*
Were I to crusade, it would be for the return of the corner store. Toyed with the idea of a speakeasy in my dry, little-used basement. We could sell a few things – pickled pigs feet, sandwich bread, beef jerky, two-pill aspirin packs, essentials. Need a little company and an icy beer? Happy to sell you the cup, but not the beer, thankyouverymuch. Come sit by me for a bit and tell me a story.
While the college fund could use fattening, the driving spirit is to open a spot – privately public – for a bit of soc-ial-iz-ing. I have it in mind to contribute to the re-creation of civilized society.
A speakeasy is most likely a long shot, and risky to boot. Imagining the long arm of Virginia law would not be sympathetic to my view. A corner store, though, within the neighborhood? Think of that, mixed zoning! A place nearby, not an industrial-cleaner-perfumed 7-cough-11.
I grew up with The Pink Store. The Yellow Store, too. Same store, new paint. The official name may have been Zussman’s and Mr. Zussman presided. On a brown cardtable chair, in the shadows, sat a quiet, stout, ageless woman, in a dress pulled firmly to her calves. Mrs. Zussman? I will never know because I was afraid of her. Hers was not a welcoming lap – too shallow. Her counterpart, Mr. Zussman, behind the counter, just as stout, not much taller standing, took our dollars and sent us home with the change.
Oh, to send my kid out the door clenching a dollar, or five, on a mission for late Saturday-morning-what’s-for-lunch-fixins, and a little candy on the side…
The neighbors would fight it, slippery slopes looming. Corner store → tavern → brothel →crack den. From a basket of eggs to hell-in-a-hand-basket, faster than you can say theregoestheneighborhood. But I long for a quick stop that dispenses what 7-11 does not. The cures for what ails you – bread that needs chewing, conversation, stinky cheeses, a bit of gossip, non-neon mustard, an eagle eye on your child, real coffee, opining…
Leave your damn car at home and stop in for a little something you didn’t know you needed. Never know who you might run into (and didn’t knock down), and what you might find out. Better than any old neighborhood listserv. By a long shot.
The Lunch Encounter 