Jungle Diary: Antiques
Pompeii is out of order today, if you were planning to use it, says the dark-haired woman at the checkout.
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Pardon me? I reply, eager to know more about the connection between mount Vesuvius and grocery shopping.
I guess you don’t need it, she notes, observing my confusion.
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Then it dawns on me, in horror, as I see the rectangular device next to the card reader.
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Oh my goodness, “palm pay.” As in, paying with one’s hand. I didn’t realize we were there yet, I say. Gosh no, I don’t need it, and I hope to never participate in that, in my lifetime.
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Me neither, says the woman, scanning the apple pie and packages of charcuterie I’ve picked out for the dinner to which Treva and I have been invited.
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I suppose we all have our lines in the sand, I continue, as I open up my Amazon prime app for the membership discount. Yes, the blatant hypocrisy. Sigh.
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At the red light, the ruddy-faced man’s sign reads “homeless veteran,” and I roll down the window to pass him a five-dollar bill. Happy Thanksgiving sir, I say, as he takes it from me, and he grunts insistently, in gratitude.
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His eyes are warm and kind and I wonder when and under what circumstances he lost the ability or willingness to speak, and how he came to choose to disavow one game in favour of another.
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Lord have mercy.