Title:  Spectator Sport: Convenience at Hand
Posted:  Sunday, September 2, 2012 @ 9:08 AM
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The tinny obnoxious ding-dong sound of doom greets you as soon as you walk in and contemplate your imminent penniless state. You are entering the zone of exorbitance. The silence is deafening. No one stops to chat here. The possibility of being discovered is too great. You stride down the short aisles, wending your way on your fat legs around suspiciously corpulent people, waiting to similarly obtain your daily fix, because most likely you're just there to pick up something you really don't need in order to proceed with your life. You're intemperate and you know it. Ridden with guilt, you dart your eyes around to make sure there are no witnesses to your illicit act. You jump about a mile when a fridge door slams, and sigh in relief when you realize you're still safe. However, flight is essential. Quickly grabbing what you don't need, you crack your wallet open at the counter, signaling your acquiescence to the dark side. Exiting the dealer's den with eyes lowered, deliberately avoiding eye contact, you don't talk. You skulk away into the shadows, hoping against hope that you haven't been observed by anyone who may besmirch your already grubby reputation. Lamenting your indigent financial state, you take comfort at the sight of your treasure, the goods you have just purchased, hoping there will be enough to tide you over until you need to satiate your next deprivation.

 Can you guess what I'm talking about? That’s right, the malevolent omnipresence of a convenience store, strategically positioned in order to ensure your continued reliance on the closest parental wallet to satisfy your infinite needs.

 It’s your haven, your home away from home, your fortress of refuge from society. The place is either silent or buzzing with activity. Your nose is treated to a symphony of aromas, ranging from greasy chips to floor cleaner to tomato sauce. No one takes long here. Even the regulars don’t linger.

 On one particular day, my gaze zeroed in on the guy preceding me in the line, paying for his pack of Marlboro cigarettes. Not that he was cute or anything. He looked like a prison escapee. He wore a black earring, a band t-shirt, and a brutal look. I watched him glance at the cashier, who was taking her time as she rung up his sale. I never believed people’s eyes could “shoot daggers” until then. I absently speculated what crime he committed and why he’s out of jail, home free. He turned around. I contemplated running. Abruptly, his eyes changed. They crinkled at the corners, and his mouth gave way to a smile. That smile changed him; it lit his whole face up and made it look surprisingly mellow. He proceeded to the door with a gait surprisingly smooth for an ex-convict. I kept watching as, unabashed, he obligingly held the door open for an old lady coming in. It just goes to show; even the best presents can come wrapped up in unusual packages. I exited that store with a new perspective on life, and my faith in humanity restored.


Photo Credit: http://davecollyjap.blogspot.com/2012/03/things-i-like-about-japan.html
Photo Credit: http://www.geekosystem.com/fruit-juice-chocolate/

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