It's bedlam at the grocery store. SUVs are parked across handicap lines, bumper to bumper in the fire lane, left idling with the driver door open. Inside, home cooks fight over shriveled potatoes and moldy onions in the produce section. Pyramids of canned pumpkin are reduced to ruins. Shelf stockers wearing turkey hats salvage what they can. The store won't be made whole again until next week when refrigerated trucks make their return to the loading bay. The suburban loser shoulders through the throng toward the salad topping aisle. It’s filled with everyone in the suburbs who needs ranch for their side salad, crushed breadcrumbs for their macaroni and cheese, and, like the suburban loser, crispy fried onions for their green bean casserole. There’s one left. A lonely container covered with dust in the back. The generic store brand, it doesn't have the tantalizing red packaging of the name brand, no high contrast close ups of the fried onions translucent with oil, so delicate they melt in your mouth when you eat them by the handful like a god, a whole container empty before you notice it. This looks like a can of motor oil in comparison. The suburban loser has no choice. A young father in the checkout lane asks the suburban loser where he got the fried onions and he points him in the general direction. The house is dark when he gets home. His wife is still in bed. His eldest son is at the kitchen table, closing his eyes. He thinks he found a good drug lawyer, he tells the suburban loser, but all the courts are closed until Monday at least. They're not picking up the phone at the jailhouse. The suburban loser nods and goes to get his wife out of bed. What is happening to my baby boy, she asks the suburban loser. Why can't she call and tell him everything is going to be okay? The suburban loser doesn't know, but family is coming over soon and dinner isn’t even started yet. She should get cleaned up. The suburban loser feels a buzzing in his body as he pours a can of mushroom soup over frozen green beans in a casserole pan. He can't remember if the fried onions go on before or after it goes in the oven. He asks his eldest son what's the fastest possible time a turkey can cook if he turns the heat up as high as it can go. The story for the guests is that his youngest son is at his girlfriend's for Thanksgiving. He stirs the mixture of soup and green beans. How much did drug lawyers cost? Did the fried onions go on before or after?