Supermarket - Bobby Hall Page 0,19

through the static of the dated intercom.

On my way to the bakery the lights went out in half the store.

“What the hell?” I said, stopping in my tracks.

“Oh, that’s just the busted-ass electrical system,” a voice said from behind me. When I turned around, I was met by a black man in his late twenties.

“You Flynn, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m DayDay.” He extended his hand and I shook it.

“Nice to meet you, man.”

“Yeah, Ted’s cheap ass still ain’t put the money he should into the electrical system.” DayDay, I soon learned, was like the on-call super for the store, the all-around handyman.

DayDay actually seemed like a chill dude. One of the only employees I could say that about so far.

“Yeah, man,” he continued. “The lights in this place are always shady. Never really know when they gonna go on you. This white nigga so cheap.”

White nigga? I thought to myself. What the hell does that mean?

I mean, I couldn’t exactly just ask him what white nigga meant because, as a white man, I’m pretty sure he would beat the shit out of me. Rightfully so—white people have no reason to use that word. But maybe . . . white niggas do?

I guess this is something I will never understand about lingo and black culture as a white kid. Hell, I’d like to think I’m a pretty good writer, but I can’t dance for shit. And let’s be real: black people have soul! There’re just some things people won’t ever understand. As for me, the oxymoron of white nigga is one I shall never uncover.

“Okay, well, thanks, DayDay. It was nice to meet you,” I said, beginning to walk away.

“Aright, my nigga, Imma get back to fixing these lights.”

I was so puzzled. Now he called me nigga? What the hell was going on? Was that a . . . good thing? I contemplated this all the way to the bakery, which was located in the back of the store near aisle thirteen. The bakery smelled amazing; all around me were pastries, fresh loaves of bread, cookies, muffins, cakes, and bagels. I felt transported by the aroma.

“Hey, you’re Flynn, right?”

And this was how I met Mia Torres.

She was an absolute beauty! A twenty-five-year-old, Spanish-speaking, tan-skinned, 5'6" supermarket model with jet-black hair; an amazing body; a warm, welcoming energy; and a radiating smile. She was the only thing in the entire store that felt real. She was a combination of Jessica Alba and Rashida Jones. Random mixture, I know, but damn, was she gorgeous. Mia was the kinda girl who you see and feel an instant attraction to and chemistry with. I felt light on my feet. I was infatuated. Lovestruck. She was wifey material. I realized I had just been standing there silently. I fumbled.

“Yeah . . . uhmmm. I, second day,” I said, nervously reaching for my Moleskine.

“Awww, yay, you haven’t been tainted yet,” she said with a chuckle, giving me an infectious smile. “This place is kind of a killer of dreams.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked, eager to take micronotes of key points of our conversation.

“Well, for starters, the—”

She was interrupted by a tiny, pasty white woman with a face that rested in anger—she was like a 5'4" female Robert De Niro, dressed in all white, with a flour-stained apron, a rolling pin, and a disgusting hairy mole above her lip. She opened her mouth to speak, but before the first syllable slipped out, I knew the voice was going to sound like a creepy James Bond villain.

The very same Bond villain who requested my presence in the first place.

“Is this the floater?” she said, not really asking either one of us in particular.

“Yes, I’m Flynn . . . I . . .”

“You—come with me, floater,” she interrupted, grabbing my arm.

Here I was, being manhandled by a sixty-five-year-old female De Niro, forced into the baker’s den. We stood surrounded by freezers, ovens, and huge baking sheets about three feet long and two feet wide. Counters piled with dough framed the room. “In freezer we keep dough,” she said in her thick Russian accent. I looked at her name tag. It read Bianca. “Now dough is ready.” She pulled out a box and I realized exactly what she meant—none of the donuts, pretzels, or bagels were made fresh. They were outsourced by another company and kept frozen in white paper boxes. So all you needed to do was pop them in the industrial oven, let them cook, take them out,