And this is what didn't happen. I was the only Next! customer in the deli line. I was trying to eyeball the various kinds of sliced turkey needed to accomplish my great idea (more of which anon) when a trio of Manhattan Beach Fireman joined the line behind me.
Of course, the instant I deciphered the uniforms (everyday blue - turnouts would have made me function nanoseconds faster) I gestured for them to go ahead of me.
"No, no," said the one on the left, patting my shoulder, "you go ahead."
"Really," and I gestured again; he patted again. So I said, "Well, if you're sure ..." a third pat and a reassuring nod so I turned back to attempted turkey perusal (not helped by the fat lady and her cart parked directly in front of the display) and they resumed their joshing among themselves.
It wasn't until we were back in the car, speeding away with our spoils that it dawned on me that were I a 22 year old bimbo two things might have happened - the pat would have had an entirely different meaning and the bimbo would have either hollered "Masher!" and stabbed him with a hatpin always at the ready or flung herself into his manly, blue-clad arms, begging, "Take me, take me!" Which would have certainly alarmed everyone in the store.
However: reality is: the fireman/paramedic went into "Paramedic Comfort" as swiftly and as easily and as unthinkingly as we would a tuck into a hot dinner. After all, the lady in front of them was definitely an old lady (77) and probably using the cart as a walker (not as much as six months ago;) and any traces of beauty she may have had (age 4 to around 5 1/2) were definitely behind her. As was a substantial derriere.
But I thought to myself as Richie stopped for a light, "Back in the day, baby ...I could have lit your fire ..." and grinned evilly just to myself.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment