Breakfast At Tiffany's




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Miss White Trash USA

Part of: LA

Breakfast: scrambled eggs with swiss cheese on a lightly toasted egg bagel.

I was at Cooke’s grocery store in Malibu buying two Volivic water bottles (I love that they have Volvic) and a 4-pack of *real* crab and avocado sushi rolls before heading to the beach. I picked the checkout lane that had the least amount of people in it, but the checker wasn’t there. She was complaining to one of her co-workers about the parking situation.

“It’s just not fair!” Checker Lady said loudly. She gave me a sideways glance that said I-know-I-should-be-helping-you- but-this-is-really-pressing.

Checker Lady spent another minute whining. I noticed that she had a double chin, blue eye shadow, and bleached blond hair: Miss White Trash USA. Checker Lady probably read the National Enquirer at work each morning and came up with inspired new dramas for herself. I hadn’t met a queenie woman in a long time. She waited until the last second possible to help me.

“Our employees are space hoggers!” Checker Lady announced, like I cared.

I figured that she needed to justify her slacking and nodded politely. Checker Lady was obviously one of those annoying busybodies who liked to tattle on people. The parking lot was small, and it would’ve been cool to not have to wait for a parking space, but who really gave a fuck?

“It had better not be Jose who took my spot! I’ll kill him, if it is. See that spot?” she said, pointing to a space in the adjacent alley.

I looked. “You mean the one that isn’t really a space?”

This woman was insane. When I worked at the Santa Monica Place during high school, parking was fucked up, and I paid hundreds of dollars in tickets, but I never once complained to a customer about it.

“I parked there yesterday, and everyone knows it’s my space. If Jose had parked better, I could’ve fit. I had to park all the way up there,” she said, flicking her head slightly further and snapping her gum.

Where she was parked, was literally a thirty second walk to the store. “You wouldn’t be complaining if you lived in San Francisco,” I said.

“Well, I don’t live in San Francisco. I live here.”

“In Malibu?”

“No, in Van Nuys,” she said.

I had nothing more to say. Anyone who lived that far away and commuted to Malibu for a checker job was an idiot.

Coming soon:

Celebrity gossip that Star magazine and In Touch will want to steal.

Note: Stealing from here is a very bad idea. My entourage is viscous--for real.

Nomad writes B.A.T.:

"'My entourage is viscous'. Viscous? Eeww... I felt for the checker lady. Some people who don't have much try to hold onto very little that they have, including a not-so-glamorous job that requires a long commute and that petty parking space. Even the things they are allowed to complain about are limited.Still, your writing is honest reporting and a clear window into how you see the world. I can only wish that mine could be as personal."


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