March 1997 mystery date by Michael Craig |
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Midnight At The Oasis
If you keep a night schedule like I do, it is important to line up food
reserves for those late hours. Try as I might to remember the schedules
of the local fast food emporiums, the inevitable occurs: all are closed
when I've dined on nothing all day but loathing and failure.
Then, and only then, am I forced to venture in search of the neglected
Fifth food group: late-night convenience store food. I have to be
careful. Some things are worth dying for - freedom, VHS copies of "Get
A Life" episodes, a chance to meet Walter Mondale and Heidi Fleiss in
the same day - but eating nacho chips covered in "cheese food" that smells
like it was laced with kerosene is not one of them.
The closest place to my house is a Mini-Mart. Where I grew up, in
Michigan, they call convenience stores "party stores." Here's a tip:
don't party in Michigan. 7-11 is also big there, as well as most
other places. 7-11 is a dangerous place. Thieves think the chain stores have
more money, and they also have uniform procedures for dealing with
robbery which includes (thank God from the thief's perspective)
giving up the money. You walk into a Mini-Mart and your clerk may be
packing more heat than a busload of rappers. In my current home in
Chicago, the most common store is called "White Hen." The marketing
geniuses who came up with that one must have figured "white" had
positive connotations of some sort, but why "hen"? Does
a barnyard animal really inspire confidence in weary, dope-addled
consumers? I avoid those places like the plague but I can't say the
local Mini-Mart is one bit better.
Although it is possible to find benign items at Mini-Mart - a small
"health food" display offers an envelope containing two Tylenol for
$2.99 - I know I can't afford to be picky. At these prices, I can't
afford anything, but especially not pickiness, not as I enter the Land
of Nutritional Atrocities.
Naked City
Unless the counter jockey is a relative of the owner, I never bother
learning his name. He will be gone before the corned beef at the deli
counter. More than once, I've seen the cashier grab a handful of beef
jerky, tear off his work smock, jam the Pamela Anderson issue of
"Playboy" in his back pocket, and head for Mexico.
Convenience store owners know most of their employees won't be
around long enough to pick up a paycheck, let alone forge customer
relationships vital for repeat business. Even though they normally try
to use phony courtesy to soften the blows of selling expired cookies at
monopoly prices, all bets are off on the graveyard shift. The late crew
is generally not required to wear name identification, other than
visible tattoos. Where robbers are omnipresent, store owners actually
relish the idea of finding employees who have the ability to scare
customers.
The Donut With a Thousand Fingerprints
An innocent-looking but potentially hazardous part of the convenience
store is the rack of baked goods. For one thing, I don't see any ovens
or other baking apparatus in the Mini-Mart. This stuff showed up in the
same prison laundry truck that unloaded the deli meats, and who knows
when that happened.
On a good day, an item fished out of the baked-goods case is greasy,
stale, and contains nothing remotely considered nutritional. At
midnight, where everyone in the joint is wearing sunglasses, it's not even a
good day.
In general, stay away from any food in a case where the public has
access. The Mini-Mart's baked goods case is not exactly hospital-level
sterile. When and if John Q. Public washed his hands is anybody's
guess.
Freshness is not exactly a priority on the baked goods rack. If it's
there at midnight, I bet it saw yesterday's sun rise. And remember the
old slogan of "thrifty" convenience-store operators: yesterday's
doughnut is tomorrow's bagel.
Waste-not, want-not is the motto of the Mini-Mart's owner, where
margins are even thinner than the toilet paper. Considering that most
food items are at least supposed to have a short shelf-life, the
dumpsters at Mini-Marts are amazingly small.
Meat John Doe
But man cannot live by bread alone. I cannot over-emphasize the
importance of my next advice: AT A CONVENIENCE STORE,
AVOID ANY PRODUCT PURPORTING TO BE MEAT. This
means automatically stay the hell away from
the canned meats. Just because the expiration date drummed into the
underside of the can is sometime in the next millennium doesn't mean
it's fresh. Statistics show that over 85% of all canned meat products are
sold between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m. North of the Mason-Dixon line, that
figure soars to 95%. It you must eat these items, for god's sake drain
the liquid from the can. That ain't gravy, Davy.
The picture of a Dagwood Bumstead-style deli sandwich looked good, but
I can't eat a picture. A visual survey of the discolored, mottled meats
making up the deli selection snapped me back to my senses. The deli
counter may appear to have all the trappings of a decent place, much
like its grocery store counterpart, but that's what they want me to
think.
Hot dogs? Bad during the day, worse at night. While those wieners
spin hour after hour under the hot lights, why do they keep glistening?
Unless you trust the culinary skills of the guy behind the counter, who
wouldn't know a stick of butter from a stick of deodorant, it's best to
stay away from this atrocity altogether. I ask the clerk if the hot
dogs are all beef. He doesn't speak a word of English, but he knows
enough to roll his eyes and giggle.
You Can Judge a Book By It's Cover
I had everything I needed to find a tasty snack: patience, good
judgment, and exact change. The key was to find something - I didn't
care if it was baby food or turkey stuffing - in a pristine container.
This means absolutely staying away from any home-packaged or unpackaged
items. I avoided sampling, for numerous good reasons, the "hobo chili"
simmering in the rusty pot precariously balanced on a hot plate. By
what freak of nature does the stuff bubble in the middle of the pot, but
form a crust along the outer edges?
I picked out a bag of M&Ms. Reputable manufacturer, recognizable
packaging. I scanned the package for dents or tears. There were none.
Exhausted , I stumbled back to my car to take home the trophy that
would be my midnight snack.
Does it always have to be this way? On the way out, an image flashed
through my mind: I was once in a convenience store staffed by helpful,
clean clerks. A delicious assortment of hot and cold foods was
available at the deli counter. Fresh fruits and vegetables filled the
aisles.
Then I realized I was draped over the hood of my car. An impatient
thief ran me down on the way out, banging my head against the hood and
stealing my Doritos. Still, it was a lovely dream, and I rub the scar
to this day, thinking of how wonderful such a place would be.
Michael Craig, c/o staff@smug.com
back to the junk drawer
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