“Can we make one more stop?” Kelly says.
It’s my understanding that, after an hour at Costco, one is expected to do nothing more than unload the car and take a nap.
“Sure,” I say, knowing any protest will be futile. “Where to?” I ask.
“I need some hangers from Bed & Bath,” she says.
You gotta be kidding me, we got hangers up the wazoo, I think. “Okay,” I say.
We’re coming down Canoga Avenue. The car loaded to capacity with TP, paper towels, and kitchen products purchased in bulk. I pull into the parking lot at Victory.
Pre-Super-Bowl-Sunday business is brisk. Cars and people everywhere. Petco, Pier One, Bed Bath & Beyond, and BevMo!; parking, schlepping, and shopping.
I would have loved to have shopped at a place called BevMo! when I was drinking. A name so user-friendly. As efficient as stamping “Standard” on a man’s urinal.
I’m about to pull into a spot near the exit, and Kelly says, “Oh, up there, honey,” pointing like a weather vane. “By the front door,” she says, “that black Escalade’s about to leave.”
I cringe. I hate holding up cars behind me while waiting for a spot with my signal blinking. I’m scarred by my father’s vehicular impatience. Taught early that impeding parking-lot flow is a sin worse than getting a “C” on a report card. “Okay,” I say and creep closer to the oversized SUV backing out.
I park and say, “Do you mind if I wait here?”
“Sure, baby,” she says in a tone acknowledging my husbandly duties thus far tallied. “I shouldn’t be long,” she says.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say. “I’m going to put the seat back and close my eyes.”
Kelly leaves. I lower the windows, recline the seat, and cover my face with a newspaper.
It’s a warm Saturday afternoon in Canoga Park and the sun rays coming in the car feel good. What could be a better time to rest while most are scurrying about getting ready for the big game?
But I can’t settle. I’m being bombarded by loud rap music. Where is that coming from, I wonder and strain up to look. I see in my rearview a faded, red Ford Explorer with numerous white cut-out family decals on the tinted rear window and small arms dangling out the sides. The entire affair is vibrating.
The thumping base line and angry lyrics will make it impossible to get any shuteye. I become more concerned about the young children being held hostage inside.
So be it, I think and raise my seat back up. I watch the foot traffic moving to and fro through the large automatic glass doors at the BevMo! entrance.
A tall, blond, athletic-looking man with two small children in tow catches my eye. He’s the type that got all the girls in high school. Probably played varsity ball. A starter, no doubt, whose moved on in his years. He’s cut like a Greek God, is wearing a thin tank top, baseball cap turned backward, has a thick handlebar mustache, and chiseled jaw.
Probably a craftsman, I think.
A chubby stock clerk dressed in his red BevMo! polo shirt is bringing up the rear with a keg of beer on a dolly. The silver drum is labeled “Anchor Steam.”
Boy, I used to love that brew, I remember. I’ve purchased countless four-packs back in the day but never knew it was sold in a keg. Not that that would have mattered. I would still have run out sooner than expected, nor would have appreciated its freshness.
“Over there at the end,” the man says to the clerk, pointing in the distance. His two blond kids are fascinated by the large silver barrel balancing on the green dolly. “It’s the large white pickup at the end with the ladders,” the man says.
Then a delicate flower exits through the sliding doors. She’s Asian. I imagine her fragile but decisive. She appears well-put-together with skin that resembles custard-colored porcelain. She’s clutching a narrow brown paper bag to her chest. I presume it’s an expensive bottle of wine by the way she grips it.
I imagined her sipping the fine vintage from a cut-crystal glass held in her long fingers with manicured French nails. The thought reminds me of the iridescent humming bird extracting pollen from the trumpet flower vine in our front yard earlier in the morning when I went to get the paper.
She clicks her key thingamajig in the hand clutching the bottle neck. The horn in the dated Honda parked next to me chirps.
The petite woman is less than ten feet away. A closer look at her face and I can see her life has not been so easy and she’s older than I guessed. Although still rather fragile, I suspect she’s sustained more than one beating throughout her life.
I’m saddened. It becomes apparent her lineage is less than that of a dynasty, and she’s likely the daughter of oppressed, working-class factory parents.
She opens her car door and our eyes meet. I feel a kinship to the path she’s walked and to the relief she’ll receive from the fermented or distilled liquid contained in the bottle pressed to her chest.
The rap music continues, and Kelly returns with a fifty-count box of fancy hangers, and gets in the car. “Hi, baby,” she says.
I start the car and ask, “Home?”
It’s my understanding that, after an hour at Costco, one is expected to do nothing more than unload the car and take a nap.
“Sure,” I say, knowing any protest will be futile. “Where to?” I ask.
“I need some hangers from Bed & Bath,” she says.
You gotta be kidding me, we got hangers up the wazoo, I think. “Okay,” I say.
We’re coming down Canoga Avenue. The car loaded to capacity with TP, paper towels, and kitchen products purchased in bulk. I pull into the parking lot at Victory.
Pre-Super-Bowl-Sunday business is brisk. Cars and people everywhere. Petco, Pier One, Bed Bath & Beyond, and BevMo!; parking, schlepping, and shopping.
I would have loved to have shopped at a place called BevMo! when I was drinking. A name so user-friendly. As efficient as stamping “Standard” on a man’s urinal.
I’m about to pull into a spot near the exit, and Kelly says, “Oh, up there, honey,” pointing like a weather vane. “By the front door,” she says, “that black Escalade’s about to leave.”
I cringe. I hate holding up cars behind me while waiting for a spot with my signal blinking. I’m scarred by my father’s vehicular impatience. Taught early that impeding parking-lot flow is a sin worse than getting a “C” on a report card. “Okay,” I say and creep closer to the oversized SUV backing out.
I park and say, “Do you mind if I wait here?”
“Sure, baby,” she says in a tone acknowledging my husbandly duties thus far tallied. “I shouldn’t be long,” she says.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say. “I’m going to put the seat back and close my eyes.”
Kelly leaves. I lower the windows, recline the seat, and cover my face with a newspaper.
It’s a warm Saturday afternoon in Canoga Park and the sun rays coming in the car feel good. What could be a better time to rest while most are scurrying about getting ready for the big game?
But I can’t settle. I’m being bombarded by loud rap music. Where is that coming from, I wonder and strain up to look. I see in my rearview a faded, red Ford Explorer with numerous white cut-out family decals on the tinted rear window and small arms dangling out the sides. The entire affair is vibrating.
The thumping base line and angry lyrics will make it impossible to get any shuteye. I become more concerned about the young children being held hostage inside.
So be it, I think and raise my seat back up. I watch the foot traffic moving to and fro through the large automatic glass doors at the BevMo! entrance.
A tall, blond, athletic-looking man with two small children in tow catches my eye. He’s the type that got all the girls in high school. Probably played varsity ball. A starter, no doubt, whose moved on in his years. He’s cut like a Greek God, is wearing a thin tank top, baseball cap turned backward, has a thick handlebar mustache, and chiseled jaw.
Probably a craftsman, I think.
A chubby stock clerk dressed in his red BevMo! polo shirt is bringing up the rear with a keg of beer on a dolly. The silver drum is labeled “Anchor Steam.”
Boy, I used to love that brew, I remember. I’ve purchased countless four-packs back in the day but never knew it was sold in a keg. Not that that would have mattered. I would still have run out sooner than expected, nor would have appreciated its freshness.
“Over there at the end,” the man says to the clerk, pointing in the distance. His two blond kids are fascinated by the large silver barrel balancing on the green dolly. “It’s the large white pickup at the end with the ladders,” the man says.
Then a delicate flower exits through the sliding doors. She’s Asian. I imagine her fragile but decisive. She appears well-put-together with skin that resembles custard-colored porcelain. She’s clutching a narrow brown paper bag to her chest. I presume it’s an expensive bottle of wine by the way she grips it.
I imagined her sipping the fine vintage from a cut-crystal glass held in her long fingers with manicured French nails. The thought reminds me of the iridescent humming bird extracting pollen from the trumpet flower vine in our front yard earlier in the morning when I went to get the paper.
She clicks her key thingamajig in the hand clutching the bottle neck. The horn in the dated Honda parked next to me chirps.
The petite woman is less than ten feet away. A closer look at her face and I can see her life has not been so easy and she’s older than I guessed. Although still rather fragile, I suspect she’s sustained more than one beating throughout her life.
I’m saddened. It becomes apparent her lineage is less than that of a dynasty, and she’s likely the daughter of oppressed, working-class factory parents.
She opens her car door and our eyes meet. I feel a kinship to the path she’s walked and to the relief she’ll receive from the fermented or distilled liquid contained in the bottle pressed to her chest.
The rap music continues, and Kelly returns with a fifty-count box of fancy hangers, and gets in the car. “Hi, baby,” she says.
I start the car and ask, “Home?”
