A bottle of ...

August 4, 2011. 9:30am.
I am in the local market. It boasts a full service post office, fresh produce, a deli counter, shelves of gluten free food, good wine in a wide price range, fancy cheese, imported chocolates, locally made jars and bags of expensive, delicious things like condiments, cookies, jams. Frozen gourmet whoopie pies that have been personally endorsed by Martha Stewart. The kind of place where you could find your favorite trendy greek style yogurt, and your favorite small batch microbrew beer, then get some delicious looking thing you had no idea you wanted until you saw it there flirting with you.

And then there is the other market. You know what I mean. They have the "regular" food. The Campbells soup, Wonder bread, cheese in a can, Ragu spagetti sauce, Ranch dressing, Little Debbie snack cakes. The stuff I'm too snobby to buy. Yes, all that "regular food" is cohabitating with the over-priced "fancy schmancy" stuff people like me buy. I love that. The "regular" food people would never waste their time in one of those overpriced gourmet shops. (And most older people just get overwhelmed in the huge supermarkets. A very nice lady told me that yesterday. Six years after leaving our oh-so-hip neighborhood in Brooklyn, I am astonished by the number of old people I see every day. Really old people. Every day.)

So I love that the IGA is there making it easy for people who only need a few things to shop. And I love that it's also crammed with stuff that could keep me entertained all day. So many kinds of imported mustard that I've never heard of! Last week I found the chocolate I dream of, flown all the way here from Portland, Oregon. Moonstruck. Aztec. With finely chopped almonds, a hint of cinnamon, and a handful of pixie dust.

I ask myself, is that market the dowdy librarian with super sexy lingerie hiding under her frumpy exterior? Or is it the ultra thin fashionista with the baggy, saggy old grannie panties underneath?

While we set aside that conundrum, ponder this: The lady in front of me at the register makes room for me to put down my teetering stack that was only meant to be coffee. There is time, as our cashier finishes up with the bagging and chatting of the previous customer. There is time for me to to look, and carefully turn over in my mind the image I see before me. One bottle of gin. One lonely midsize bottle of gin. Not the 2 liter, not the pocket flask, just the regular ordinary size bottle of regular ordinary Beefeater gin. Not in itself a startling thing. But it's the only thing. The one item the woman in front of me is purchasing at nine thirty am. Instantly my mind flashes back to any number of a certain genre of film--Summer of 45 is the first to leap forward. The kid trying to buy condoms noodles around asking for every stick of gum or ball of string, or nail clipper he can think of, trying to work up his nerve, and at the same time camouflage his purchase, as if he typically buys these things all together.

But our lady today has no such anxiety. I look at her carefully. She is not what my grandfather would have called a Bowery Bum. I am mostly looking at her back, and she is reasonably well dressed. Comfortable upper/ middle class. (Damn, I wish I'd seen her car!) I keep asking myself, under what circumstances does this nice lady purchase one bottle of gin and nothing else so early in her day? How is it even possible that not one other item here can tempt her. Why does she need gin, and only gin, and why does she need it right now?

Here is the boy at the register. Tall, with frizzy wisps of red hair that look like they were thrown at him with clumps of glue attached. I am eager to read his t- shirt. It is black. There is a face I cannot identify. He turns and I read "The jerk store called, and below the face, They're running out of you". Now I see it is Costanza. But while I am enjoying this witty pop culture artifact there is a conversation going on beside me. This skinny, blotchy youth has done the most extraordinary thing. He said, "Hey weren't you just in here two days ago buying the same bottle of gin?" As I stand there in a shocked daze, I realize that we three are pleasantly bantering as if he'd just said "hey I like your blue sneakers!" She ha-has about how surprising it is that he remembers her so precisely. While I am thinking about how unlikely it is that he wouldn't, and he is trying to awkwardly explain that he is not a zombie, and notices many of the regulars going in and out of the segregated liquor section behind him, she is chuckling about her husband, who just has to have his martinis! She jokes that she should probably just buy a bigger bottle. Then she explains that she only drinks vodka. While we are all humorously remarking on this cashier's superior memory, I remark-- with my usual mock seriousness -- that his comment about the frequency of her gin purchases was highly impertinent! Well, it really was. They both looked at me as if I'd just said something in a foreign language. I was unaware that the concept of impertinence has become archaic.

I was impressed with her ability to seem completely at ease during this entire exchange. After she left he told me about other less well-heeled regulars whose daily purchase is whatever is the cheapest.

I can't stop thinking about that one bottle of gin, and I'm dying to know if she's back tomorrow buying another.