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Small stores/Feet sores
Monday, October 20, 2008
Took a walk through the neighborhood today with the dog. Bought an old snow blower off a fella who was selling used junk from his boulevard. Purchased a cigar at the five and dime, along with a Hershey's bar which turned out to be quite stale. I smoked the bad cigar and chewed on the stale chocolate while I took in the autumn leaves, strolling the sidewalk and pushing my snow blower in the 60 degree October sunshine. The children stared, but I didn't mind. They had pleasant faces, pure and alive.
The candy bar wasn't the color chocolate is supposed to be. I think the freshness date had past years earlier. I don't blame the store owner. He's one of these Middle Eastern men living off little more than loose change, running the last of the neighborhood corner stores. The store's nothing to write home about but the boss likes the independence of being in charge. Few native-born Americans would accept such a paltry income, nor have the stomach for 14-hour days working the counter, so Middle Eastern immigrants tend to work these joints instead, selling what they can, which isn't much-- a loaf of bread once a week, some cheap cigars to a bloke like me, and every now and then candy purchased by fearless neighborhood folk, though most prefer the national chain convenience store up the street.
I didn't mind the stale candy nor the dry wrapping peeling away from my cigar. I've always liked the look of the little neighborhood store, and the weirdness of it. A third of the shelves are almost empty, others are carrying items that may be of interest to one, maybe two, people in the entire metro. The guy at the counter sleeps, or reads magazines, during the day. Every now and then a small dog comes up from the basement, looks around briefly, then heads back down the stairs. There's an unpredictability to it all, a sense of it being very human, and thus wonderfully flawed.
The old leather shoes I was wearing grew so worn on the inside that small tack heads began poking though. They must have been there to keep the heels fastened, but they were digging through my socks into my feet, which forced me to have to fill the inside of my shoes with dry leaves to keep from getting blisters.
The oaks and the maples were preening in the sunlight. The sparrows and crows were boasting from their perches. I pushed my snow blower over the golden leaves along the sidewalk, blowing smoke rings toward the sky, as the kids pointed fingers at me from swing sets and bicycles.
I was happy, and I sang an old Roger Whittaker tune to myself as I headed home, watching my dog race between the houses, chasing squirrels and cats, looking every bit as energized as that holy autumn air.
If there was a perfect day to fall over and die, this was it. I would go in peace, passing out on the boulevard staring up at the glorious sugar maples, feeling my dog's curious breath on my face, knowing the neighbor kids would have a heck of a story to tell mom and dad that evening at supper.
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