Are We There Yet?
September 15-21, 2014
By Jay Edwards
jedwards@dailydata.com
I remember Safeway stores, but not where any were. Growing up in North Little Rock, after and before it was Argenta, I maybe remember one down in Levy, on Pershing, but couldn’t swear to it.
The reason I even began thinking of Safeway was Fred. Just when I thought I’d heard all of his true tall tales, he dropped another on me:
“Back when I was a sacker at Safeway,” Fred began ... I looked at KM, riding in the seat next to me, listening to the not so soft sounds of Springstead, serenading her through my sedan’s speakers. She sighed. (Actually she laughed, but resistance to too much alliteration proved futile here.)
“I was a sacker,” Fred repeated, “making a dollar thirty-five an hour. Slinky Boyd was the checker. He made a buck sixty-five. That was my goal.
“It was a pitiful job, especially when one of the housewives who came in regularly bought a 50-pound bag of peat moss or potting soil, and I had to load it in their station wagon. I hated that job.
“Anyway, Slinky and I had a little routine where we would comment on the customers after they checked out with their groceries, and when I wasn’t helping them to their station wagon.
“One day, a guy comes through and buys a pack of cigarettes, which didn’t really make sense because he had a pack rolled up in his t-shirt sleeve. His jet-black hair was slicked back, ending with a ducktail that was almost dripping.
“‘What a greaser,’ Slinky said as the guy walked away. ‘Yeah, what a greaser,’ I agreed, unable to come up with anything more descriptive. We laughed a bit and then looked up to the next person in line, who was a heavyset woman with an angry face.
“‘You two clowns think you’re pretty funny, don’t you? Just a regular Martin and Costello. That greaser you refer to is my son.’
“I was shocked into silence. I think Slinky mumbled an apology, but I just looked down at my feet. She stormed out and we felt bad, until Slinky said something about ‘Mom Greasy’ or ‘Greasy Mom,’ and the snickering returned.
“The next customer up needed help to her car, but thankfully not with peat moss. I got her loaded, turned back toward the store and was face to face with the Greaser. ‘Think you’re pretty funny don’t you?’ he sneered.
“He stood very close, our noses almost touching. I could smell the greasy mix of cigarettes and what I thought was tuna. Then he pulled out a knife and pressed it against my chest. I saw Ma Greaser behind him, and it made me sad that she would be the last woman I would ever see. Greaser popped my nose with his fist, and then he did it again, and then once more, because he could. Then, from behind me I heard, ‘Springstead! Quit fooling around, we’ve got more customers.’ It was Mr. Porkinby, my boss. Greaser lowered the knife and asked what time I got off work. The three punches to my nose were not enough to amnesia all of my good sense and I told him, ‘Nine.’
“It was actually six. I figured three hours should give me plenty of head start to get out of the country. ‘See you then,’ said Chicken of the Sea breath, as he walked away.
“When I got home, mother told me Mr. Porkinby had called to tell me I was fired. I felt like doing cartwheels. Greaser would never find me now, and no more peat moss. I thought about calling Slinky to warn him but never did. Why should only sackers get punched in the nose?”
Jay Edwards is editor-in-chief of the Daily Recordand an award-winning columnist.
Contact him at jedwards@dailydata.com
