Lamar Boulevard has always been a bastion of quirky local culture and business—BookPeople, Whole Foods (which, though now well on its way to becoming an international behemoth, was, not so very long ago, just a single tiny health-food store), Waterloo Ice House, Waterloo Records. The intersection was a haven of everything truly and uniquely Austin.
So as I peddled by on my twenty-four-inch cruiser on my way to work—sweating in this boiling heat (whose only blessing is to keep every Californian on the planet from moving to this city, which was so recently a Shangri-la)—I almost biked into the street when the new sign hanging over those once hallowed doors came into full view: COMING SOON: LULULEMON. Yes, it’s true. A Lululemon store—destined to sell overpriced workout gear to trophy wives whose sole job is to attend Pure Barre and keep it tight—will open in the space formerly occupied so well by Waterloo Video. Is this glorious town we live in selling its quirky, beautiful soul to the highest corporate bidder? It seems so.
That store’s arrival is a symbol of the sort of change that will price us all out of this town. Sure, I had the good luck to inherit $35,000 from my grandma and the good sense to use it as a down payment on my little house. But I can practically hear my property taxes growing as I write. And what about the artists and musicians and deli maids I hold dear—where else would they go? If you look at a map of Texas, it’s clear there is no other livable option.
Dizzied by grief at this unexpected development—and perhaps a little addled by the 105-degree heat—I arrived at Whole Foods. Instead of eight hours behind the fogged glass of the deli case, per usual, I’d agreed to cover Annie’s shift on samples while she had her interview with Whole Foods CEO Lite Topher Doyle. But first, I had to take a quick stroll down Beer Alley—a morning ritual during which I try to spot the scrumptious Patrick—but alas there was no sighting of my crush. I hurried to the deli to prep for my shift.
I put on my apron and unwrapped and microwaved some gag-inducing frozen tuna burger. Jason and Nelson came by to comment on how disgusting it looked and offer me sympathy about having to work samples for a whole shift. (Aside from Annie, they are probably my favorite coworkers in the deli. Jason is a passionate spray-paint-graffiti artist. Nelson surely has interests of his own, but I always just think of him as Jason’s sidekick.) They helped me haul a sample table out to Bakery, where I set out my tray of morally repulsive morsels. Is there anything more humiliating than handing out microscopic snacks to strangers? I hate standing behind a bunch of wasteful mini-sample cups, smiling and offering a nibble to every passerby as if I’m some sort of culinary streetwalker. But it was for dear Annie so there I lurked, right around the corner from the three-foot-tall burbling chocolate fountain and beside a giant display of boxed crumb cake.
Dirty Steve came by right away to check on me. “Are you keeping a smile on your face, Poxy Roxy?” he asked. (Right after I started working at the deli, I contracted adult chickenpox. That’s when Steve made up that hideous moniker! He’s never let it go.)
I gestured at the display of crumb cake. “If I was handing out crumb cake, at least I could cheer myself by snacking on the samples.”
“I always put vegans like you and Annie on meat samples. It cuts down on ‘unexplained product loss.’ ” Dirty Steve seemed to take great pleasure in making air quotes.
“Touché,” I replied, as Dirty Steve lumbered off to harass some of his other employees.
Everett, for three hours I was the poster child of Sample Grrrls—grinning, nodding, offering tiny freebies, mostly to ritzy women who circle the store eyeing one another, convinced they must stay vigilant or miss a crucial fashion trend. These hideous trophy wives treated me as if I was an extension of their help—invisible only as long as I did not displease them. I was entertained when two cops came in for their usual lunch and every deli maid with a warrant out for his arrest (i.e., Jason and Nelson) ran out the back door to hide in the alley. I was also cheered by the occasional broke musician cruising the sample stand multiple times with the overt casualness of the seasoned