A recent contestant on Jeopardy! inspired me to write this bit. And I thought it was just time to have a little fun. Mostly. In other news, I expect to publish the sequel to “Boychik” in early 2026. Title to be “Boychik Meets Girl.” Have a nice day.

This dude, he buys cereal. Boxes and boxes, whether or not there’s a sale, two for ones, generic or brand names, doesn’t matter. Every Saturday he comes to the store—tall, thin white dude with a bow tie and glasses, every hair in place like he’s got a tiny personal landscaper for his scalp.

And he always ends up at my register. Force of habit? Thinks I’m cute? I’m not supposed to ask why. They told me at training—be friendly but not that friendly. Don’t comment on the purchases. If, say, they’re wearing a team jersey I can smile and say “go team” or whatever, but never, ever, ever tell a guy his team sucks. It’s like the golden rule of retail, the trainer said. If a cashier checking you out in a store ever said something that pissed you off enough to go to the manager, don’t be doing that to someone else. You don’t know what people are going through. Might have just lost their job, is why they’re buying ramen and generics and shit. Maybe they’re pregnant when they didn’t want to be, maybe their mother just died.

So that’s what I do. And I must be doing something right, because I haven’t been written up once for anything in the seven years I’ve been here.

He’s back again now. Today rocking the bow tie with a button-down white shirt and jeans that look ironed. Comes in, gets a cart, disappears down the big aisle and you just know he’s going for the cereal. Funny, I never see him buy milk. Unless he gets it somewhere else. Maybe he doesn’t even eat the stuff. When it’s slow I make up stories about him in my head. He works for the church and he’s buying for the food pantries. Like some food insecurity Robin Hood, only he buys the stuff, and brings it to the poor folks.

Then he’s in my lane with six boxes of generic corn flakes. And some razors, shaving cream. His eyes have their usual shine, like he’s brand new to the world, taking it in for the first time. It’s a slow morning and curiosity gets the best of me.

“You must really like cereal.”

“I do!” he says.

I wave another box over the scanner. Blip. “You have it with milk, or straight out of the box?”

“Oh.” He looks like he’d never thought about it. “Both ways, depending. I just…really like having it around.”

“Must have a big pantry or a whole lot of kids.” I think I might be on the edge of non-trainer-approved behavior, but it feels like he doesn’t mind being asked questions, not in any rush to check out and go home.

“I keep it in my basement,” he says. “I just feel better knowing it’s there.”

“Oh.” I’m getting an odd feeling now. Like I should stop asking questions. Like he’s some kind of weirdo. Like, what else is in that man’s basement?”

“Doubt they’re gonna stop making it any time soon.” Blip.

He gives me a long look, a little smile like he’s chewing on a secret. “You never know.”

I finish ringing him up, take his cash—he always pays in cash—and with a polite thank you, he leaves.

The girl on the next aisle doesn’t have a line and leans over the partition. “Mr. Wizard still keeps coming around for you, huh.”

“Mr. Wizard?”

“He’s some kind of rocket scientist, I heard. Nuclear something-or-other.”

My radar pings. Nuclear. Cereal. Basement. It lands on something my mother said about when she was a girl in school. Duck and cover under the desks. Blast radius. Mushroom cloud.

I try not to think about it anymore. I try not to think about what Mr. Wizard the nuclear scientist might know. Customers come up to the registers and I’m grateful to go back to work.

But later that night, my husband finds me busy in the basement with a measuring tape. His eyebrows ask a question. I say, “How bout we put some shelves down here. You know. Maybe some canned goods. Just in case.”