“Ohhhh. Havawwwdi.” I had to repeat my order three times before the clerk behind the counter understood what I needed.
A visit to Brooklyn is not complete without a harrowing expedition to ShopRite, and a visit to ShopRite is not complete without an infuriating forty-five minute stint at the deli counter.
The deli counter at the ShopRite on McDonald Avenue in Brooklyn is a place where life virtually stands still, where throngs of good natured people with abrasive accents that make them sound angry no matter how broadly they smile watch, unfazed, while the young clerks slice and package in slow motion to a dissonant chorus of requests for foreign sounding delicacies like havawwwdi cheese and a quawwwtah pound of koshah turkey and a patatah knish. It makes navigating the parking lot full of cars moving backwards and forwards and, I’m almost certain, sideways, seem pleasant.
Exhausted and in a bit of pain from when I literally fell out of the taxi that took us from the hospital to my mother’s apawtment building and twisted my foot and skinned my knee, I returned to my post as lint-lifting slave. The best thing about visiting mom is the ten hours of comatose sleep I inevitably enjoy after a day of handling emergencies such as a picture frame that has mysteriously been moved an inch to the right or a gently used paper towel that needs to be disposed of – immediately -- in the incinerator room.
Today, after I drive mom to her most important therapy appointment (with the hairdresser), I will be heading to Broadway to see a show since she doesn’t want to waste her ticket. I have no idea what I’m seeing, but I’m willing to bet the matinee crowd will just be a better dressed version of my new friends at the ShopRite deli counter. And yes, I think it’s fair to call them my friends; I spent way more time with these people than your average twenty-something spends with any of her Facebook pals.
Time for breakfast (some havawwwdi on a bagel). Gawwwgeous. Just gawwwgeous.
So funny. I can hear them talking!
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