Predator Press
[LOBO]
I could’ve driven I suppose, but I’ve had two beers. Literally. I would get pulled over, the cop would ask how many beers I had 'an
pow -I’m getting tuned up like a baby sea lion wearing an Al Gore sandwich board.
I watch a lot of cop TV: 'two beers' is copspeak for “You pigs are dumb. Kiss my ass.”
And I can’t back it up, but I’ve always held the theory that if you get to the point of a sobriety test you’re pretty fucked anyway: the cops are gonna make you sing 'an dance all night long until you screw up. “Walk this line,” and you walk it. “Now do it backwards,” and you do it backwards. “Now do it without your feet,” and you wobble it out handstanding. “Now doing it singing the alphabet, but only using the letters that correspond with the prime numbers.”
-Eh, “B, C, E, G, eh, …
J”
“Ten is a composite number, divisible by two
and five!” he says, drawing his gun. “You have the right to remain silent …”
Whatever.
-Spare yourself the funny dashboard cam appearance on Fox News. They got you.
Waking up Terri because I suddenly realize I need cigarettes twenty-five minutes after the store closed isn’t an option either.
I’m not a big fan of ‘walking’ ... at least not in public anyway. Walking in public is something only poor people do: rich people pay a lot of money to walk in the privacy of a health club like God intended.
I could
pretend to be more upscale and jog, but this is a neighborhood where that would probably get me mugged. Lots ‘n lots of potential mugger material out here too. Who knew so many people still prowled these streets this late? Shadowy, beady-eyed people with undiagnosed wet-looking black sores from hard drugs lurk everywhere -lean with the animal hunger for more drugs to make their eyes even
beadier.
There’s a group ahead on bicycles and I’m in a quandary; I can hold my own against an individual but groups scare me.
One guy? I can brass it out. But groups of guys can ratchet up a lot more aggression. Plus now there’s a lot more people witnessing me engaged in this primitive act of 'walking' ... Sure I can easily pooh-pooh a
single account of me walking, but denying a group’s account is tougher: the next thing you know I’m bein’ interviewed by Jane Goodall and Mark Rayner.
With my street cred hanging in the balance, I do something of dubious wisdom and detour through a darkened and unfamiliar field. I can’t see the thick soil under my feet, but this stuff hasn’t seen any rain in six months; experience tells me it’s so dry it won’t even stick to my sneakers. On my teeny radio earbuds a commercial I had unconsciously tuned out ends, and I’m plodding through the inky blackness to a story about three Americans in Afghanistan that were supposedly captured in Iran for accidentally hiking over the border.
Jesus Christ I don’t want to be hiking
here … what the hell would motivate someone to hike in
Afghanistan?
“You know,” says one American. “I’m really sick of this sand those rocks. Let’s go see
new sand and rocks!”
Pondering this, I breach the pale streetlights of the grocery store’s desolate parking lot.
-If I’m in Afghanistan, the only recreational hiking I’m doing is preceded by a
shovel: I would be the Afghanistani equivalent of veal.
“Did you bring the straw?” I would demand before sliding the money under the door to the Afghanistani delivery guy. “I’m not tipping unless you brought the straw.”
The straw pokes out under the door and I grab it fearfully.
“Okay, now push the pizza through the keyhole!”
The teeny radio earbuds preclude me hearing the automatic doors, but the delicious rush of chill from the air conditioning inside cannot be ignored.
Fwoosh! -only then do I realize I’ve made half the journey safely. Still, the sudden transition from subdued blue-black outdoor lighting to an assault of tactically-sprawled colorful packaging requires a split second of blinking reorientation, and I find myself spilled slightly into a small section of bakery goods. Terri, Screechy and Complainy all go ape batshit for chocolate chip cookies, and fatefully standing before a large display I grab a bag without thinking. Cigarettes are up by the cashier in a locked transparent plastic display, so I proceed to the checkout.
What’s up with locking the cigarettes in those displays? I’m thinking.
Are cigarettes so dangerous to the public, they require a feux Fort Knox so G. I. Joe figures don’t try ‘an steal them? I’ve seen the locks up pretty close and I gotta tell you they don’t look like much of a deterrent ... sufficiently motivated, I’m sure I could bust into one with little effort. Those things probably couldn’t keep the cigarettes from breaking
out.
The only cashier line open has his light on, but I half notice a shopping cart placed diagonally across the access path. It’s one of those bulky-looking plastic red 'an blue ones kids like to get pushed in. I lift up the handled side slightly to pivot it over, and I’m surprised at how light it is despite it’s appearance. Catching the cashier’s eye, I point at his light wordlessly. I’ve still got the earbuds in, but he gives me a “yes I’m still open” nod. I pluck out one of the buds while simultaneously wiggling past the obtrusive cart, and once past I give it a nice shove so it rolls back into a wider thoroughfare of the store out of the way.
I plop the bag of cookies on the counter. “Marlboro Lights in a box too, please,” I says.
After an odd look, he grabs the keys from his belt and kneels in a well-practiced move, and inserts one with a circular tip; the flimsy plastic wobbles slightly as he pulls it open.
I get that cigarettes are expensive, I surmise.
But if these people are serious about locking up cigarettes, this plastic crap just doesn’t cut it. If you’re going to bother, you should at least seal them off like a gas station attendant in Los Angeles: bulletproof glass and the works.
“These?” the cashier shows me a red box.
“Lights, please,” I correct.
-And if you’re going to go with bulletproof glass, fuck, go the distance. Stop at nothing short of an acid moat spitting flames, teeming with angry, starving alligators and sharks. Vaguely, I’m aware of another customer getting behind me in the short line.
Yeah, I’m thinking.
If I saw bulletproof glass and acid ‘an flames ‘an a moatful of alligators fighting with sharks, mmmmm, I'd bet those must be some damn good cigarettes …
I absently glance back, and see the red cart once again, now within inches of my thigh.
An angry-looking lady is behind it.
Puzzled, I do a better visual skim of the situation. Under closer examination from this angle I realize there’s a handful of products in the cart.
And as it slowly dawns on me that the lady had left the cart to save her place in line to get a last minute-item, something moves below.
-A tiny baby in a pink jumpsuit is smiling and waving at me.
Alarmed, I look at the furious woman.
Then the baby.
Then the furious woman again.
“That’ll be $8.44,” the cashier interrupts.
“Well it’s a damn good thing I showed up when I did,” I says to the woman while fishing out my credit card. “This asshole was trying to sell her cigarettes.”
Road Kill Gumbo
I'm always impressed with the very long memories people seem to have of those who under-tip them. A retired waitress with Alzheimer's who doesn't recognize her own son can probably recall the face of every patron who stiffed her over her long career.
So I wonder, how exactly do you figure the tip when there's no up front charge to base it on? Theoretically, even ten cents is infinity percent. Do you give an airport baggage handler a fixed amount per bag? That can't be right. A brick salesman's sample bag would merit the same tip as a guy peddling cotton swabs.
