The General Store, Part I

There is a little store in our little town that I pass on the way to Katie's school. It's one of those places that's been there for a million years; if it ever had a name, it's long since been erased from the building. There are two gas pumps out front, though I've never seen anyone getting gas there. In the summer months, two white plastic chairs sit alongside the pumps, sometimes occupied, sometimes not. Around Christmas, the pumps are festooned with white lights and, one year, cedar garland.

I've never gone inside.

I have heard that the aisles are tiny and the shelves stocked with dented and dusty cans of meat-stuff, bags of pork rinds and stacks of Slim Jims. The front counter, holding smokes and snuff and gum to hide the evidence of their use, is the most frequented spot. In the back of the store is the ham counter, where a local company sells their meat. The man behind the counter chain smokes, moving his cigarette to the corner of his mouth to ask what're y'all up fer today? and only removing it to flick a long ash into a rusted out coffee can.

There is ham steak and bone in and spiral cut and hocks. On one side of the counter is a plastic tub filled with just parts, and if you have to ask what parts, you don't want to know. In the center of the case is the money-maker, the jewel of hammery - Country Ham. Thin slices cryovac'd to tempt you with their salty goodness.

By the ham counter is a small formica table and two metal folding chairs which are constantly kept warm by a rotating stream of old men. They talk land (good) and politics (bad) and children (somewhere in between). They bring in rumors and they and the ham man and the man at the front counter distill it and digest and spit it back out at anyone who comes through the door.

He lost his house.
He lost his farm. 
Someone's born. Someone's dead. Someone's in jail.
Someone should be. 

You might think that if you'd hang around long enough, you'd know everything that's going on in this small town. You'd be right.

Or so I've heard.

Pride Before the Fall

Fiction Friday is delayed, because I am uninspired and a little bit lazy. Look for it this weekend. In the meantime, I will share my humiliation with you!

I am in line at the Ham Store (because apparently, people like ham for Easter? What is it about the risen Christ that says 'let's eat pig!'? Does no one see the irony in celebrating the resurrection of the world's most famous Jew with a meal of the number one unclean animal?) - and the line is 8 miles long. Julia and Henry are being exceptionally adorable and charming throughout our excessive wait, and the two women behind us are especially taken with them. They are going on and on about how wonderful they are, how great their names are (and here I throw a plug in for Katie, too), how well behaved. I am so proud, and as we inch closer to the front of the line it appears that we're going to get out of the store without any screaming, tantruming, puking, shitting or breaking of things. Truly, an Easter miracle.

Now, if you have never been to the Ham Store, it is kind of a weird deal. You stand in line forever, then are greeted by a gal who tries to upsell you ("Buy our $400 ham and we'll give you a turkey breast for only $100 more!"), then directs you to one of half a dozen or so ham-specialists who assess your ham-needs and pick the perfect piece of meat for you. You're then directed to the Pre-Pay Ham Person, who confirms that you have just the right ham, and then directs you to a register to check out.

Things were going great, up until the point that I get to the Pre-Pay Ham Person. She is a lovely woman who gives me a big smile and then confirms that I have, indeed, had a hamtastic experience. She says "Hello, pretty girl!" to Julia and "What a handsome little man!" to Henry, then looks down at my mid-section and says,

"Oh! And you're expecting another!"

Now, everyone who has ever had a baby KNOWS that, unless a woman is squatted down pushing out a kid, you never, ever, assume that she is pregnant. Never. Ever.

If I were a much quicker witted person, I would have told her that I was smuggling out a ham. Instead, I just laughed nervously and said "Uh, nooo." And this should have made the Ham Person sufficiently mortified, and she should have made some lameass comment about my fluffy shirt. Or something. But NO! She says:

"Oh, just a little leftover from this little guy!" What, WHAT? You are lucky I have a baby in one hand and a big ass ham in another, lady - because you are setting yourself up for a big, fat neck punch! And she keeps going, "But he's worth it! He's worth every bit of it!"

Yes, my child is worth every flap, fold and crease of the meat apron. It's something I console myself with in front of a mirror under the harsh fluorescents, in the privacy of my bathroom. Not something I need to be reminded of in the middle of the gee-dee HAM STORE, ASSHOLE!

I can only hope that she's out there somewhere tonight, in a blog, on a message board, or sitting at her dinner table with her family, saying "You are not going to believe what I did today!"