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.