The problem with having a ghost as a life coach is his complete and utter detachment from the mundane realities of human life. Like grocery shopping.
The Survivors Club stood, beleaguered, in the brightly lit, soul-crushing aisle of "Bargain-Mart." The mission: secure sustenance for the week with their dwindling funds. It should have been simple. It was not. Not with Alexander Plath, Spectral Personal Shopper.
"Okay," Jade said, wielding a calculator with the intensity of a bomb disposal expert. "If we get the store-brand mac and cheese, and Mason agrees to not buy the family-sized bag of 'Zesty Fromage Puffs,' we can afford a bag of baby carrots. For health."
"A false economy!" Alexander's voice boomed from a display of canned gravy. "You are prioritizing caloric density over nutritional virtue! And store-brand cheese powder is a tragic simulacrum of dairy, a hollow echo of gustatory pleasure that mocks the very concept of sustenance!"
"He means it tastes like salty dust," Chloe translated, already loading six boxes into the cart.
"I mean it is an affront to the phenomenology of eating! Food is not merely fuel; it is an experience! We must seek out artisanal, small-batch alternatives that honor the ingredients!"
Mason gestured at their cart, which contained a loaf of bread, a jar of pickles, and a single, sad-looking lemon. "Our budget honors one ingredient, Alex. It's called 'desperation.'"
Liam, tasked with procuring protein, was having a crisis in front of the hot dogs. "They're pink," he whispered, pale and trembling. "A vibrant, uniform pink. What does that mean?"
"It means you are gazing into the abyss of industrial food production, Liam!" Alexander announced, materializing halfway through the "Manager's Special" meat cooler. "That 'pink' is the color of alienation! The pig has been so thoroughly processed, its very 'pig-ness' has been erased! You are not considering eating a hot dog; you are considering eating a concept! A concept with nitrates!"
Liam made a small gagging sound and dropped the package as if it were on fire.
Ethan, trying to be efficient, had navigated towards the self-checkout. This was a catastrophic error.
"No! Halt!" Alexander cried, zipping in front of their cart. "You cannot submit to this! The self-checkout is the ultimate symbol of the neo-liberal erosion of community! It atomizes the social act of commerce, forcing the consumer to become an unpaid laborer for the corporate machine! It is a triumph of efficiency over humanity!"
"We're broke, Alex," Ethan said flatly. "Efficiency is all we have."
"Principle over penury!" the ghost declared, striking a pose in front of a cashier named Brenda, who was chewing gum and staring into the middle distance. "We will go to a human! We will engage in the time-honored ritual of transactional reciprocity! We will look Brenda in the eye and affirm her existence as a fellow subject, not an object in our consumerist narrative!"
He forced them into Brenda's line. She began scanning their meager items with a rhythm that suggested profound metaphysical exhaustion.
"Observe her technique!" Alexander whispered loudly. "The weary grace! The quiet resignation! She is a modern-day Sisyphus, pushing beeping products up a conveyor belt only to watch them slide back down again in the form of the next customer! Tell me, Brenda, how does this repetitive labor inform your sense of Being-in-the-world?"
Brenda paused, her scanner hovering over the pickles. She blinked slowly. "It's Tuesday," she said, and went back to scanning.
The final item was the lemon. As Brenda went to bag it, Alexander, in a fit of philanthropic fervor, decided to "help." He focused his energy, attempting to levitate a plastic bag to open it for her.
The bag did not open. Instead, every single plastic bag in Brenda's station simultaneously inflated like a flock of startled jellyfish, rustling and dancing in a chaotic, spectral wind.
Brenda stopped chewing her gum.
Then, the coupon printer next to her register whirred to life, spewing forth a continuous, unending ribbon of paper. It wasn't printing coupons. It was printing, in shaky dot-matrix font, a condensed version of Alexander's critique of consumer capitalism.
> THE SHOPPING CART IS A METAPHOR FOR THE BURDEN OF MATERIAL DESIRE.
> YOU ARE MORE THAN THE SUM OF YOUR SCANNED PRODUCTS.
> CONSIDER: WHO PROFITS FROM YOUR THIRST FOR COLA?
> THIS COUPON FOR 50 CENTS OFF CREAMED CORN IS A DISTRACTION FROM THE VOID.
The paper snake piled up at Brenda's feet. The plastic bags continued their frantic dance. The other customers were staring.
"Uh, we'll just take that," Ethan said, snatching the lemon and their few bags. "Keep the change." He threw a handful of coins onto the conveyor belt and they fled, leaving Brenda to contemplate the void and a five-foot-long receipt of existential dread.
Outside, panting by the bus stop, they surveyed their haul: six boxes of dusty mac and cheese, a jar of pickles, bread, and one very expensive, philosophically-significant lemon.
"A successful outing!" Alexander proclaimed, looking immensely pleased with himself. "We engaged in a meaningful, if slightly disruptive, act of economic resistance and provided Brenda with food for thought that far surpasses the nutritional value of creamed corn."
Mason held up the lemon. "So what's the profound meaning of this?"
"Ah!" Alexander said, his eyes gleaming. "The lemon is perfect! It is bright, singular, and unapologetically sour. It does not pretend to be something it is not. It is a testament to authenticity in a world of bland, processed conformity. Let it be a reminder to you all: be the lemon."
They looked at the lemon. They looked at each other.
"Next time," Chloe said, deadpan, "we're leaving the ghost at home."
"Impossible!" Alexander said. "For I am always home! And home is wherever there is a mind in need of optimization! Now, who's ready for a dialectical deconstruction of the proper water-to-powdered-cheese ratio?"
As the bus pulled away, the Survivors Club made a silent pact. They would never, ever take Alexander grocery shopping again. But as Ethan clutched the lemon, he had to admit, it was the most memorable trip to Bargain-Mart of his life.