Day 42: Callahan's Grocer

[mayomanoflove.livejournal.com]

[from here.]

Now that his monologue had ended, it took Hijikata a(n un)surprisingly short amount of time to reach his destination. Pointed out to him (not so politely) by the nurses after he'd (not so politely) asked, a small store labeled "Callahan's Grocer" stood before Hijikata. Exercising the supreme caution demanded of him by Edo Public Service Announcement #12 ("Approach any consumer grocery store with supreme caution! A sale might be going on! Check for the old ladies! If there's fewer than six of them standing at the Discount section at the front, the sale is 56% sure to be extremely crappy!"), Hijikata stopped before entering--checking his blind spots left and right to ensure a smooth entry.

Visible signs of foodstuffs being sold? Check.

Visible signs of service people guarding the door and thus ensuring that no hoboes are likely to be washing in the store bathroom should you need it for an emergency? Check.

Visible signs of prices, ensuring this is a normal store and that you haven't accidentally entered a Church promotion? Check.

No visible signs of flyers ready to be handed out in case this is a Church promotion masquerading as a normal grocery store so as to increase the chance of people entering? Check.

Check, check, check, and check.

He was ready.

Placing a hand where his sword would be if the outfit he was wearing could accommodate a sword, he took a step in.

And headed straight for the condiments section.

[free as...something searching aisles intently for mayonnaise now he's going to be avoided like hell, isn't he? x__x]

Comments

[toxicspiderman]

[from here]

The grocery smelled nothing like a farmer's market. Greens so fresh you could mistake it for a suburban lawn, and fruit that hadn't seen the inside of a genetics laboratory. No raw sewage in the gutters, mildew-covered ice, or rotting produce unidentifiable to anyone not raised in the Philippines or Argentina or wherever.

He tugged a grape off a bunch when it looked like no-one was looking and popped it in his mouth, parathion and assorted toxic residues and all.

What he was really looking for should be near the register. Except the racks there held gum and chocolates and not a single magazine or newspaper.

He walked up to the register and rapped on the counter.

[closed to NPC mod for now, ask if you want to join]

[damned-town.livejournal.com]

Callahan was prepared to deal with the interesting patients that stopped by each week, but that didn't mean that he couldn't raise an eyebrow at the rather rude way one of them stalked over to the counter and then knocked on it as if he was trying to summon a servant or something. The man sighed, setting down the broom he'd been sweeping the floor with so that he could walk over and tend to the man's problem.

"Hold your horses there," he greeted, figuring he would give the man the benefit of the doubt and see if his attitude improved once he got some attention. "What do you need?" Other than sanity, but that joke might be in bad taste even for him.

[toxicspiderman]

If S.T. had been trying to be rude, he'd have been obvious about it. There was a transactional rhythm specific to any shop and it's regulars. A mating call between provider and consumer, measured in GDP instead of grandchildren's college degrees. S.T. wasn't interested in staying around long enough to waste energy on touchy-feely crap. If any of the locals even saw them as people, rather than anonymous nutcases. The professionally polite expression on the guy's face implied the latter was more likely.

Somehow, he didn't think the locals would be marching on the institute any time soon. So much for an army of saviors with signs protesting inhumane treatment. Unless they wanted to get the loony bin out of their backyard. I'd like to file a transdimensional zoning violation, please?

He assumed a chummy smile anyways. "Morning. Was looking for a paper -- wanted to see if the Sox--" he cut himself off. Either global warming was a myth, or it wasn't September. "--Pats were doing okay out there without me to cheer them on."

Hey, at least he wasn't trying to buy mouthwash with food stamps.

[damned-town.livejournal.com]

The smile from the patient did help Callahan loosen up a little bit more. That was really all he asked of these people. He knew they weren't right in the head at the moment, so he was willing to be as generous as he could, but there were also things he wasn't going to tolerate regardless of who was doing it.

Still, all this guy was asking for was a paper so he could check up on the sports. That was harmless and Callahan was ready to help... not that he could do much of that.

"A paper, huh? Yeah, we don't carry 'em here. You might have better luck over at the bookstore," he suggested, jabbing with his thumb in vague direction of the other store.

[toxicspiderman]

Score one for grocery guy in the Zen Art of giving people the polite runaround. S.T. had struck out and he knew it. There wouldn't be any papers at the bookstore, either.

He stood there for a long moment, studying the scratches time and change had left in counter. As if they were cuneiform, or a treasure map, that would suddenly reveal a lost road or a winning Lotto number.

There weren't even scuffs where a newspaper rack had been removed, or any evidence that one had been there. Crap. He was looking at this the wrong way. He hadn't been wrong about where the bank was, it hadn't been there at all. And no papers -- not even a local rag with wedding announcements and an empty police blotter.

It was like someone had shoved this entire corner of New Jersey behind the Iron Curtain and no-one had noticed. Maybe he should try trading his jeans for something. Except the guy already thought he was a crazy long-haired duck-squeezer with an extra helping of clinically disturbed -- taking his pants off would just confirm it. Time to get a move on.

"I'll try my luck there. Thanks, man."

He turned to go. A bulletin board hung on the wall. As he stared, it seemed to pull free from its moorings and drift closer. He shook his head, and it snapped back into place. It was really fucking familiar, even though the cork was different and a brushstroke here and there proved the wall had been painted at least twice since it was installed. He could just imagine turning to The Smiling Grocer and asking Excuse me, but did that bulletin board follow me in here? He'd be laughed out of town. Instead, he retrieved a pen and started jotting down replies.

[to Twin Pine]