problem part 2

To continue the previous theme. Consider the following, a play-by-play of an hour in the life of yours truly.

I’m at Brookshire’s in Red Oak, standing in the pasta aisle, looking for anchovy paste. A gentleman stops just behind me and slightly to my right and says "excuse me." My left hand clamps down on my purse, which is zipped closed, and strapped into the child carrier seat portion of the grocery cart. I look at him and he says “Where is the salad dressing?” I point up and two aisles over where a prominent sign hanging from the ceiling says SALAD DRESSING and tell him “aisle 5.” He says thank you and rapidly moves away.

I have not been able to find the item I want, and stop one of the clerks. Now, there is a large number of clerks at this particular Brookshire’s and ALL of them are aware of what the word “service” really means. (Unlike most stores these days where the clerks run the other way if they even THINK you’re getting ready to ask them a question.) The clerk I asked said she didn’t know and then recruited two more clerks to try to help me find my item. Well, unfortunately, the answer was that the store does not carry anchovy paste. So, a good ten minutes after I started my search, I thanked the three of them for their help and sailed over to the spice island, half a store away.

Standing there debating whether or not to buy the Morton & Bassett all natural salt free no msg no preservatives non-irradiated Herbs from Provence with lavender, the aforementioned “gentleman” again comes up to me and says “Excuse me, ma’am, I’m the one you helped about the salad dressing. I wonder if you could give me a jump for my car when you leave? I have the cables, I just need some juice.”

Hmmmmm. The antennae go up. “I’m sorry,” I replied. “You should probably ask somebody else, I have no idea when I’ll be ready to leave. I’m looking for ingredients for the gourmet dinner I plan to cook tonight for my husband.” Gentleman looks me straight in the face and says “Oh, yeah, well, I’ll see you later.” And then he moves away.

Antennae now are not just up, they’re waving madly. Consider that when I go shopping I am very careful about my appearance. I never wear any jewelry other than a plain wedding band and nondescript watch, am always completely covered showing as little skin as possible, do not walk with phone in hand, wear sensible shoes, and do not consider myself to have an approachable look. I have no idea why this guy is targeting me. Maybe it’s because I have predominantly gray hair and no cheetah on my back? Whatever.

But I’m on a mission, and so continue looking for, and eventually find, white pepper. Short list completed, with everything in the cart that I need for the green curry chicken and jasmine rice on the menu du jour, I head for the checkout. But not to the under 20 line.

This is a “green” store and I always take my own bags; not only does it help the environment, it gives me a five cent cash credit for each bag the store does not have to furnish; also, although there is always carry-out staff on duty, I normally tote my own, and usually go to Lisa’s register. Today, however, I’m deviating from the norm and go through a full service line. When it’s my turn, I tell the casher, “I’m going to need David today.” She nods, rings up my items, and while I’m writing a check for purchase (not because I didn’t have the cash, but to prolong the time I’m there) David comes in from his latest trip to the parking lot. Cashier tells him I want him to take my stuff out. Of course he’s ready and willing.

Having been not just a loyal customer but a real fan for the past several years, I know most of the staff by name, and they know me. The lady in charge of the bakery and I talk about croissants; the lady in the meat market and I share recipes for pork tenderloin; the guys in the produce section talk with me about when to use butter lettuce and when to use iceberg; the store managers always ask what I’m cooking today. I consider all of these my friends, and maintain there’s a lot to be said for shopping in your own neighborhood.

Even though our normal interaction involves little more than casual comments about the Red Oak football team, that latest Cowboys faux pas, A&M’s Johnny (you get the picture), as David and I leave the store, I relate to him what has happened over the course of the last 30 minutes. I laugh and remark that I’m probably just being paranoid. He smiles and gently puts his big hand on my shoulder, and says, “Ms Thibodeau, I’ll go with you any time, you don’t need a reason.” He stows my two bags in the trunk of my car, stands there until I lock my doors and start the engine, and then waves as I drive away.

All the way home I constantly check the rearview mirror to see who is following. Because if there’s anything suspicious, I’m not stopping at my house but driving straight to city hall (a block farther up the street). No one behind me, I turn in to my drive and then, in what over time has become normal practice, sit in the car, engine running, for a few more minutes, just to make sure. Nope, I’m safe at home. Later that night, I tell hubby the story. He says, “You’re not being paranoid if they’re really out to get you.”

OK, so call me crazy. Call me paranoid. But don’t call me irresponsible. It’s my job to take care of myself. And, with a little help from my friends, this is how I roll.

what's the problem?

So the bad news is, hubby went out to get into the truck Tuesday morning, on the way to work, and discovered some unknown individual had during the previous night tried to break into the vehicle. Despite the motion detector flood lights on our garage, the rear window had been pried open, to the point it was almost completely off track. But the good news is, evidently, the perp saw the prominent yellow anti-theft device on the steering wheel; or perhaps the alarm served as the deterrent; whatever the reason, said individual evidently decided it was just too much trouble, and went away without actually breaking the window.

 

There have been other incidents through the years we’ve lived here in Suthren Country. The main example is, while hubby was away on military duty, several Sunday mornings I went out to go to church and discovered my car had overnight mysteriously developed a flat tire. No, not slashed, or harmed irreparably to the point of having to buy a new one, the air had simply been let out. Now, how did I know that was the problem? Because each time I also discovered that the cap that twists onto the valve stem had been replaced and twisted on too tight, and as a result was broken. I took to keeping cans of flat fix in the car and in the garage, purchased a portable tire inflator, and bought a couple of packages of valve stem caps at the local auto parts store. And learned to never try to leave late for church. Ha!!

The incidents stopped when I began parking my car differently, so that all sides of it were prominently visible in the light of previously mentioned garage floods. Oh, by the way, the other thing I discovered was that on all the nights when the incidents occurred, someone had also broken the closest street lamp. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Maliciously broken street lights are not only bad for our city budget, but make it harder for the local police patrol to spot potential problems. Which, of course, was the whole idea.

 

What constitutes terrorism? Anything that makes me afraid to live my life normally. Anything that has the potential for harm to my life or my property is, as far as I’m concerned, a terrorist act. But how do you combat the unknown? Constant vigilance is the only answer. I must always be aware of the possibility that somebody out there somewhere has no respect for me or mine. Hyper awareness is no longer hype, it’s the norm.