I am the spirit of legendary matador Joselito de Gallo—the Little Rooster. Since being gored to death, I've spent my afterlife seeking thrills similar to that of staring down a snorting, angry bull. I've possessed the bodies of all kinds of adrenaline junkies—fighter pilots, snake charmers and security guards for Justin Bieber. It was while finding Shrimp Chips for Señor Bieber that I discovered my passion: shopping at Costco on Sunday mornings.
This morning I possess the body of a middle-aged woman in a red cardigan. I choose her not only because she wears red, the color of bullfighting capes, but because she appears haggard, and I assume her spirit will appreciate a temporary reprieve from her life.
After settling into her body and adjusting the ill-fitting waistband of her yoga pants, I clench my butt cheeks tightly and strut past an elderly couple, pulling on the front of a cart, sweeping it alongside my body. As I grab the handles of the cart, I stomp my foot and exclaim, “Olé!,” asserting my dominance over the conquered duo.
In a graceful flourish, I present the possessed woman's membership card. Once inside Costco, the rhythm of the paso doble that played as I entered the bullfighting ring pulses through me and I stand proudly with my right arm bent behind my back and my chin raised, eager to engage in battle.
I study the woman's shopping list, because while mastery of Costco is determined by obtaining the most popular items, I feel a responsibility to the honored tradition of the shopping list. Her list includes much of the usual: meat, frozen pizza, toilet paper. I grow excited when I see rotisserie chickens. Chickens are always in demand. This will be a day of great challenge!
For the first act, the tercio de varas, where the matador studies the actions of the bull, I familiarize myself with the layout and flow of this Costco. I come to seasonal items where beach towels sell quickly. They are plentiful but I must defeat all others by securing towels without waiting patiently. In my periphery, I observe a father with an agitated toddler in his cart circling in. I pull on the edges of the red cardigan and pirouette, bravely exposing my back to the corners of his cart. As he's drawn into my artistry, I push my cart, blocking his access to the towels. With a single flick of the wrist, I grab a set of towels, moving away before he can charge again.
I steady myself for the second act, the tercio de baderillas, where I will secure the chickens.
I notice three chickens are for sale. I remind myself, “I am the Little Rooster. It's my destiny to defeat all others desiring chickens.”
I unzip the red cardigan and square my shoulders. Two shoppers approach the freshly herbed birds from the left and another attacks perpendicularly. I move in from the right while coo'ing at the other shoppers, “Here toro toro. Here little toro.” As we approach the heated shelves, I pull a hibiscus print, pink towel from the cart, flap it to the right of my hips and then to the left, creating the allusion of butterfly wings. My competitors follow the fan-like motion of the towel. In this distraction I swoop in, seizing two of the chickens using the motion I once used to drive banderillas into the necks of bulls. Abuzz with the high of triumph, I cannot hide a satisfied grin.
I leave the vanquished to battle for the last chicken.
Now it is time for the final act, the tercio de muerte—checking out. A petite, pinch-faced woman and I lock eyes after we both notice a new lane opening. My heart rate quickens. I push my cart perilously close to her, and then I momentarily release both hands from the cart, pull the corners of the cardigan tight, dip and curtsey, swinging my arms forward and wide, the red cardigan masquerading as the wings of a bird. It's a beautiful pass once reserved for bulls of the greatest valor. The movement draws the shopper near me and then she stops, mesmerized. With her hesitation, I am rewarded for my daring, and move into the lane, triumphant.
After presenting the possessed woman's membership and credit card, I pass those enjoying the hot dog and 20 oz. drink combo, dropping ketchup-stained napkins like spectators once threw roses at my feet while chanting “Maestro! Maestro!” After a fluorescent line is drawn down the center of my receipt, I bow my head and punch the rack of beef ribs in the cart with the possessed woman's key as I once plunged my sword through the heart of majestic bulls.
I am victorious.