Winn Dixie shares its anonymous, suburban architecture with the strip-mall that grows from either side of it; blocky and brown, inoffensive and safe. It’s the kind of building that assures soccer moms and property developers that nothing will ever happen here, aside from the occasional triple-coupon weekend, or perhaps a soon-forgotten scandal involving tainted meat.
Small puddles dot the parking lot, the morning sun spreads in rainbows across the engine oil that floats atop. They’re the only evidence that color can exist here, and they’ll be gone as soon as the Texas sun burns away the low, gray clouds above.
As I walk toward the entrance, the pounding in my head reminds me why I came. I need a drink like a thirsty dog needs antifreeze, and Winn Dixie is the only joint open this early on a Sunday.
And that’s when it hits me. It’s Sunday, it’s goddamned Sunday.
You can make a Manhattan without orange bitters. A fella could swap the orange bitters for Angostura, but if you ask me, what you come out with is more like a manhattan with a lower-case "m' than a Manhattan, a real honest-to-God Manhattan. And my orange bitters situation wasn't looking too good. It was, in fact, looking decidedly bad... and the stores would all be closed before too much longer.
I'd have to move, and I'd have to move fast, a regular Charlie Jackrabbit. But... where?
I'da put a c-note on there being orange bitters at the J&T on Vine, but it was a roll of the dice whether I'd make it before lights-out. Nah, too risky. That left only one last choice with half a glimmer of hope, a fair stab at success.
I was all-in on Winn-Dixie.
The trip wasn't so long, and by some lucky stroke the traffic had mostly gone bye-bye. I made it with half a bucket of ticks in my pocket and sauntered right on in, ignoring the annoyed stare delivered by some Johnny Punchclock as he closed out his register, and made my way back to the mixer section.
Club soda, Coco Lopez, Rose's Grenadine... my eyes scanned the inventory, darkening as they went.
Plastic limes filled with pissy lime-juice, plastic lemons filled with lemon-juicy piss... Angostura bitters... and ginger ale. My eyes fell from shelf stock to shelf base to scuffed floor tile. That was it. Defeat. El Fine.
The lights seemed to follow my progress going dark as I made my way toward the exit doors, empty-handed and broken, and I felt the same annoyed glare turning into a suspicious one: a "What did you just steal?" sort of look.
"Fuck you. You go ahead and just wonder.", I thought. "Because of you, I'm drinking in second class now. What could have been is now less that what could be. Tomorrow, what could've been will be just what never was".
I was working through all that again in my head as I sank into Corinthian leather and turned the ignition key, unsure whether the whole thing quite squared, but none of that mattered any more. Now was a state on the skids. Now I was living in Loserville, population: me.
Because of a failed gamble. Because of a bad beat.
"They didn't have any lemons," my friend soberly informed his grandmother as we climbed into the back seat of her Oldsmobile.
My heart was still pumping, not because we hadn't gotten the lemons ("to make fresh lemonade," as John had told his Memaw,) but because we'd just nearly been arrested.
It's hard being a smoker at age 15, and we'd planned poorly for our spring break trip to his grandparents' ranch near Graham, Texas. Jonesing, we needed to fabricate some reason for her to drive us to the store where we could appropriate some cigarettes. We weren't very creative, but she was very trusting, so fresh lemonade it was.
Those were the days when they'd still have display stand kiosks full of cigarettes in the middle of the aisles, up near the cash registers. A guy with some dexterity could swipe a pack without breaking stride, if he could keep his adrenaline in check. I thought John had nailed it, and as we hauled our sack full of lemons to the counter I figured we were gold.
"You kids want some smokes?" The booming voice of the store manager froze my blood as we rounded the aisle corner.
"Uh.. what?"
"I saw you take those cigarettes. Empty your pockets NOW."
Oh, Jesus, man, this is happening. John seemed pretty cool about it. Figures, he never got into trouble for anything. He'd be fine. Me, though...
I flinched visibly as John pulled his pockets clear out of his jeans. Nothing but a zippo and some lint. I didn't know when he'd done that, but I was damned glad of it.
"Get the hell out of here and I better not ever see you again," The manager growled at us.
"Can we still buy the lemo-"
"No. Get out."
So out we went, but I still wonder how long it took that Winn-Dixie manager to find a pack of Camels, surreptitiously flung to the back of the cereal shelf.
I don't have a long boring tale of Dixie. I worked at Kroger for a few months and that was craptacular. I don't remember ever having entered a Winn Dixie Grocery store. Are they the ones known as "The Beef People"?
I liked it, too. Mine was mostly made up, except for the part about almost getting caught shoplifting cigarettes and telling his grandmother we wanted some lemons to make lemonade with.
When life gives you no lemons, fill the dog dish with antifreeze. That's what my Pappy always said.
I have fond memories of the game of cigarette roulette as a kid. Back up to the display, grab and stash, then make fun of anyone who came out with Virginia Slims, Newports, or some other less than desirable brand. Of course, we'd all still smoke them.
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Winn Dixie shares its anonymous, suburban architecture with the strip-mall that grows from either side of it; blocky and brown, inoffensive and safe. It’s the kind of building that assures soccer moms and property developers that nothing will ever happen here, aside from the occasional triple-coupon weekend, or perhaps a soon-forgotten scandal involving tainted meat.
Small puddles dot the parking lot, the morning sun spreads in rainbows across the engine oil that floats atop. They’re the only evidence that color can exist here, and they’ll be gone as soon as the Texas sun burns away the low, gray clouds above.
As I walk toward the entrance, the pounding in my head reminds me why I came. I need a drink like a thirsty dog needs antifreeze, and Winn Dixie is the only joint open this early on a Sunday.
And that’s when it hits me. It’s Sunday, it’s goddamned Sunday.
Winn Dixie doesn’t sell booze on Sundays.
You can make a Manhattan without orange bitters. A fella could swap the orange bitters for Angostura, but if you ask me, what you come out with is more like a manhattan with a lower-case "m' than a Manhattan, a real honest-to-God Manhattan. And my orange bitters situation wasn't looking too good. It was, in fact, looking decidedly bad... and the stores would all be closed before too much longer.
I'd have to move, and I'd have to move fast, a regular Charlie Jackrabbit. But... where?
I'da put a c-note on there being orange bitters at the J&T on Vine, but it was a roll of the dice whether I'd make it before lights-out. Nah, too risky. That left only one last choice with half a glimmer of hope, a fair stab at success.
I was all-in on Winn-Dixie.
The trip wasn't so long, and by some lucky stroke the traffic had mostly gone bye-bye. I made it with half a bucket of ticks in my pocket and sauntered right on in, ignoring the annoyed stare delivered by some Johnny Punchclock as he closed out his register, and made my way back to the mixer section.
Club soda, Coco Lopez, Rose's Grenadine... my eyes scanned the inventory, darkening as they went.
Plastic limes filled with pissy lime-juice, plastic lemons filled with lemon-juicy piss... Angostura bitters... and ginger ale. My eyes fell from shelf stock to shelf base to scuffed floor tile. That was it. Defeat. El Fine.
The lights seemed to follow my progress going dark as I made my way toward the exit doors, empty-handed and broken, and I felt the same annoyed glare turning into a suspicious one: a "What did you just steal?" sort of look.
"Fuck you. You go ahead and just wonder.", I thought. "Because of you, I'm drinking in second class now. What could have been is now less that what could be. Tomorrow, what could've been will be just what never was".
I was working through all that again in my head as I sank into Corinthian leather and turned the ignition key, unsure whether the whole thing quite squared, but none of that mattered any more. Now was a state on the skids. Now I was living in Loserville, population: me.
Because of a failed gamble. Because of a bad beat.
Because of Winn-Dixie.
"They didn't have any lemons," my friend soberly informed his grandmother as we climbed into the back seat of her Oldsmobile.
My heart was still pumping, not because we hadn't gotten the lemons ("to make fresh lemonade," as John had told his Memaw,) but because we'd just nearly been arrested.
It's hard being a smoker at age 15, and we'd planned poorly for our spring break trip to his grandparents' ranch near Graham, Texas. Jonesing, we needed to fabricate some reason for her to drive us to the store where we could appropriate some cigarettes. We weren't very creative, but she was very trusting, so fresh lemonade it was.
Those were the days when they'd still have display stand kiosks full of cigarettes in the middle of the aisles, up near the cash registers. A guy with some dexterity could swipe a pack without breaking stride, if he could keep his adrenaline in check. I thought John had nailed it, and as we hauled our sack full of lemons to the counter I figured we were gold.
"You kids want some smokes?" The booming voice of the store manager froze my blood as we rounded the aisle corner.
"Uh.. what?"
"I saw you take those cigarettes. Empty your pockets NOW."
Oh, Jesus, man, this is happening. John seemed pretty cool about it. Figures, he never got into trouble for anything. He'd be fine. Me, though...
I flinched visibly as John pulled his pockets clear out of his jeans. Nothing but a zippo and some lint. I didn't know when he'd done that, but I was damned glad of it.
"Get the hell out of here and I better not ever see you again," The manager growled at us.
"Can we still buy the lemo-"
"No. Get out."
So out we went, but I still wonder how long it took that Winn-Dixie manager to find a pack of Camels, surreptitiously flung to the back of the cereal shelf.
I don't have a long boring tale of Dixie. I worked at Kroger for a few months and that was craptacular. I don't remember ever having entered a Winn Dixie Grocery store. Are they the ones known as "The Beef People"?
They are. Mine was made up. There was one by Sears in Paris. I like Seeth's line about antifreeze.
I liked it, too. Mine was mostly made up, except for the part about almost getting caught shoplifting cigarettes and telling his grandmother we wanted some lemons to make lemonade with.
When life gives you no lemons, fill the dog dish with antifreeze. That's what my Pappy always said.
I have fond memories of the game of cigarette roulette as a kid. Back up to the display, grab and stash, then make fun of anyone who came out with Virginia Slims, Newports, or some other less than desirable brand. Of course, we'd all still smoke them.
We could never steal cagarettes. We could only get to the Copenhagen or Happy Days that they kept in the refrigerator.
You could always just jump over the counter and beat the shit out of the clerk and get the cigarettes but then your bitch wife would tell on you.
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