The Madding Crowd
There ain’t nothin’ that would get me out on the streets on the day after Thanksgiving. Not with the crowds of rabid shoppers, some of whom get in line for store openings in the wee chilly hours before dawn, sometimes well before dawn. I mean, there’s some kinda epidemic of mob mentality that induces people to think that they need to compete with absolutely everyone for some particular merchandise a full four weeks before Christmas. The cold, the lines, the intense grabbing — doesn’t seem to matter; indeed, there’s something religious about the experience. Apparently.
Long lines of and mob rule by freneticized denizens of the cheap is not my thang. Just like I don’t travel in the few days in front of and after Thanksgiving or Christmas. Why subject one’s self to the hostility, frustration, and buyer rage (you heard it hear first) when most likely, if you just did a little thinking and planning, you could avoid all of that craziness? I mean, part of our decision to drive from Oakland after our flight from Hawaii arriving in Redding at three in the morning, was based on concerns over the entire Bay Area rushing about from mall to mall.
That said, I did , in fact, venture out on Friday. I wanted to pick up two weeks of mail, but most of all, I was thirsty. For orange juice. Now you mighta thunk that being in the tropics we would be drinking all sorts of juice concoctions, and that would be true, but to my surprise, there wasn’t much local orange juice on display. Just the Tropicana/Sunkist types. And that doesn’t past muster. I am a fresh orange juice lover. I can drink it by the gallon, but am generally more restrained.
However, it’s not always easy to find good juice oranges, and then there’s the muss and fuss of squeezing enough of the ambrosial nectar and leaving the carcases and seeds, and sticky juicer. And until I discovered the 128-ounce jugs of Odwalla orange juice at CostCo for $4.49, I would drink orange juice only during those months that I could get good oranges; less easy to do up here in the wilds of Northern California. And that was what drove me out of the house to face the madding crowds.
Well lo and behold, I must have pleased the gods, because at CostCo I got to a register that had no line, just a fellow who had finished getting rung up and was paying. This is semi-unheard of, even at the most obscure hours. Shortly, however, a woman — obviously the man’s wife — showed up, seconds too late, and he sent her to the back of the line. That is, behind me. Now I had less than a dozen items, and she was ready to wait, but I sent her through with her two items before me. She was floored that someone could be that courteous. I was floored that she was floored. Judging from the condescending attitude she’d taken from her apparent husband, however, I could understand. Not wanting her to lose her moorings, I semi-apologetically explained that I was still in the Thanksgiving spirit.
Perhaps for the act of kindness on my part, the universe showed its glory by placing me behind only one other person at Manhattan Bagel, where I’d gone to secure a freezerly supply of sesame bagels for my darling wife. And, are you ready for this, the woman who was in front of me asked me to go to the head of the line, so to speak, because she was still deciding. I graciously accepted, and minutes later found myself on the road home. In light traffic.
At my desk and loving it, that’s SetonnoteS...I’m Tony Seton.