Friday, August 9, 2013

listen, bird

I just got out of that building behind me. You know the one. The fish, it's where the fish go. I figure you've been casing the joint for years now. I don't know if any of you have ever been able to gain entry, but, if so, you know. It is crazy up in that place.

Bird, I am sure if you walked in there and were willing to admit you didn't know what the hell was going on and were not threatened by the presence of what is surely known as a horde of humans facing a lesser horde of humans, yet still a horde, across a glass case of ice and fish and shell and some of those things I didn't even know. Well. Surely someone would be willing to help you.

But me, I never like to admit my confusion so I went undercover as a woman simply getting vegetables while secretly watching a uniformed what appeared to be a police officer hand the other humans little tickets and numbers and specials while some strange seafood commentary was being shouted over a speaker system. 

It was loud and well lit and remember there are hordes facing other hordes over a shrimp I am convinced I can get. Headless, twenty-five to thirty count, three pounds, steamed with spice and added lemon.

Yes. I am holding the shrimp, bird. Mission accomplished, but I'm here to tell you that when I got to that whole other part of that place where I stood in line with a whole 'nuther horde of folks so I could finally trade cash for the product I was holding and they took my shrimp while handing me a little plastic lobster which would let me know when they were steamed and ready.

Well. When that red plastic lobster let me know the order was done my cover of being a well adjusted, normal human was blown. The screaming, blinking, obscene scene had me begging who do I give this to, where do I go. 

Next time I'll just walk in and ask for a chaperone.

Today I am grateful to have survived Joe Patti's seafood market. 

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