Work Text:
Costco was set to close in eleven minutes.
Carl knew, with the bone-deep certainty of a man who had once driven the forty-five minutes for a hot dog only to arrive at 6:01 PM, that this was going to be close.
He power-walked past the optical center, past the pharmacy, past the forty-seven-pound bag of jasmine rice he absolutely did not need but was genuinely considering, until the feeling of skin sticking to thigh reminded him that he was desperate enough to be commando, out in the wild, and he had to do something about that.
There.
The underwear aisle.
Carl stood before the wall of options with the focused intensity of a man whose boys needed support. He had fourteen dollars and thirty-two cents left in the bank. He knew this precisely. He had checked three times.
The Kirkland Signature cotton boxers were $17.99 for a twelve-pack.
The off-brand ones, Mendoza's, featuring a logo that was either a rooster or a very aggressive mushroom, were $11.49 for seven. Carl did the math. He did it again.
"They wash fine," he said, to no one. "Probably."
He grabbed the Mendozas.
*
Standing at the self-checkout thirty seconds before closing, his card declined.
A tap.
Declined again.
”Godammit, Carl.”
Then, finally grudgingly approved on the third tap, he felt the satisfaction of a man who had made a very sensible adult purchase. Even if the 24lb box of beef jerky caught his eye while the greeter checked his receipt.
He did not know, walking out into the October evening, that he would be wearing these exact boxer shorts, bedecked in very fetching love hearts, when the world went to shit.
He would have bought the Kirklands, had he known.
Probably.