For those who live in Anchorage and frequent the Carrs (otherwise known across the country as the Safeway) at 13th and Gambell, you probably already know Rolando. Rolando works at what locals affectionately refer to as the Ghetto Carrs. I think every city has one of these - a grocery store in not-the-best-neighborhood, stocked with a rather meager inventory, and frequented by somewhat questionable clientele. That's Ghetto Carrs - open 24 hours, 7 days a week - a small little space for your most urgent 2am needs.
Ghetto Carrs used to be my neighborhood Carrs. My most memorable trips, before yesterday, included (1) the time I was asked to open the bottle of vanilla extract in my shopping basket in order to verify that somebody had not already drunk it and (2) a 3am drunken stop with an out-of-town guest in search of "peaches 'n' cream." What can I say? Breyer's was on sale that night.
Yesterday, however, when I stopped by to pick up some fruit on the way to a friend's house, I met Rolando. I had heard of Rolando before. Other friends in my neighborhood often spoke of the little man in the Ghetto Carrs produce department - the one who always tries to feed you free fruit. The mythical Ghetto Carrs fruit man was also reputed to be particularly fond of a certain strawberry sauce. Legend has it that it was not unusual for him to run to the back of the store and come back with a piece of fruit dipped in strawberry sauce. I only halfheartedly believed these stories, thinking that such treatment was reserved for the pretty lady customers who for whatever reason found themselves stopping at Ghetto Carrs. I didn't think it would ever happen to me.
But yesterday night, when I reached for the last carton of strawberries on sale, I heard a "psssst."
"Pssssst."
By the salad bar, a somewhat short Hispanic man of medium build was beckoning me and holding a fork skewered into a piece of watermelon.
"You want?"
Had I not previously heard the tales of Ghetto Carrs Fruit Man, I might have started running. But for once, offered a strange piece of fruit by a strange man, I felt completely at home.
"Sure."
I was dubious - we are still scratching at the surface of spring here in Anchorage, and it seemed unlikely that a piece of watermelon would taste very good in April. But to my surprise, it wasn't at all bad. He motioned for me to dispose of my fork in what appeared to be his cart of rotting fruit, the rejected dregs of the day.
I finally picked up my strawberries and as an after-thought, piled on a bunch of asparagus also on sale. No sooner had Fruit Man observed my arms full of produce did he quickly run off, returning with a shopping basket to place my strawberry cartons inside. And then, with the kind of lightning speed exhibited only by supermarket superheroes, I kid you not, he bagged my asparagus.
But our interaction did not cease there.
"Anything else? Want anything else?"
I realized that he did not mean, did I want to buy anything else, but rather, was there any other piece of fruit in Ghetto Carrs that I wanted to eat for free. On top of his cart, he had just placed trays of cut-up fruit from the salad bar, no doubt retiring from service given that it was now already 7pm. He pulled out yet another fork, stabbed a piece of cantaloupe and offered to me. And then it was the honey dew. Out of politeness, I tried to accept no more, but having gone this far, I did not have the willpower to abstain from myself skewering a piece of pineapple. The pineapple was not great, and this was what brought me back to my senses before I traveled too far down this hazy road of freely given fruit.
During this interlude, I spotted Fruit Man's name tag. "Rolando." I was tempted to say, "Rolando, that's a beautiful name," but then remembered that I was not in Ghetto Carrs to start an intimate relationship with the produce section but rather, was on my way to dinner which was probably already waiting for me. So I rubbed my belly, much in the way a Santa Claus might, and said, "Full. I'm full. I've already eaten too much."
Rolando did not buy this explanation. He looked at me in a way that was both shy and skeptical. "You just started. You only ate little."
Of course, I had already eaten far more free fruit at Ghetto Carrs than I ever had in my life. I tried to act like I had other items to buy. He disappeared for a moment behind the mysterious black plastic curtains separating the real world from what I imagined to be some kind of Narnia of magical produce. I speculated that he'd had gone to Narnia to retrieve the famous strawberry sauce I had heard so much about, but in fact, he returned with a whole slice of watermelon which he shoved into my mouth, no questions asked.
Like I said, the watermelon wasn't bad that day. Although somewhat taken aback, I decided that since the watermelon was already in my mouth, there was little left to do but chew.
I did finally manage to get out of Ghetto Carrs that night without eating any more fruit, but I have to admit, I am now intrigued. It is somewhat out of my way, but somehow, the prospect of the strawberry sauce of Narnia has piqued my interest. Stay tuned for more adventures of Produce Man.
Ghetto Carrs used to be my neighborhood Carrs. My most memorable trips, before yesterday, included (1) the time I was asked to open the bottle of vanilla extract in my shopping basket in order to verify that somebody had not already drunk it and (2) a 3am drunken stop with an out-of-town guest in search of "peaches 'n' cream." What can I say? Breyer's was on sale that night.
Yesterday, however, when I stopped by to pick up some fruit on the way to a friend's house, I met Rolando. I had heard of Rolando before. Other friends in my neighborhood often spoke of the little man in the Ghetto Carrs produce department - the one who always tries to feed you free fruit. The mythical Ghetto Carrs fruit man was also reputed to be particularly fond of a certain strawberry sauce. Legend has it that it was not unusual for him to run to the back of the store and come back with a piece of fruit dipped in strawberry sauce. I only halfheartedly believed these stories, thinking that such treatment was reserved for the pretty lady customers who for whatever reason found themselves stopping at Ghetto Carrs. I didn't think it would ever happen to me.
But yesterday night, when I reached for the last carton of strawberries on sale, I heard a "psssst."
"Pssssst."
By the salad bar, a somewhat short Hispanic man of medium build was beckoning me and holding a fork skewered into a piece of watermelon.
"You want?"
Had I not previously heard the tales of Ghetto Carrs Fruit Man, I might have started running. But for once, offered a strange piece of fruit by a strange man, I felt completely at home.
"Sure."
I was dubious - we are still scratching at the surface of spring here in Anchorage, and it seemed unlikely that a piece of watermelon would taste very good in April. But to my surprise, it wasn't at all bad. He motioned for me to dispose of my fork in what appeared to be his cart of rotting fruit, the rejected dregs of the day.
I finally picked up my strawberries and as an after-thought, piled on a bunch of asparagus also on sale. No sooner had Fruit Man observed my arms full of produce did he quickly run off, returning with a shopping basket to place my strawberry cartons inside. And then, with the kind of lightning speed exhibited only by supermarket superheroes, I kid you not, he bagged my asparagus.
But our interaction did not cease there.
"Anything else? Want anything else?"
I realized that he did not mean, did I want to buy anything else, but rather, was there any other piece of fruit in Ghetto Carrs that I wanted to eat for free. On top of his cart, he had just placed trays of cut-up fruit from the salad bar, no doubt retiring from service given that it was now already 7pm. He pulled out yet another fork, stabbed a piece of cantaloupe and offered to me. And then it was the honey dew. Out of politeness, I tried to accept no more, but having gone this far, I did not have the willpower to abstain from myself skewering a piece of pineapple. The pineapple was not great, and this was what brought me back to my senses before I traveled too far down this hazy road of freely given fruit.
During this interlude, I spotted Fruit Man's name tag. "Rolando." I was tempted to say, "Rolando, that's a beautiful name," but then remembered that I was not in Ghetto Carrs to start an intimate relationship with the produce section but rather, was on my way to dinner which was probably already waiting for me. So I rubbed my belly, much in the way a Santa Claus might, and said, "Full. I'm full. I've already eaten too much."
Rolando did not buy this explanation. He looked at me in a way that was both shy and skeptical. "You just started. You only ate little."
Of course, I had already eaten far more free fruit at Ghetto Carrs than I ever had in my life. I tried to act like I had other items to buy. He disappeared for a moment behind the mysterious black plastic curtains separating the real world from what I imagined to be some kind of Narnia of magical produce. I speculated that he'd had gone to Narnia to retrieve the famous strawberry sauce I had heard so much about, but in fact, he returned with a whole slice of watermelon which he shoved into my mouth, no questions asked.
Like I said, the watermelon wasn't bad that day. Although somewhat taken aback, I decided that since the watermelon was already in my mouth, there was little left to do but chew.
I did finally manage to get out of Ghetto Carrs that night without eating any more fruit, but I have to admit, I am now intrigued. It is somewhat out of my way, but somehow, the prospect of the strawberry sauce of Narnia has piqued my interest. Stay tuned for more adventures of Produce Man.
No comments:
Post a Comment