Rainy day shopping excursions
We can all agree the weather’s been pretty bad since the first of the year. Being retired and having torrential rain every day gives me a lot of time to shop. I enjoy the atmosphere of Lodi stores-people are friendly, it’s warm and dry inside, and occasionally I get to break up a shoplift-in-progress (once a cop, well, you know).
First, there’s the store parking lot. You see people cruising the lot looking for an empty space, cautiously peering from side to side like they’re hunting big game in Botswana. Eventually, they’ll spot a shopper coming out of the store, bags in hand, and try to anticipate which direction the aforementioned purchaser of legumes and lotto tickets might be headed. They’ll wait for the shopper to commit, then floor it. The shopper opens their car door while the parker blocks the aisle by utilizing the wellknown “King’s X” turn signal maneuver. Their blinker flicks on and off, deflecting parking slot competitors and colorful language from drivers who need to use the restroom.
Once inside the store, you’ll observe a similar dance displayed in establishments across our fine city. There’s the deli line where you can watch people harangue a young clerk because the four-and-a-half slices of mortadella they ordered aren’t thin enough. They’ll blow up like a puffer fish, then loudly proclaim, “I didn’t order bologna,” even though the piece of lunchmeat the beleaguered deli attendant is holding up is so thin it no longer qualifies as an earthly substance.
We move on to the pharmacy, where another familiar tango takes place. First, there’s usually a line, and depending on which strain of flu or toenail fungus is out there, a long line. Butterflies hatch in your stomach as you break the plane of the store’s front door, wondering if there will be a line and how many poor souls will be standing in it. You turn the corner near the Metamucil and cue the angelic choir; there’s no line. (That happens about as often as the Raiders win a playoff game. Ouch). More than likely, at least three, probably four prisoners of the lethargic pharmacy process are standing there. The person the pharmacy tech is waiting on at the register casually leans against the counter, body totally relaxed like they just finished a big plate of meatloaf and a Marlboro Light. They’re the king of the world, the envy of all of us suckers stuck in line behind them. They know they are in total control, and time no longer exists for them as it does for the mortals doing the conga behind them. They’ll grin, glance over their shoulder at the pawns waiting obediently, then make comments like, “Hmm. I heard there are a couple of versions of Metamucil out there. Can you please take your time and explain each and every one of them to me please?” Another grin. Sad sacks with watery eyes and plugged sinuses shoot laser beams at the dictator at the counter, now chuckling with the pharmacy tech who, upon spying on how long the line has become during the conversation, suddenly slows down to a “state bureaucrat” pace. You’re standing in line so long that you figure out the shelves on your left contain things that make you go to sleep, and the shelves on your right contain things that make you go.
Then there are the shoplifters. You see them walking around the store, a couple of empty backpacks strapped to their backs, displaying that “I’m really confident” look on their faces while they jimmy the locks on the baby formula or Cuervo Gold. One time Chuck Fromm and I saw two guys stealing a bunch of stuff from a store. We followed them into the parking lot, and one of them threw a can of Spam at me. Frustrated all we could do was take pictures and write down their license plate; I trotted out a line from the movie, The Sandlot, and yelled, “You throw like a girl!” Based on the pathetic form the thief displayed, I later realized I’d actually insulted female ballplayers all over the world, not the skinny meth head hopping into a beat-up Mazda that reeked of weed.
As you can see, shopping in Lodi is interesting and, at times, very entertaining.