Asian Grocer

We went to the Asian grocer. I got sick of looking vaguely at the shelves, waiting, waiting (don’t hurry me) and I went and sat outside on the seat provided. An Old Chinese man had the optimal position on the seat, at the end closest to the Asian grocer, and he was pissing around with something in his hand, packing and repacking grocery bags as old people do, at a glacial pace, and he wasn’t even enjoying the optimal view his position afforded him. I wanted his seat, could you guess, so Sam could see me as soon as he came out of the shop, as he was undoubtedly none too pleased with my defection to the seat out doors. The old Chinese man finally got up to leave, I was ready to slide over as quick as a flash. But not too soon, you can over shoot the take over bid, when they haven’t quite left and it is embarrassing for all concerned.

“Oh… er… sorry.”

Would you jump in my grave so quick?

But you don’t want to be too slow so as to allow a third person, in a track suit and not much of a clue, to take the seat from you. It can happen just like that, the timing has to be perfect here.

He took an age to get transfer his groceries from their plastic supermarket bag into a green environmentally friendly bag. Oh grab that side, now grab that side. No, the other side. Oh no, don’t pull it that way. Oh no, it has slipped out all together. Ah! Oh! Er! The plastic supermarket bag had slipped out again. I couldn’t watch any longer. But finally he got the job done and he shuffled off, and I slid across.

Just as I was sliding, I see what looks like the outline of a human turd, oh, hanging from one of the metal bars of the seat. I can always tell a human turd when I see one, they always look different from a dog turd, they are some how bigger and richer and meatier looking. I slid to a stop. (Ah!) I gaze down at it. WTF? Oh? Oh. I can see that it is, actually, the paper rapping from the underneath of what was probably a brownie. It still looks kind of like a turd, rounded on the edges and sausage shaped, but squashed. Did someone sit on that? The old guy? Annoying. It stops me from taking the very end of the bench, so I am in direct line of sight of the doorway to the Asian grocer. I slide a little closer to the edge, as close as I can get without touching the turd. I look around. The sun is shining there are plenty of people walking by. My cigarette gets to the end. I want that turd gone. I push the cake wrapper with my cigarette butt and it feels papery and dry, nothing like tooth paste consistency that my mother always asked me about when I was a child. It slides awkwardly up the seat bar as if it is not going to fall, as it is moulded, read squashed to, the seat. And then finally, after a few pokes and prods, it falls, the wrapper rustles, onto the ground. Ah. There is still some cake flesh attached to the seat, that still looks like shit, so I can’t slide right over, but I can slide along, up to it. The pooh was gone, the psychology of it all was altered. The small pieces of cake flesh that were left, would attached themselves to the next person who sat down, probably unnoticed, problem fixed.

The sun shone, a gentle breeze blew up Russell Street. Ah, lean back, arms outstretched on either side of me across the back of the seat. It was a victory, of sorts, and I had time to enjoy it. People walked by. I may have whistled, if I’d thought of it, if I was anything like a competent whistler, which I am not.