I finished shopping at Target and I went downstairs to eat in one of the box store plex-taurants. Baja Fresh had not yet opened. I had to go the The Lucky Greek or whatever the hell they called it. Was it Pitty-the-Pita?
The place looked suspect. There were a few people eating outside. Their plates were too devoured for me to see if any of it looked any good. I went inside. There was one greasy looking older woman in a turquoise sweater and turquoise pants set and bad, lace-free, slip-on tennis shoes. She looked like she might be homeless, but might also have a home. I went ahead and ordered. What the hell. It was so cheap.
I was just feeling sort of disconnected from all the new smells of Target. I couldn't believe how fat everyone was. I couldn't believe how poor everyone was. I couldn't believe how greasy everyone was. I couldn't believe I ordered lunch in this place. The place was corporate Greek. There was an odd mosaic of what might be some sort of siren pulling some sort of sailor to some sort of rock. But it was made by corporate committee so it lacked any bite or humanity. I did not get anxious. I accepted it all for what it was and I thought, “It would be so nice if family owned restaurants make a comeback.” Greek corporate music played over the speakers. I couldn’t imagine where they got it.
I was number forty-two. A plastic square told me so. The busboy/food delivery guy saw that my number was flat on the table. That would not do. He picked it up and placed it full view in the metal vertical circular pressure clip that rose above condiments next to my left arm. I was number forty-two. I waited. I saw the busboy/food delivery guy go outside to deliver food to some other diner who was some other number. He seemed very nice yet I couldn't tell from the look in his eye that besides going outside to deliver this tray of food, if he had any idea where he was on earth. The turquoise woman sat quietly to my right, looking at the menu. Her hair was so long, gray and greasy, she MUST be homeless, I thought.
I saw two trays of food placed on the high food prep counter. I bet one was mine. The busboy/food delivery guy grabbed both trays. One had fries, not mine. He dropped that at another table. He brought me my gyros-salad-rice. It was disgusting. The pita for the gyros was deep fried like an English corn pasty. The one ounce of meat inside was minced. It was a bad meal. I figured, well, I’ll just eat a bit. Just then, the turquoise may-be homeless woman turned to me and with just two teeth in her upper gums and a smile on her face that looked like nothing less than supreme joy and fulfillment, she said, “Isn’t this music nice?”
I warmly shook my head yes and turned to my food as if to give the signal, “I respect your humanity, but I have some eating to do and you can’t have any of my food.”
Then I thought to myself, if I really let this whole situation in, the quarter empty Target shelves I had just seen, the bad products for sale, the lazy price check girl who was more interested in her nails than in getting her job done, the imprisonment of these workers in these hollow profit holes and this wacky woman in turquoise who is actually enjoying this awful music while she contemplates maybe gumming a kebob, I would probably lay on the floor and cry for at least an hour.
But I remained like the other zombies in this bad new town square. I looked straight off into space. I picked at my greasy lunch, ate only half of it and I looked over at the back of Madame Turquoise and I thought she probably had not had any lunch, she did not know how to get money out of me other than trying to engage me in a joyful conversation about the music and that menu in front of her didn't fool me, she can’t read. So I figured, shit, don’t cry. Just give this woman some money for lunch. I opened my wallet and I had three twenties. I could have given her a twenty, but I really didn’t feel that generous. So, I went up to the register, Egad, and I got four fives for one twenty with no trouble. I put three fives back in my wallet and folded one five nicely in my palm to give to my poorly turquoise dressed, almost toothless fellow human lady with the long greasy gray hair.
But I didn’t want to insult her. I figured, you know, her clothes are clean enough that she may not be homeless. She does have a basically clean purse. But the lack of teeth, that’s really what makes me think she has to be homeless. But then, who am I to know anything with regard to teeth? So I took on a very peer to peer attitude, walked up to her and as if we had just shared a lovely introduction in a lovely tea garden and I asked her, “Have you had lunch yet today?” My tone implied that I wanted to know what she thought about the food here. I figured this would be a very welcoming way to interact with her while avoiding any embarrassment for either one of us. I figured she would next say something to the effect that she had not yet eaten with a look on her face of someone who always relies upon the kindness of strangers. The look of a little girl in an old woman’s body. And I would press the five dollar bill into her hand, tell her to have a nice day and I would go outside and I would cry because she was so alone in the world and uncared for. But when I asked her, “Have you had lunch yet today?”
She answered, “Yes, it was delicious.”
I have no idea if she was lying. Her cup was empty. How did she get the cup? You have to pay to get a cup. Or did she just grab one? I maintained that she actually had not yet eaten. But I did not want to insult her, so I said, “Have a nice day.”
She seemed confused that I spent that much time talking to her. But she also seemed so lovely in her turquoise outfit, smiling to the music. A part of her knew that I meant her well. She tried to engage me to begin with, with the music, I blew her off, then tried to reconnect. But I really had no way in. I missed my chance when I threw my head down when I first got my food. I put the five dollar bill back into my wallet, went down to the parking garage and I thought about that turquoise woman, all happy and alone in the bad Greek plex-taurant, while I drove home in my creaky 1992 Geo Prizm.
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