, that really just happened, before consider the bag containing two loaves of bread and one bag of Tostitos and the ullage of the hatchback.

Three miles to the east, at the local hospital, a woman cries out in the pain of childbirth.

Two and a half miles to the west, in the master bedroom of a white Colonial with a two-car garage, a man gasps as he rounds the brink of climax.

On the continent of Asia, a woman cradles her husband's head as he exhales for the last time.

You roll your empty cart to the cart corral. You go home, draped in purple silk.