what i want for easter
There is a wine shop on Second Avenue. It has a fancy
name, "Seattle Cellars Limited." It is a little place to have such a fancy
name, "Limited." But it has a fountain in the window. I walk past it on
the let's-take-care-of-this-as-fast-as-possible dog route and miss it
on the oh-it-is-a-nice-day-let's-be-leisurely-and-look-at-the-water days.
I have a bad knee and my dogs have old hips -- okay, my hips are older,
but their hips are old in dog years -- so most days we pass the wine shop.
A man in the shop is always there. At Christmas, he wore a Santa hat every
day. He is tall and a little plump and has a Charlie Chaplin mustache.
He always wears a green apron. Even when he runs next door for sandwiches,
he wears the green apron. And he waves at us, when we go by. They have
wine tastings in the shop Thursday evenings and there will be people there
dressed up. Tasting wines. And the wine man will be there in his apron.
And sometimes his Santa cap. I was really hoping he would wear ears for
Easter. He didn't, but I was hoping. I have never been in the wine man's
shop. But he still waves. He knows my face. Or at least my dogs. My face
is usually covered by big sunglasses and the brim of a baseball cap. And
he waves just to be friendly.
That would just not happen in Los Angeles. Where I hail from, before I
landed in parts Pacific Northwest. And really tells you something about
Seattle. That clerks and shop keepers wave at you. Even if you have never
stepped foot in their stores. They wave. Just to be nice.
When I first came here, I would make the dogs wait outside shops. But
people in shops -- and they really are shops, little independently owned
businesses like the wine shop -- would tell me bring the dogs in. Even
at Kimberlee's, a little resale clothing store where I thought they were
crazed to even say bring dogs in -- dog fur is like a smart missile, the
most firmly attached dog fur will leap off a dog to land and stick on
black trousers two miles away with perfect accuracy -- they said bring
dogs in. The psychic lady who does readings at Kimberlee's on special
days with a crystal ball at a little table reserved for lingerie on other
days -- and told me I had an exciting career ahead of me in food services
-- waves at me from her little table when we go by. (Everyone go shop
at Kimberlee's, they are having a big sale and they have Dolce & Gabbana.)
And at Vain, a salon/shop I go to for unusual hair spray because, well,
I have unusual hair needs, the guy with bright blue hair always pets the
dogs and says thanks for bringing them by. I go in there also secretly
hoping I will see their Barbie tour doll -- rumor has it she has unusual
hair too -- which I never do see because I guess Barbie is always on tour.
The ladies at Blu Canary Stationary, which is full of delicate tables
loaded with delicate items (including a wind up hopping nun that shoots
sparks) a dog tail could wipe out in a second, told three different people
with dogs to bring them inside at the same time once and did not even
have strokes when someone's Terrier went insane and started hopping too.
That is how nice shop people are here and I have been in culture shock
since the first time someone in a store here read my credit card. See,
store people reading credit cards is not entirely unusual, they do that
most places to check your signature, but this guy read my card so he could
say "Thank you, Miss Adams."
That is just. . . nice. And almost required someone dial 911, the first
time it happened here to me.
I don't know why shop people here are so nice. They are not like that
in Los Angeles. Jeez. Even busboys have been rude to me in Los Angeles.
Maybe in some misguided apprehension being a busboy at Red's gives you
clout in the hereafter. (Let me think. I write movies. You bus tables.
I am being polite. You are being rude. What is wrong with this picture?)
But here in Seattle, people are nice. They ask if they can help you, if
you are finding everything, if you would like to bring your dogs inside.
They don't make you stand waiting for them while your parking meter runs
out because they are on important phone calls. Or tell you you can't have
that table because nobody is on that station when you are the only person
in the restaurant and there are three wait persons disdainfully reading
Variety in the corner. Maybe because people in shops here consider their
jobs their real jobs and are not all actors and actresses just putting
up with you until they get discovered. Or maybe because Seattle is still
small town enough people recognize each other's faces. And dogs. I do
not know. But it is unusual to me. So I wave back. And smile. And wish
the guy in the wine shop would wear ears for Easter.
*originally
published on NiteTime.net
