Sunday, October 12, 2003
In a small town with one stoplight many years ago, one that was bordered with the overpainted white spikes of picket fences, the town fathers legislated and enforced morality (overnight parking on the street was forbidden, and it was a "dry town", i.e., no beer wine or liquor was sold in city limits).
Near us was a small mom and pop store, just half a block away across the county line in San Bernardino County. My mother would send me there on small shopping errands, sometimes with notes authorizing me to pick up cigarettes for her. I was a known quantity at the little store as I went to school with the son of the people who owned the store. Periodically, in the hottest time of summer, I would hang out when my young friend was watching the counter as just a kid. I’d slug down a bottle of Sunspot, a big green bottle of carbonated grapefruit juice that also had a picture of a cup on the side and said, “As much caffeine as a cup of coffee.” The store, just across the county line, sold beer and wine.
The city fathers kept leaning on them in various ways, applying pressure, to make them stop selling booze, as college kids would sometimes drive over there and buy it. I think because they sold alcohol, some people suspected they might have more cash on hand than they actually took in. Once in awhile, they were the targets of hold-ups. One time, as a child, I was hanging out a bit and a man walked in and soon we were in the middle of a stick up.
We were all walked into the back room to the big beverage refrigerator by gunpoint. The store-owner Dad had started selling barbecued chickens, which he would cook on the premises in a stainless steel rotisserie back by the cool box. People could buy a chicken and carry it home in a paper bag. He was Mexican and was raised with a number of “folk beliefs” or “superstitions.” While we were gathered by the cool box, waiting for the thief to empty the register and hoping he would leave right after, he gave me a chicken heart to eat in that circumstance to “give courage.” I ate it, but all of this business was giving me a bad taste. I returned home with a pack of blue Newports for my mom, and never said a word to either parent about what had happened. But I told my sister and her boyfriend, Frank Zappa.
Frank would go to that little store now and again. He didn’t like some of the attitudes he encountered with some of the store clerks in the other stores, who tended to judge people by their appearance. Once, he got mad because he had to wait so long in the line of the one and only brand new supermarket, and he was just buying a magazine. So he finally got up to the cashier and suggested they open another line, as everybody had been waiting far too long. The cashier was a little smart with him, and said, “Is that all you’re getting?” Frank said yes. And the clerk muttered, “Can’t you afford to buy anything more than just a magazine?” Frank said loudly, “What is this shit?” And the clerk summoned the manager because this “Mexican” had used bad
language in front of the other customers. It ended up they escorted Frank out after he had made his purchase, but the cashier hurled another insult. Frank said later, “He called me a spic!” Frank spat out a laugh even though he was very angry. “He thought I was Mexican!”
¶ 10/12/2003 09:49:00 AM
Near us was a small mom and pop store, just half a block away across the county line in San Bernardino County. My mother would send me there on small shopping errands, sometimes with notes authorizing me to pick up cigarettes for her. I was a known quantity at the little store as I went to school with the son of the people who owned the store. Periodically, in the hottest time of summer, I would hang out when my young friend was watching the counter as just a kid. I’d slug down a bottle of Sunspot, a big green bottle of carbonated grapefruit juice that also had a picture of a cup on the side and said, “As much caffeine as a cup of coffee.” The store, just across the county line, sold beer and wine.
The city fathers kept leaning on them in various ways, applying pressure, to make them stop selling booze, as college kids would sometimes drive over there and buy it. I think because they sold alcohol, some people suspected they might have more cash on hand than they actually took in. Once in awhile, they were the targets of hold-ups. One time, as a child, I was hanging out a bit and a man walked in and soon we were in the middle of a stick up.
We were all walked into the back room to the big beverage refrigerator by gunpoint. The store-owner Dad had started selling barbecued chickens, which he would cook on the premises in a stainless steel rotisserie back by the cool box. People could buy a chicken and carry it home in a paper bag. He was Mexican and was raised with a number of “folk beliefs” or “superstitions.” While we were gathered by the cool box, waiting for the thief to empty the register and hoping he would leave right after, he gave me a chicken heart to eat in that circumstance to “give courage.” I ate it, but all of this business was giving me a bad taste. I returned home with a pack of blue Newports for my mom, and never said a word to either parent about what had happened. But I told my sister and her boyfriend, Frank Zappa.
Frank would go to that little store now and again. He didn’t like some of the attitudes he encountered with some of the store clerks in the other stores, who tended to judge people by their appearance. Once, he got mad because he had to wait so long in the line of the one and only brand new supermarket, and he was just buying a magazine. So he finally got up to the cashier and suggested they open another line, as everybody had been waiting far too long. The cashier was a little smart with him, and said, “Is that all you’re getting?” Frank said yes. And the clerk muttered, “Can’t you afford to buy anything more than just a magazine?” Frank said loudly, “What is this shit?” And the clerk summoned the manager because this “Mexican” had used bad
language in front of the other customers. It ended up they escorted Frank out after he had made his purchase, but the cashier hurled another insult. Frank said later, “He called me a spic!” Frank spat out a laugh even though he was very angry. “He thought I was Mexican!”
¶ 10/12/2003 09:49:00 AM
