Marcia walked into Trader Joe’s. It was empty: that was strange. She grabbed three kiwis, a bottle of lemonade, and some plain vanilla cake mix. She approached the register and set her basket on the shelf. The man behind the register had a scruffy white-blond beard and wore a bandana around his head.

“Did you find everything okay?” he asked. “This cake mix is great.”

“Oh, sure did. I’m excited to try the cake mix.” Marcia bagged the items and got out her wallet.

“Not necessary,” said the cashier. “Have a good night.”

“I didn’t pay,” responded Marcia.

“It’s cool,” said the cashier.

“Well, it must be my lucky day. Thanks, man. I love Trader Joe’s!” Marcia left the store and drove home. She unpacked her groceries and dug in her purse for her cell phone to text her mother that she was baking a cake. Her mother loved that kind of information. Unfortunately, Marcia could not locate her phone. She emptied her purse onto the kitchen table, getting gum wrappers and little bits of goo from a travel-sized bottle of hairspray everywhere. No phone. She went out to her car and rummaged through the magazines in the footwell, dug into the seats and ran a finger around the cup holders. Nothing.

Marcia had used her phone in the car on the way to Trader Joe’s. Marcia often used her phone, even when she wasn’t supposed to, like on the freeway or in the bathtub. She felt a minor surge of horror that her phone had disappeared so mysteriously: it must have fallen out at the grocery store. Maybe while she was choosing kiwis. It was the only explanation. She drove back to the store, which was still empty, and went back inside.

Her phone was not on the floor beneath the kiwi bin, nor was it on the floor by the cake mix, nor was it on the sticky refrigerated-lemonade shelves. Marcia approached the cashier with an apologetic expression.

“I’m sorry,” said Marcia, “I think I left my phone in here somewhere, and I can’t find it.”

“Oh,” said the cashier, “This phone?” He entered $0.01 on the register to open it, and retrieved Marcia’s phone from within.

“Wow,” said Marcia. “Thanks! You found it!” She held out her hand, but the cashier did not return the phone.

“For the kiwis,” he said. “And the cake mix and everything.”

“I wanted to pay money for that,” said Marcia. “I wasn’t trading my phone.”

“My mistake,” replied the cashier. “Here it is. And you know what, I’m so sorry for the mix-up, you can go ahead and choose a gourmet chocolate bar from over there. The sea salt caramel is fantastic. Especially with those salt-free baked chips. They’re surprisingly satisfying.”

“Really?” said Marcia. “And…this is free? I’m not trading my phone back for these?” The cashier laughed. Marcia chose a chocolate bar and some chips, took her phone, and left the store. While driving home, Marcia checked to see if her mother had texted back yet: she hadn’t, and that was strange. Marcia dialed her mother’s number, and after one ring it connected, but it seemed as though the phone had answered itself while in her mother’s purse (as it sometimes did): there was no “hello,” just the muffled sounds of “Brandy” by Looking Glass, and someone ringing a bell. That was funny: “Brandy” had been playing earlier, while she chose kiwis at Trader Joe’s.

Marcia was concerned enough to drive by her mother’s house, which was only a few blocks away. The lights were on but no one answered the door, and nobody had let Sneakers the cat in for the night. Marcia put Sneakers in her car, fearing coyotes, and on a hunch, returned to Trader Joe’s. When she walked in the doors, she saw that the store was less empty than it had been: her mother was standing in the dairy aisle, wringing her hands.

“Mother!” exclaimed Marcia. “What are you doing here? I’ve got Sneakers is in the car; you forgot to let him in.”

“I was watching 60 Minutes, and then all of a sudden I was here! I didn’t even drive! I just got sucked into a space-time tornado and here I am!” Her mother seemed more amused than frightened. “I’ve never been in a Trader Joe’s,” she explained. “I thought it was all weird off-brands and bran flakes, but look at this Greek yogurt: it’s like half the price of Gelson’s!”

Marcia stormed up to the register. The cashier was doodling a portrait of Marcia’s mother.

“What did you think, I’d trade my mother for chocolate bars and some potato chips? Just what are you trying to pull? My money’s good; I want to pay money for things. Is this some kind of joke? Look at her!” Marcia pointed to her mother, who was shoving bottles of saffron threads into a basket already rattling with sea salt grinders. “She’s shaken up by this experience!”

“I’m sorry,” said the cashier. “But I really hope you enjoyed the chocolate bar.” Marcia pulled the chocolate bar and unopened bag of chips from her purse and put them in front of the cashier.

“I’m returning it and getting my mother back,” said Marcia.

“Sure thing,” said the cashier. Marcia’s mother disappeared. “I paused 60 Minutes for her. So.”

“That was nice,” said Marcia. “Thank you. I’m going to start going to the Trader Joe’s in Eagle Rock, though, because they never try to pull this stuff with me. I just pay with a debit card and that’s that.”

“Are you sure?” asked the cashier. “Even on Sunday evenings after six?”

“I think so,” said Marcia. “I’m almost totally certain.”

“Because Sunday nights after six we get our fresh oranges delivered,” explained the cashier. “And usually on Sundays we suggest making a nice orange-spice cake with that mix over there and some fresh oranges to enjoy with a nice hot toddy. It’s a lot better than the vanilla. Most people find the vanilla kind of blah, kind of dry. The orange-spice, however — well, you can smell it, can’t you? That perfume coming from over by the samples station. Mmm. Oh well, goodbye, enjoy your evening. No more trading tonight.”

Marcia did smell the orange-spice cake. And the whiskey was unbelievably priced: she had lemons at home already. She could put up her feet and eat a slice of cake, not just plain old vanilla cake, but gourmet cake with freshly-grated organic orange rind. She could get a nice buzz off of several hot toddies, watch Beyond the Valley of the Dolls and light a fire in the fireplace. Above the orange-spice mix display was a drawing of a roaring fire, a mug of toddy, and a big slice of cake a la mode. It said, “Try me with ice cream.”

Marcia considered her options. She very much wanted to leave the store, but at the same time she was gripped by an emotionally cozy feeling, a warmth between her heart and her guts: the sense that she was understood, that the store had burrowed into her and produced a beating organ of happiness, something organic and personal and fulfilling. It would be the best cake she had ever had. It would be the warmest, coziest evening. She had the perfect sweater for it.

“What do you want for it?” whispered Marcia. “I want to trade for cake and whiskey and oranges. Tell me what you want.”

“Sneakers is a beautiful name for a cat,” said the cashier. “Is Sneakers a Persian?”

“He is. He loves windowsills and just hanging out. He’s quiet. He’s clean. He’s old, but he’s fluffy. And cute-fat.” Marcia had to get home soon. The cake box said it needed fifty minutes, and she was very hungry.

“I’ve always wanted a cat,” said the cashier. “A Persian cat, with a smooshed-up face. And I’ve always wanted a sense of humor. Do you have one?”

“Not really,” said Marcia. She scrambled for something else to offer, something she didn’t use often but which would seem valuable to someone else.

“You have really nice eyebrows,” offered the cashier. He pushed his bandana back. “Mine are kind of ghostly.” His eyebrows were pale, nearly invisible. Marcia thought about it. She figured she would miss Sneakers more than her eyebrows, since she had long bangs and Sneakers was a loyal, clever cat who could almost say the word ‘hello.’ Because she had already traded Sneakers, she decided to finish the deal so that she could speed home and get to baking.

“Let’s do it,” agreed Marcia. “Trade me.”

The drive home was nice and quiet, without Sneakers mewing in the back. Marcia stewed her whiskey with some lemons, as the cake achieved maximum fluffiness in the oven. She had some chai ice cream; how serendipitous. Sitting on the sofa — warming her toes by the fire, white eyebrows glowing in the dimness — Marcia drew her wallet out of her purse and looked at the unbroken, unspent twenties, counting them with greedy delight. As she ate her cake and drank her booze, she wiped her greasy fingers on the money and thought about what a great place Trader Joe’s was. Trader Joe seemed to have a really good handle on what made a fair trade.

Her phone buzzed. Her mother had texted to inquire about the whereabouts of Sneakers. Marcia would have to buy another box of orange-spice cake mix soon.