Conversations with the Rite Aid clerk — famous actress edition
Clerk[as I place a bag of cat food and a half gallon of skim milk (the official purchase of cat ladies everywhere) on the counter]: You look like the actress Karen Allen! I saw her on TMZ the other day.
Me: Oh, really? Thanks! [stops to think of who Karen Allen is and comes up with the squeaking sounds of a vacant cranial mouse wheel] Uh, is that good or bad? I'm not sure I can think of who that is...
Clerk: Oh, you look like her when she was younger. Like when she was in Shoot the Moon.
Me: ... [blank stare, credit-card swipe] Uhhh, was she one of Charlie's Angels? No, wait. They were...
Clerk: No, that was Cheryl Ladd, Farrah Fawcett, and ... oh no, this is really bad.
Me: Was there a Karen? No, a Kate!
Clerk: Kate Jackson!
Me: Yeah!
Clerk: Yeah, no. Karen Allen was in Shoot the Moon with Albert Finney.
Me: Ahhhhh! [feigning recognition] That kind of rings a bell.
Clerk: Well, Karen Allen is at home now having babies. Being a housewife. I just happened to think of her because I saw her on TMZ the other day. [hands me receipt and my bag] Give my love to your kitty cat!
I notice that BetteDavisLies over at Complacencies of the Peignoir has a post up about strange encounters of late. (If you're not already reading this blog, may I politely insist that you do so immediately? It's good stuff.)
I have an incomplete and unoriginal theory about the strangeness that periodically seeps through the linen-wrapped Southern spring and summer days: It's all about the heat. We all go a little more nuts the higher the mercury climbs. We try to be still and watch the world move around us so as to not get any hotter and sweatier than we already are, so what usually feels like molasses-as-usual moving around us is suddenly transformed into something completely cracked out. Something like anthropomorphic, slightly mentally unstable dandelion seeds floating in all directions, carried by whims and wind. But just because you remain calm and still doesn't mean those crazy seeds won't find you and implant themselves directly in your slackened mouth.
This weekend my oldest friend Palm Tree, who lives in Buffalo, N.Y., came into town, driven by none other than Lady Sarah Saint. We had less than twenty-four hours together, so we crammed as much of Memphis in as we could. Okay, as Much Memphis food as we could.
Our midday milkshake break took us to Quetzal, where I planned to knock down a Dark Ruby (an unholily delicious combination of ice cream, espresso, chocolate sauce and raspberry). We pulled into the back parking lot and, upon seeing the establishment's proprietor standing with another person at the back door, I decided to pantomime putting money into the parking meter so as to not risk death or, even worse, a parking ticket. (I remember when Quetzal's back parking lot was free and I refuse to acknowledge that it is anything but free now, but I will pretend to put money in the honesty slot when necessary.)
We walked to the door slowly because the proprietor (whose name I know but feel uncomfortable using because I don't know him personally, so let's just call him, I don't know, FRED) and his young gentleman friend were having somewhat of a friendly spat there in the doorway. Both of them were wearing plain white T-shirts and I was briefly worried that we would be violating some sort of dress code were we to gain entrance. Fred put his hand on the young man's neck as if to pull him inside the building and clear the doorway for us, but the young man was having none of it.
He finally followed Fred into the building and cleared the path for us. We followed him down the ramp into the dining room, and I realized, upon tracking his zig-zagging path with my eagle eyes, that he was shitfaced. We kept our pace slow so as to not draw his attention; I don't care to interact with dudes who are so drunk that they can't walk a semi-straight line. Dude was all over the place. So the three of us stood and stared at the menu (I never can remember how to order at Quetzal) and waited for someone to ask us if we'd like to order something. This seemingly painless server/customer transaction took a painfully long time, as everyone there seemed to be completely engrossed in Drunk Dude's hijinks, which included wandering behind the counter and stumbling around in places where no one was standing.
Drunk Dude eyed me, PT, and SS, and asked, squinty-eyed, "How Y'ALL doin'?!"
"Pretty good," I replied, sparing my guests the awkwardness of interacting with a random drunk Memphian. "How are YOU doing?"
Drunk Dude gave me an enthusiastic yet squinty-eyed thumbs up: "I'm doing FUCKING AWESOME."
Finally, someone was prepared to take our orders at the register, but clerk dude balked when I told him our order was not to go. He told us to have a seat, and that we'd get quicker service that way.
My mind thoroughly boggled (I mean, how complicated would it have been for him to take our orders then instead of having us go to a table so he had to walk over to get our orders?), I led the group dejectedly to a table to sit and wait to be waited on. It took a bit, but finally some chipper blonde-haired lady came out to take our orders. We tried ordering various things, only to find out that the place was out of whipped cream AND white chocolate. FOR SHAME. But we rolled with the punches and placed our orders and waited, all the while keeping tabs on Drunk Dude, who was obviously either a current or former employee with a chip on his sleeve and a lack of things to do in the middle of the day that would keep him from coming to work completely drunk.
We got our 'shakes, finally, and they were divine. Truly transcendent. Then we heard the tell-tale whack-tinkle-crash of someone's accidental fuck-up as who knows how many glass items went crashing to the fashionable concrete floor. We're thinking that obviously Drunk Dude has started thrashing about, but I spot him next to the bar and he looks back at me and gives me what is possibly the best fist-pump I've ever seen. As in, Dude, did you hear that fucking shit crash?! Fucking A!
It is at this point that the funk music playing on the PA suddenly gets unbelievably, unbearably loud. Like, they took it to eleven. We were screaming across the table to be heard. I can only speak for myself, but I thought it was awesome because they were playing "Rollercoaster of Love," and if there's one song you need to crank up, it's that one. We start grooving to the stupidly loud music and suddenly it gets cut off and there's silence. The dining room — consisting now of us plus one dude on a laptop, one woman and her companion eating lunch, and three people sharing a computer in the computer lounge portion of the dining room — is confused. The music starts up again, this time playing "Brick House," LOUD. There is dancing. The wait staff is grooving. Our server is booty-dancing back in the kitchen. We're nursing our milkshakes. The three older people on the computer are dancing. Our server dances with another server out on the floor. The music switches back over to "Rollercoaster." I feel like I'm living a moment out of someone's much cooler life.
We're informed that within thirty minutes Quetzal will be closed. We suck down the remainder of our milkshakes and wait on our server to bring us the check. We send her back with a card and wait on the receipt to sign.
Suddenly waiter dude from earlier (the one who told us to go sit down) comes over to our table, caution in his eyes, and gives us a WTF look: "Um, we're closing!" he screams over the music. "Yeah, we know! She's got our card!" we scream, gesturing wildly toward the counter. How dare he make us feel like idiots.
Receipt signed, we grooved our way out of Quetzal that evening, taking note of our fellow restaurant-goers and their hilarious white-people dancing. (We were all doing hilarious white-people dancing.) It was one of the oddest forty-five minute sequences I've ever lived through. Odd in a good way, though.
Then PT and SS and I went to Rite-Aid for Advil and guess who was at the front desk being silly and outlandish with his customers! For bonus points, guess what toothy Australian disco band was playing on the PA.
I'm telling you, it's the heat.
UPDATE: Thanks to my pal PT, we've got a video snippet! If you watch closely behind Sarah, you can see our server doin' some brief rumpshakin'.
I'm convinced that the neighborhood Rite Aid is a magical place after 11:30 p.m.
It is guaranteed that if I go there as midnight approaches, something wacky is going to happen. If these strange encounters keep up, I'm going to have to start up ithappenedatriteaid.blogspot.com (don't any of you bastards steal my idea!).
Anyway, last night's trip for shampoo and gum and face wash was no exception to the wacky late-night Rite Aid rule.
I walked in, expecting the slightly creepy nighttime clerk to greet me, but there was no one behind the counter up front. I perused the face wash section, got what I needed, and made my way down the shampoo aisle. It was at that point that I actually started hearing the lyrics of the song playing on the PA.
Something about America, America ... how awesome it is ... people taking our jobs ... if you see a product that says it's made anywhere but America, put it down ... etc. I stood slack-jawed as I listened, as I was sure it was parody. But, no. I'm pretty sure it was for reals. I've done some Googling to try to find out what song it is and who sings it, but I've had no luck. It didn't even sound like a country song. It just sucked outright.
Shampoo and face wash acquired, I made my way down the beer aisle and said "excuse me" as I walked in front of some youngish dude with long hair who was carrying on a conversation/musical with himself. He chuckled mightily at my passing — I'm not sure if I should be offended or not — and studied the beer case with great scrutiny. I grabbed a six-pack of overpriced sugar beer (cider) and made my way up to the counter, full of anticipation for what the checkout process was going to bring me.
See, every time I go to Rite Aid in the middle of the night, I have to squirm my way through an awkward conversation with the clerk. There was this incident a while back, and there was another incident with the same clerk where he told me I looked like I was twelve and inquired again as to my relationship status, and there was an incident or two with another glassy-eyed clerk who was a little heavy on the flirting and a little too interested in my driver's license. He followed me out to my car when I forgot a bag, handed it to me, and said, "Don't worry, I'm not stalking you!" The next time I came back he told me he thought my favorite cider flavor was Granny Smith because that's "what you always buy." Even though I'd only bought cider once before, and it was the Amber kind. Yeah. Just a little creepy. Just a smidge.
So last night I'm unloading my little basket onto the counter and a clerk I've never seen before comes up and says hello loudly and flamboyantly. He begins scanning my items. I pull my debit card out of the little changepurse I keep it in, and wait for him to total me out. But he's standing there, craning his neck to read what's written on the changepurse. I help him out: "Being rich is awesome," I tell him. "Awesome clothes, awesome pets, awesome friends, awesome teeth, awesome bill payments." (It's some snarky changepurse I got at Spin Street in the sale bin.)
"Oooooh, that's funny," he says. "You know, the other night I saw South Park for the first time since the first season. It was the episode about Paris Hilton."
"You know, I don't think I've watched South Park since about the first season," I say, wondering what his point is.
"Well, she opens up a store called 'Stupid Spoiled Whore,'" he explains.
"Ahhhh. Ha."
"Could you please show your ID for the camera?" he asks.
I hand him my license and he eyes it for a second, then dramatically waves it in the air and hands it back to me.
And here comes the transitional portion of the story where, if I were a better listener/storyteller, I'd be able to remember/make up something to segue into the next bit. But I'm seriously blanking out on how we got to the next portion, which I can remember like it was all uttered three seconds ago.
The clerk is telling me about the time he was followed by the FBI from a downtown building, because it was shortly after Sept. 11 and you had to show a drivers license to get into downtown government buildings.
"I said, 'I'm not an Arab terrorist but my neighbors are!'" the clerk tells me. "Will you be getting cash back?"
I laugh, say no, and he quickly explains that he is serious — his neighbors really are Arab terrorists. At this point, another late-night shopper has strolled through the automatic sliding doors, and the clerk pauses his story to loudly greet him: "WHAT UP, G?!"
I note that the song about America's awesomeness had ended and that the Bee Gee's "Jive Talkin'" is playing. I can barely contain myself. That is an awesome fucking song.
"Anyway," he says to me, "I don't know how they found me because my home address wasn't even on my license, so they had to follow me home that day. Then they showed up on my doorstep. Meanwhile my terrorist neighbors continued to terrorize the neighborhood!"
I smirk. "Wow. Your tax dollars at work!"
"That's right," he says, handing me my bag. "Welcome to Ammurrikuh, young lady!"
I grab the bag and step away from the counter, noticing that there are people in line behind me. "Have a good one!"
Just a little bit ago, I was pulled up to a stop sign, getting ready to take a left onto Nelson from Cox, when I see this red Echo that's heading east on Nelson screech to a halt right in front of the intersection. I think at first that maybe I'm pulled out too far and the driver thought he was going to hit me, but I look and, no, I'm not out in the road at all.
The driver — a balding middle-aged dude in shorts — gets out of the car, looking pissed off and mouthing to no one in particular, and storms off down the sidewalk, heading south on Cox. He's holding a tiny puppy. Not, like, cradling it like I would hold a puppy, but carrying it like you would a set of keys or a cellphone — just kind of as an afterthought or accessory. Yes, the puppy is that tiny. It's white and possibly a pit bull of some sort.
The old lady in the passenger side gets out of the car and doesn't seem nearly as confused as I do by this whole scenario. She grabs what I assume is a camera and sort of watches the man walks off, their car parked there in the middle of the street while everyone around them makes WTF? faces.
So, I said I was ready for spring. And I am. But this snow ... it's awesome. I don't want it to melt. In fact, I'm afraid to go to sleep because when I wake up tomorrow it might be gone. And then we'll go back to the same bony black trees and dead grass and, gah, if it can't be white then why can't it be green already?
What a surreal week it's been. Monday night I was hanging out with Ashley and Luke, watching Wheel of Fortune, when the news kept busting in to tell us of a mass killing that had happened on Lester Street — four adults and two kids were dead in a single house, and three kids were in critical condition at Le Bonheur. It was pretty awful stuff, even without knowing all the details.
Tuesday I came in to work and, of course, the Lester Street killings were the big story, even though we were still having trouble securing details from the police. It's always a little weird coming into work after a big story has broken. There's a lot of catching up to do, and not a lot of time.
Rumors abounded. That night, Kristin drove down from Nashville to help cover the story for the AP. We had drinks at the Deli and mused about the weirdness of the story and how, apparently, many neighbors had heard gunshots but, for a multitude of reasons, had thought better of reporting them. One of the rumors circulating was that one of the kids had been carried out of the house with a knife in his/her head. I scoffed at such rumor-mongering. And now we are being told that this actually was the case. Another surviving child had his/her fingertips cut off. Supposedly those kids laid in that house for hours and hours — maybe even a whole day — just waiting for help, waiting to die, who knows what. Just waiting.
Sometimes, Memphis and I get along like an abusive lover and a masochist. This city will kick you when you're down and then help you up and wipe the blood and spit off your chin. You have to question your sanity when you end up defending the city to everyone you know when they put it down, even when you know Memphis can be really bad for you.
You think about leaving it, but you don't. Despite how it treats you sometimes.
I need a break. Which is great because I actually have two days off. I wish I had more time. But two days will have to do.
I'm hitting the road in a bit. Hopefully Regina Spektor won't cancel. Again.
There are nights when you'll come outside and Memphis will smell like the inside of a greasy Frency-fry bag, left clumped up at the foot of a chainlink fence through a rainstorm and then several days of punishing sun.
And then there are nights when you'll come outside and smell nothing but fresh bread from the Wonder Bread factory.
After a French-fry-bag weekend, tonight was a Wonder Bread night.
Last night Lady Sarah Saint rolled into town for a visit, and we spent the evening eating apple wedges and drinking a vast array of wine and beer and making the obligatory 2:45 a.m. trek to the Circle K before they chained the beer cave. I made said trek in flip-flops and yoga pants covered in cat hair, but I was too tipsy to care.
We talked a lot about relationships and loneliness and men and other things that wouldn't be polite to recap of a family blog such as this one. We did not solve the world's problems. Sorry, everyone. But we did agree that Josh Ritter sings a damn fine ballad.
And somehow, while talking about weird bits of Corinth and Memphis lore, I mentioned Voodoo Village, and we excitedly made a plan to drive down to Mary Angela Drive and see what all the fuss was about once we'd slept and sobered up.
So this afternoon, I drug myself out of bed and we had breakfast for lunch at CK's on Poplar (what better to sop up excess alcohol than a delicious waffle) and got psyched up for the trip. All I've ever read about Voodoo Village is that the people really, really hate it when onlookers come and try to take pictures, and that people who do so often get approached by angry residents. And who can blame them, I guess. It is pretty rude to gawk at people's private property and titter about what must be going on there. But I kept trying to think of it as being on the same level as stopping to take pictures of someone's Christmas decorations; you have a lawn full of brightly colored crap and people are going to gawk. As long as we gawk from the street, it's perfectly legal.
Anyway, the closer we got to the village, the more nervous we got about it. I don't know why. Probably just because we'd built it up so much in our minds, and all the info out there is just dripping with the makings of cheesy urban lore that it just felt touristy and weird, but I think we also were genuinely worried that we might be doing something stupid.
So, we turned off Shelby Drive onto Mary Angela, and instantly things got so much creepier; the road is narrow and there are no lines or sidewalks. Trees loom high along the side of the street. Knowing it's a dead-end street just gnawed at my gut. And then we saw this:
And lots more stuff — brightly colored crosses and starburst patterns and weird totem pole things — but we were too busy having a mild freakout to take better photos. And then we totally chickened out and, as soon as we passed the big iron gate — which was closed — that leads to the compound, we backed up in the street Austin Powers-style while two dogs barked their crazy dog heads off at us. And then we hightailed it outta there and felt totally stupid for chickening out and not driving all the way down to the end of the road and coming back up, as our thirst for the supernatural had not quite been sated. Which led us to going to hang out at Elmwood for a good half hour before they closed the gates.
Just some Sunday afternoon ghost hunting. Perfectly normal.
For several weeks, Laura Conaway of NPR's Bryant Park Project has been working with me to get an audio slideshow going for the BPP blog as part of their "Where I Live Now" series.
And here it is!! (I'm geeking out about it. Sorry!)
Naturally, I was worried that I sounded totally stupid (not to mention nasally and bored; why do I always sound so freaking bored?!), but I think Laura managed to edit out the more vapid points of my interview, when I rambled about slopping hogs in Saltillo and avoiding the strip malls of East Memphis. Yeesh, for an introvert, I really do like the sound of my own voice.
Thanks again, Laura!
And to everyone who wanders over here from BPP, welcome. Take off your shoes and don't mind the cat hair.
It only took me three years, but I finally made it to a Grizzlies game tonight.
We bought the $5 nosebleed tickets (next cheapest were $18 apiece ... um, as if) and threw a grappling hook over a beam and climbed our way all the way to the top of the Forum.
Even the crappy seats aren't all that bad, though. The Forum isn't that huge. And yet, they can't fill it up. I actually started feeling bad for the Grizzlies when I saw all the empty seats. (It filled up steadily over the course of the game, though, so it wasn't too dismal.) And then I remembered the price levels of the tickets and my pity melted away into absent daydreaming about a better way to sell tickets in Memphis.
(Like, wouldn't it be cool if, on game day, they reduced the price of all the leftover tickets by, hell, $5 or $10, just to see if they could get a packed house in there? It's an imperfect idea, so don't go telling me all the ways it sucks. I was just daydreaming, sheesh.)
And then, as I was leafing through the game booklet, it occurred to me (again, since this thought hit me the other day when a Grizzlies MATA bus passed me) how nice their graphic design is this year. I don't know if they had the tri-color geometric lines thing going last year, but I'm digging it. I think the bear head is a good logo anyway, and the colors are nice (yellow plus two tones of muted blue). But the tri-color lines, dude. Dig. Them.
So, yeah, about the game. Um, it was exciting. There were dunks and layups and free throws and T-shirt cannons! I fantasized about Pau Gasol getting an effing haircut, and squirmed in my seat when I realized how cute Juan Carlos Navarro is. I yelled things ("Get it, Headband!") and kvetched at the children dancing inappropriately during halftime because I am eighty. The Griz won, which my super-sleuthing abilities lead me to believe is something rare and magical.
