All-Nite Grocery Store

I like shopping late at night at my neighborhood grocery store, when it's quiet and empty. I'm the kind of guy who finds solace in the idea of things being open 24/7, where you can go and get stuff done in public and still remain invisible. And even if you do happen to cross paths with other human specimens, it's no big deal. Nocturnal creatures are always more intriguing anyway.

On this particular evening, in the middle of a January deep freeze, I am waiting in line with diapers, hand soap, and this week's issue of the National Examiner, all three of which are written on my hand as  a forget-me-not. My boots (and therefore my feet) are cold and wet, and I am pondering my beard, which is now in full swing. The beard is by default, not design, and is an itchy distraction.

In line behind me is Bohuslav Martinů (1890 - 1959). In his cart he has a bag of lemons from Turkey, a head of cauliflower, and two cans of the first half of the twentieth century - from concentrate, of course. I feel the need to talk, so I turn around and engage him in conversation.

"This thing is bugging me," I say, rubbing the scruff of my face. "I don't have time to do much of anything these days, let alone shave. Not that I am against having a beard, per se. In fact, it makes me feel like I'm halfway to getting my hippie freak on, if you know what I mean. It's far easier to grow a beard of reasonable length than grow out your hair by a foot or two. Less of a commitment. Not many men grow a beard for the heck of it these days, unless it is for some cultural reason. Most guys just go clean-shaven, and fall back on that Ivy League haircut, as if it's now enforced by law. It must be a metrosexual thing, which I suppose by definition would necessitate lemming-like behavior, especially in the realm of grooming. It seems to me like the hairstyle equivalent of a Successories™ poster. Like, hooray. Anyway, I guess I like having a beard because it keeps people at a minor distance, as if it's some sort of novelty."

I notice Bohuslav nodding slowly as he strains to follow my words. If only English were his first language, we'd get along famously. There is a short moment of awkward silence after I run out of words, and then he speaks in a thick Czech accent. "I'm sorry. I don't know about these things."

"Well, my opinions on the modern male's grooming habits have nothing on The Opening of the Wells," I say to him as the cashier rings in my items. He nods and we both disappear back into our private worlds.