We have no food. We have finished the Saltines and the instant oatmeal and even the spongy graham crackers left over from before summer. We contemplate the Malt-O-Meal. We thoroughly consider our options. We have no food.

If we had enough money, we would go to Whole Foods. Whole Foods on an early Sunday afternoon. Fall would usher us in, take us past the lot parked full of Volvos and Subaru Outbacks; red and yellow leaves would trail from our shoes. Inside Whole Foods, all would be good and cozy and fall-themed: there would be pumpkin pie samples and hearty twelve-grain bread with organic blackberry jam to spread on top, and maybe even Fuji apples sliced up with that caramel dipping sauce beside it. We should be happy, there in Whole Foods. We would emerge satiated, licking the Brie from our fingertips.

We have heard tell, though, of hungry college folk much like ourselves being kicked out of Whole Foods for excessive sampling. We know intimately the friend of someone who has, in fact, endured such an unthinkable form of humiliation, of being asked to leave quietly mid-dip, still chewing and swallowing as said friend of friend was escorted—we asked twice: “escorted?” Yes, escorted—from the store. We are since very cautious around Whole Foods. We no longer feel so entitled to the handfuls of breads or chats around the chips and salsa stands. Our sallow skin and lean, ravenous eyes (so suggestive of scurvy) give us away. All eyes are upon us, and we can feel them: we have read 1984, Brave New World and enough Orson Scott Card novels to know when we are being watched.

No, we are not so comfortable these days at Whole Foods. We walk in and are abashed. We stand in line and purchase our meager food stuffs (a few apples, an 80 cent cast-off piece of Dubliner Swiss cheese) and the cashier knows what the bagger knows what the Deli people observing our furtive movements through produce know: we are Sample Feeders. We do not care about organic food. We are cheap and low-down college kids, and at home—at our apartments—we have no food.

If we had even a little money, we would shop at Kowalski’s. We would ride our bikes down Summit Ave., swerving wildly in the bike lane, passing Summit bikers on their Bianchi bikes that match their Bianchi shorts and jerseys, both of which match their Bianchi shoes. We would fly to Kowalski’s and buy up all the name brand foods we could fit in our backpacks. We would not compare prices or look for generic brands we know are not there, we would not use coupons. And as our bill is tabulated by the fresh-faced high school boy behind the register, we would grab all the Safety-Pops we could and not feel guilty, not a bit. On the way out, we would donate our receipt to charity and not even think twice about the Home Video coupon on the back.

We have one martini olive left swimming in its martini olive juice. We have one can of black beans. We have eaten all our Cup-o-Soups. And then we run out of peanut butter.

We love peanut butter. Unable to agree on creamy versus crunchy, we buy both. Such is our love for peanut butter. For want of peanut butter, we are willing to face the specter that haunts all Macalester students, that unmentionable other, that black sheep in the cozy and familial Macalester-Groveland-Merriam Park triad—we are willing to bus it down to Midway. When grocery shopping ceases to be supplementary, when buying Your Own Food for Your Own Consumption stops being thrilling and fun, this is when you find yourself—as we now find ourselves—in Cub.

Shopping at Cub requires efficiency. We grab at the enormous green peppers and too-shiny apples and do not wonder which chemicals were used or which genes modified to make them this way. Nor do we mind the sad state of affairs we find at the onion bins. We do not linger over pasta sauces, deciding between chopped garlic and herb or roasted tomato. We grab the closest can of Cub Brand Pasta Sauce and wheel our cart onto the canned vegetables. We are nearly run over by the forklifts. We wait in lines that stretch back into dairy. We are exhausted by our grocery shopping. We need naps, full body massages, a drink. We speed-bag our groceries and pay our monstrous bill, praying that our card goes through, that there will be no need to call someone over, to stall the people behind us any longer; we hope not to incur anybody’s wrath here at Cub. We try hard not to be a nuisance. To just get our peanut butter and get out.