Monday, January 11, 2016

The Supermarket

From Westwood Stories


You've read a couple times now about the young man in Westwood Village who wanders from cafe to cafe all night, who has his own apartment but is afraid to stay there? You remember? He'd often come find me late night at the supermarket's restaurant. He'd ask me to buy beer with him. He was making a study of the best breweries, ranking, categorizing them. Well it seems the University Police had identified him as the perpetrator of the crime of bringing alcoholic beverages within the surveillance perimeter of the University, swerving their car towards him in one instance as he walked down the street to let him know they had him in their sights.

The University police had tracked the source of the young man's beer back to the all night supermarket; apparently they then held secret meetings with the supermarket management to coordinate action plans. Last night the outsourced uniformed security service of the supermarket entered the restaurant, the whole crew of 4 or 5 grim-faced slaves in love with their slavery, they gathered together en mass and came up to me, one of them making bold to declare, 'You are a drunk, Sir. You have to leave! Right now, Sir! Sir! Leave now, Sir!'

My reply? I took a pause, looked around me. There was the old man who for years had been sleeping uncaught in the bushes of the University. His friend was absent, the Chinese woman, recent UCLA graduate in Library Science, who unemployed had rented an apartment then subletted the rooms to students leaving herself only a couch in the living room to sleep on. When not here she could be found patrolling the aisles of the market day and night looking for discounted items, taking breaks to go outside to the village and check garbage cans for leftover food. Present were the contingent of recently released penniless prisoners with no place to go and nothing to do but rest their heads on their tables and sleep. In the corner, the grey haired woman who pushed a wheel chair packed with her possessions. Someone had given her a black eye. These, and more, had been my late night companions of several months. But all things must change, even this, so talking to the dead for the entertainment of the living I said to the corporate representatives of law and order: 
'What's it like to be dressed up morons like you? To live like a robot? To be completely without thought? Have you noticed there was something missing in your life? Something like a brain? Look at you! What a sight you are! Don't worry, I'm going, I'm going. It's only fun to insult monsters like you for a few seconds. Give me a few more seconds. You Idiots! You Psychopaths! YES! I'm going. Bye Bye.'