I buy groceries at the same store I shopped when my toddlers fit in the grocery cart. The butcher knows to wrap my meat in 1/4 pound packages –the babies are adults now. Everyone knows everyone, even when they don’t. There is a general sense of neighborness going on.
Sunday I stopped to buy bananas and red potatoes. The clerk, the one with the crooked grin, was wearing an oversized Eagles NFL t-shirt. She chatted about how every employee in the store was cheering on the Eagles today because it was her favorite team. Eagle bling was everywhere. I swiped my debit card, she bagged my produce. Behind her, two other cashiers worked at their own registers. The dark-headed high-school clerk had just finished loading water bottles into a customer’s cart. He grabbed a sheet of cardboard and a black marker. Scribble scribble scribble, then quickly held it over his head so I could read it: We hate the Eagles!
Behind him, the short and dumpy assistant manager, right wrist in a carpal-tunnel wrap, reached under his counter, producing a bright orange poster: Go Broncos! Eagles suck! I grinned. My clerk grinned back and handed me my receipt.