A Return To Poor Person's Shopper's Food Warehouse

I don't know what it is about Poor People's Shopper's Food Warehouse, but I keep getting into the most interesting conversations in there. The other night I went in for a few things. The store wasn't crowded, but there was a backed up line at one register. An older black woman was in front of me, dressed to the nines. She had on a white raincoat with gold buttons, a white lacey hat, black dress, hose and shoes. She turned and whispered to me conspiratorily, "There's only one woman checking out," (meaning the cashier.) "Really?" I whispered back. She nodded like it was a disgrace and crying shame as in "what's the world coming to?"

We started talking. She told me she had been to a funeral at her church earlier in the day, and she said, "I was in such a rush to the get to the church on time I did something stupid." I asked what and she smiled and said, "I forgot to put in my teeth." Sure 'nuff, just a few scragglies here and there. I told her I certainly didn't notice because I was admiring her hat and thought she looked "real spiffy." She thanked me then started telling me about how she had found some real bargains (mint Life Savers.) Her cart was packed, and she was leaning over it with her cane.

She asked about a cake in my cart from the bakery, and I told her I had a friend with a birthday, and even though they said not to do anything, I got a small Italian cream cake and some candles to celebrate. She said, "When a man tells you not to do anything, they really mean for you to do it." I nodded. She went on to praise the bakery and how the woman who baked for the store was "a doll." I had only seen an older woman back there with gold teeth, so I guess that's who she meant. Next time in, I'll remember "doll," rather than "teeth."

She went on discussing the store in general, then we shifted the conversation. I had mentioned I was tired from being over in a house of someone deceased, clearing things out until late, and I was really dragging. I told her the woman had been 96 years old and living on her own, and that seemed to perk her up; thinking she might make it that way, maybe. We talked about what it was like removing things from a deceased person's house. She said, "I'm originally from Philadelphia, but I've been living down here for decades. When my mother took sick, my two brothers wanted me to move back to Philly to take care of our mother, but I told them "No. I'm not doing it." She paused and added, "That would be my brothers Jack and.....Jack Ass."

She stayed put in D.C. with no regrets. She said they still want her back up there, but she isn't budging. She talked about a man in her life who is "sniffing around her." Trust me, this woman had me howling with laughter. It was all in her expressions and timing. A store manager came up and split us up to go into two express lanes. I told her I didn't want to go because when that happened last time, the cashier was looking at my coupons and check and license, just short of biting it for authenticity, and everyone being held up was pissed, and sure enough, I got back into that cashier's line again. Same thing.

When I was done, I saw the church lady over by the pharmacy talking to a friend, so I went over and said, "I want to thank you for our conversation today. It absolutely made my day, and I had such a good time talking to you." Her friend turned to me and said proudly, "She goes to my church!" I told her, "Well, it's obvious everyone in the store knows her and loves her (they did know her, too,) and that she's a very interesting lady....and funny. My church lady turned to me and said, "I'm the Whoopi Goldberg of Aisle 3!" And on that note, we parted. Laughing.

O Is For....

So far I've avoided the predicted Inauguration crowds. I was surprised on Saturday morning in Georgetown, between 10 a.m. to 12 by not seeing pedestrians and very little traffic on the road. Sleeping off that 4 a.m. final bar call? Dupont Circle? Equally empty. Yet later I read Cher was hitting Sephora for $1,000 in bronzer. I whipped around doing my regular errands. This may be an Inaugaration Week, but to a Washingtonian it's still putting gas in the car, picking up the dry cleaning and going to the grocery store. It's me doing my laundry during the Inaugural address.

I've had the television on all morning, watching minutes fly by to see Obama leave Blair House, while making clam dip and washing my food processor. Listening to the story of the changing of the flag from one President to the other, I was also listing things to sell on Amazon. Someone in Korea wants Return of the Living Dead.

Mein Führer! I can walk!

A friend in San Francisco instant messaged me asking about the crowds. I'm laying low, Lisa. As I write, a woman just went into cardiac arrest. The newscaster said, "We hope the crowds realize that this is an ambulance trying to get in to help the woman and not a shuttle bus." Apparently the ambulance couldn't get in without a struggle, but what floored me is this credo of "there will be no dead air. Dead visitors, yes." I heard Tom Brokaw compare the image of Dick Cheney in a wheelchair to Dr. Strangelove. Broadcast anchors could learn much from orators about the power of the pause. Now I'll never be able to get rid of that image.

I decided to get out early yesterday and bypass that holiest of holies, Whole Foods, and go to what I call the Poor People's Shopper's Food Warehouse. After yesterday, I will be calling it Cell Block 5 Shopper's.

When I pulled into the parking lot, I thought "Luck. Not many cars, not crowded inside"--and it wasn't. I got through produce without too much incident. Navel oranges 10 for 10. The usual parents pushing their kid in that germ ladden kiddie car which I neatly skirted. When I got into the bakery, I saw this group of five men, all of them with that hard time on the line stare, wearing a mish mash of army jackets, navy caps, all of them leaning on the cart or shelves for support and obviously drunkedy drunk drunk.

They kept chanting "O-BA-MA...O-BA-MA," only it changed with each utter: slurred, twisted, OH-BEY-MEH, and then hysterical laughing. Even funnier, they had a list. Party at Halfway House? Maybe they broke out of the D.C. Jail for the day to go get their party food. I saw a show once about Cook County Jail in Chicago. That's where I learned you can fry bacon and bologna on your metal bunk. You lift the mattress off: instant grill.

A lot of those full carts were having parties. I asked. Cheetos, frozen chicken wings, every junky food you could think of. I saw an odd young woman and man walk through; pale white skin, pale red hair. Brother and sister? Twins? Their eyes looked so "odd" you had to wonder "Crystal meth?" "Cult?" A lot of people had strange eyes in that market. I felt like walking the aisles with my back to the food; the classic Jesse James in a bar stance. Protect your back.

*This in from friends at the Hawk and Dove. They tried walking in to the Capitol grounds from their Capitol Hill home this morning and hit one barricade after another. After enough twisting and turning, they all headed over to the Hawk and Dove on Pennsylvania Avenue to watch from there.*

Further on in the grocery store, I turned down an aisle to get some Kleenex. Three Hispanic young men, tatted to Juarez and back were standing in the center of the aisle. No cart. All of them glaring at me, like a dare to even come near them or ask them to move. MS-13. In that neighborhood, bodies have been found with missing parts. Laborers sleeping under trees? Bye bye head, the machete being the preferred weapon of choice. It's not unusual to read in the news, "The torso....." If you go into a drive-through at McDonald's, there might be a finger in the fries.

I'm afraid I was in one of my moods, just wanting to get out of the market at that point, and I kept pushing forward, glaring right back at them, focusing on the nastiest one, thinking, "Fuck you, Hor-Hay. How dare you stink eye me? Get out of my way, or I will plow you." (Rather foolhardy in retrospect, given I could have been left in ribbons in the parking lot.) I told a friend from New York this story, and she told me about the time she was leaving a halfway house (where she served on the board and volunteered) and some of the residents were drunkenly lurching around, not moving out of her way, talking trash, and she pushed through and said "Yes. Excuse you! (pause) Gentlemen AND addicts, I see." She explained , "I don't know what happened. Sometimes the New York comes out in me." I guess D.C. came out in me.




Further along I was in the soft drink aisle and an arm reached around me, while calling back to her companion, "Does it really matter what flavor we get?" I gasped. Here I was in front of Rock Creek Cherry-Orange-Grape-Peach-Tiger Ale paradise, and she dismisses the selection of these fine sparking spirits? Where was Lil' Wayne with a sommelier's wine cup around his neck, ready to discourse on the vino vitae of Fanta Strawberry over Stewart's Orange.

I don't think I've ever been in a market where the vast percentage of people seems like they just got out of gen pop. After I was telling the MS-13 story later in the evening to another friend, he said, "I just have to ask. What aisle did this take place in?" I said, "Aisle 10. TOILET PAPER." "Oh."

January 2, 2009

I have this longstanding habit. When I get stuck in a grocery store line, I pick up a tabloid and open to it's most lurid story and leave it open for other shoppers. I have no idea why I do this.

I went outside and saw another failed business. CheeZe Home. The owner/manager came outside, staring at me. I waved. He dialed on his cell phone. I walked to my car and got in. He acted like he was writing down my license plate number. I mean. Who am I? A retail spy for Stix N Stuff?