Two teenagers were in the backseat. Both were occupied and under the guise of quickly getting something for dinner and then returning home. If I deviated, there would be teenager disgust to deal with. I knew this and when it all went to hell, as it usually does, I would find myself a few hours later, contemplative and reflective, intellectualizing what went wrong: “Greg, you knew this could happen. Next time, be prepared for this scenario. They’re teenagers, they’re fuckin’ crazy. Rational thought doesn’t apply to them.” No matter how many pre-teenage pep talks I’ve given to myself, it never seems to work. So, I usually employ the endgame tactic: Fuck it. Return home and drop off the grumpy kids. Go by yourself.
“Is that the line? Do you think that’s the line?” It was
obviously the line that I needed to be in, but, as human nature will have it, I
tried hard to convince myself it wasn’t the line I needed to be in. I was lying
to myself.
The teenagers looked up, looked right, observed the line and
didn’t say anything. I drove by slowly, craning my neck like it was a car
accident. I estimated it to be 100 – 150 people deep and a wait time of 2
hours. I don’t know how I came up with these numbers.
I started making up excuses, anything to get me out of the
line: “They were sold out,” “The place was closed, locked up.” Lies, actually.
There was no way I was getting out of this. I looked in the backseat and said,
“Guys, I’m going to drop you off. The line is way too long.” No response.
On the way back to the line, I experienced the 5 stages of
grief: denial (I’m sure the line moves fast. It will probably take 10 minutes.
It’ll be fun.”), anger (“Stupid fuckin’ business. Didn’t they know this would
happen? Idiots!”), bargaining (God, if you allow me cutsies, I will stop
blaming you for all the problems in the world), depression (“This sucks. I
suck. You suck.”) and acceptance: (“It won’t be that bad. I’ll be patient.
There’s nothing I can do.”) I’m fucked could’ve summed up all the stages of grief.
I pulled into the dirt lot next to the store, which people
had annexed as auxiliary parking. The main lot of 100 spaces was full and cars
vying for those spaces were backing up into the street. It was a mess.
The store in question was situated in the center of a small
strip mall in the Coachella Valley -- where senior citizens rule, ramps are
plenty and dinner is early. Flanked on both sides were 3 furniture/clothing
consignment shops and a barber. Even though it was late November, the
temperature was near 80 degrees. As I walked toward the store, I was relieved
that most of the line was under a covered walkway.
The store had two sets of double doors on opposite ends. The
south was used as an exit and the north filtered the line inside to 4 registers.
A handler at the in-door guided people to 1 of the 4 registers, keeping them 4
deep at all times.
I peered in and did the math: 4 registers, 16 people in line
and a general line of about 175 people. If 16 people came in every 10-15
minutes, it would take between 2-3 hours. There was nothing I could do. The
math worked out.
The line snaked north under the walkway, extending to the
end of the strip mall and then curving up a berm to another (standalone)
furniture shop. This was the back of the line, where we all began. The low
morning sun washed the line in orange hues, the upper bodies of the people
waiting covered in shade. I would take half-shade, at this moment.
As I slowly walked to the back of the line, the handler from
the in-door followed: “If you are in line, you need a reservation. I repeat. If
you’re in line, you need a reservation.” She would repeat this journey every 5
minutes, like a head count in prison.
There were 172 people in line, according to my count. Unofficial,
of course. I was 173 – last in line. In
full sun, I was 20 people away from the shaded walkway. My hat would have to
do.
It took seconds before I was no longer the last person in
line. As people arrived and took their place behind me, they repeated the same
frustrations: “This is ridiculous. I can’t believe this. How long do you think
it will take? The line had a common denominator: waiting. We looked at each and
talked about the line. It was a living, organic thing.
20 minutes later, I had moved just enough to get out of the
sun and under the overhang. It was better. I leaned against a wall, shades on
and listened but didn’t engage. There were enough people making the best of it,
so my input wasn’t needed. I was happy to be quiet and still.
As time dragged on, the line became involved in everything. A
car horn invoked cries of “Ah, come on. Be patient. What an idiot.” The line
agreed that whomever honked the horn was an idiot. This spawned deeper
conversations about the deterioration of patience in America. Conversations were no longer private and cell
phone calls were dissected – the aural voyeurism eating up valuable time.
An elder, diminutive man behind me, who looked a lot like
Mr. Fix, the tuxedo wearing old dancing man from the Six Flag commercials, was
the unofficial ambassador of the line. He greeted everyone with an empathetic
smile and even retrieved hard candy from his car, dispersing the round balls to
the line, front to back. He was from Orange County and had left the day before
at rush hour, taking 11 hours to get to the Coachella Valley. 11 hours. He
didn’t complain about this, it was just an unfortunate fact. He shrugged.
As our line-group moved into the shade, Mr. Fix performed
three unofficial head counts of the line. The first count was 162 people. Each
count was highly anticipated by everyone and there were many questions when he
returned: “What’s it like up front?” “Did they say how much longer?” He
answered each question dutifully and ended all thoughts with “It’ll be all
right.”
A woman in front of me waited with her teenage son. I was
impressed. Not expecting a long line, she mistakenly went to the grocery
shopping before arriving, leaving her goods in the hot car. As the line inched
forward, she mentioned the groceries a few more times. Finally, she asked her
son, “Do you mind if I go home and put away the groceries?” The teenager
replied, “No, not at all.” My brow furrowed: “What the hell kind of teenager is
this?” Impressed by the generosity of
the young man, I almost broke my silence and offered to keep an eye on him
while his mother was away. However, my senses kicked in, and I said nothing. I
was aware that my silent presence might have been off-putting for some of the
line-goers. Mom returned an hour later,
apologetic. I gave her my best look of disappointment. The enigmatic teen said
nothing.
Mr. Fix’s second head count totaled 85 people in line. We
were getting close. This put me right in front of the barbershop. Done on the
cheap, the shop was a narrow, long room with high ceilings and 2
floor-to-ceiling mirrors on opposing walls, to confirm every fear you have
about your body. 4 barber chairs lined one wall, across from a low, long wooden
bench used for waiting customers. This was pretty much it. Sparse. When looking
into the shop from the walkway -- because of the large mirrors -- it felt like
you were entering a funhouse or looking at a desert road disappear into the
horizon. It felt uninviting.
A long row of parked cars stood perpendicular to the line.
It was assumed that most cars belonged to the line, however, every once in a
while, a driver would approach their car with a look of bewilderment. They’d
stare at the line, follow it up and down, looking to catch an eye that would
explain this anomaly.
As the line watched, an elderly woman got in her car and
proceeded to backup, senior-style: eyes forward, car in reverse, foot on gas. A
passing car was behind her, waiting to park in another stall. The line pulsated,
reacting immediately: Whoa, whoa.” “Wait, wait, wait.” “Stop, stop.” The line was trying to will her to stop.
Mr. Fix jumped into action, politely pounding on the hood of
her car. The car screeched to a stop and Mr. Fix pointed to the stopped car
behind her. She rolled down the window and they talked. Before returning to the
line to fill us in on their conversation, Mr. Fix reached into his pocket and
offered her a hard candy.
The last count was 35 people in line. The entrance was in
sight, so it didn’t need to be done, but Mr. Fix was determined to give us an
update. It was a formality. He returned with instructions: get your
confirmation number ready and have your ID out.
We were getting close.
The in-door handler greeted me professionally and said to
stand in front of a turnstile. This was it. The end. Like the anticipation of
being released to an empty amusement park, I rolled through the turnstile,
relief flowing through my body. The handler pointed to the line in front of
register 3. I took my place, 4 people deep. Easy time. 5 minutes later I was
returning home.
“How was Honeybaked Ham? Did you get the turkey?” This
question came from the pool. Instead of starting my reply with, “While you were
swimming, I was…” I decided to conjure Mr. Fix and lie; “It was OK, the line
wasn’t too long.” I walked away mumbling “the line, the line, the line.”
The next morning, while eating leftover sandwiches, I said
to my friend, “I don’t think that was turkey last night.”
“Me neither.”
“Do you think it was ham?”
“Ham usually has the bone, but it tasted like ham. It had
the honey glaze on top.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t tell. I’m not a big fan of ham. Is there a
ham/turkey hybrid?”
