I'm at work. The flakes have begun to come down. Closing time approaches. I check our drop box and find an order to be processed. The work takes me past closing time. I rush over to the pharmacy in the shopping center. The dental specialist who cleaned my teeth, suggested I begin using an electric toothbrush, suggests I change it out every three months. My trip to the pharmacy, which takes its self-perceived groovyness quite seriously, is where I want to inquire about electric toothbrushes with brush heads which can be changed out. ...and it turns out that they don't carry electric toothbrushes. I suspect that this is a product which is simply not groovy enough. It's close enough to the arrival of my bus, which is tempting as the flakes are beginning to collect on the streets, that I decide to go with the transit system once again this evening. I have a few minutes before I must be out at the stop. I sneak into the bakery where I am several times a day. I converse with a 16-year-old employee. She tells me she saw me on the way home one Saturday. (?!) How is this possible? Oh, well... The plain and simple fact is, she and her family sometimes ride from her home (which appears to be several miles east, by the interstate) all the way here and beyond, to the trail. They then ride all the freaking way to the end of the trail which goes to the northern corner of downtown. From there, they ride to a transit hub where they catch the train home again. The following day is the sister's birthday. I elect, because of temperatures and falling snow, not to ride today. I'm on my last bus to work when we pick up a passenger. The high today is forecast to be 17 degrees F. This guy has no coat or jacket, but only a plaid long sleeved shirt. he tells the driver he's getting out at my stop. So, he asks the driver, be sure to let him know when the stop comes up. He informs the driver right where he will be sitting. My ride to work from the station ain't a long one, and soon the sign comes up for the street where my stop is. The passenger jumps up. "This is it, bud," he tells the driver, who explains to him that the actual stop is past the intersection. We both exit the bus. I follow him as he goes past the breakfast place where I'm headed. He appears to be cold as he marches along. He disappears.
On Wednesday, the flakes began to come down while I was at work. The ride in during the late morning was fine. But by closing time, I made the decision that it would be too dangerous to ride on top of accumulating snow, beneath which may be ice I could not necessarily see. And I don't expect anything to melt because today and tomorrow are temps below freezing. So, I elect to take the transit system home today, and to work and home again the following day as well. It's a decision for which I am disappointed in myself. I don't recall being dissuaded by inclement weather last winter. I am however interested in not falling on my ass. On Friday, the temps are up, the ride in is fine. But I stay late and it's too tempting to take the transit system home again, as I leave just as the bus will be here. The evening before, I arrived at the station for my last bus home. At the bus gate was a passenger who verbally complained about the bus being late. he spoke so fast I couldn't understand him. This evening, he's back again. This time, he first shouts. Then he yells about the bus being late "EVERY NIGHT!" Just before it arrives, he comes over where I'm sitting on the ground. He asks if I'm "alright? You look depressed." A few minutes earlier, I was watching a young guy carrying some kind of appliance in a box, perhaps a microwave. I watched him do one complete circumnavigation of the entire station's perimeter before coming onboard my bus when it arrives.
I take Tuesday, of the fooling week, off. I have two appointments which I hope to kill with one day off. The first is at noon. Just up the street is the place where I got my taxes done last year. And I'm headed back there today. After lunch at my age old deathburger, I'm walking past a bus stop which I frequented early in the morning for a good seven years. I worked for another company, on an opening shift. Plenty of stories about this corner. Just the other day (last weekend?) a big pickup truck with a husband and wife inside literally came up onto the curb of this corner, while making a U-turn. This late morning, oncoming traffic is turning left I watch as, along with the vehicles, a lone tire rolls down the avenue by itself. It doesn't bother any of the cars as it makes its way faithfully downhill. It hits a patch of snow and topples to a stop on the sidewalk. It could be the lowest carbon footprint I've yet to see. Minutes later, I arrive at the tax place. It's a neighborhood low-income resource center. In my case, "low" means under $66,000 annual income. Way under. Last year, it appeared that random volunteers were scanning documents for clients. That's another story. This year, the first thing I notice about most of the staff is that they all are wearing black tactical boots and black tactical pants, and Polo shirts. patches on the shirts read "Americorps." Okay. One of these staffers puts information from my documents into a computer program. After an hour, the program tells us that this year's federal refund is nonexistent, and I actually owe the government $86. Hmm, WTF? I use a staff supervisor's phone to call my broker. It appears I had capital gains from the sale of some stock, which I don't understand. It's a retirement fund, and everything should get reinvested. The supervisor spots a stock "sale" on my 1099-DIV. I suddenly have an inkling of what may be up but didn't expect. I will have to speak with my broker. The supervisor mentions that I may have been moved into a higher tax bracket. I ask him if he has a record of this happening. He tells me that the company who did my taxes last year is a different one from his, and he wouldn't know. So much for my tax preparer's knowledge of my taxes. He sure is convinced, however, that I had stock which was sold. An office manager comes in and hands everyone COVID-19 test kits...including me. I bid the Americorps kids goodbye and walk back down the street to home, where I set up a phone appointment with my broker. I will write a check to the Treasury for $86 and put it in the mail when I return home. It sounds as if it could be property tax in the board game Monopoly.
I'm then out on my bike to a check-up with my doctor. I get to one building on the campus and am told to go upstairs. There, I'm told to go to another building, and that patients are mistakenly sent up here all the time. On the way back down, I stop into the cafeteria. It closes at 2 PM and it's now after 3:30. I head toward the other building. On the way, I ask a pair of women entering a different building where my own building is. They ignore me, as hospital campus employees here usually do. I follow them inside and ask a receptionist, who gives me a map. I arrive at the correct building. Inside, there are no directions where to go. I go to the second floor, where another receptionist acknowledges there are no directions on the first floor, because "everything is so new." (?) She spots me standing a mere inch from a sign which reads "wait here," and she laughs. This one has a sense of humor. (Makes me wonder what she's doing working here?) I am in the "green" wing of the second floor. I need to go right across the hall, to the "burgundy" wing. The receptionist over there tells me to stand back behind the plexiglass. Fight the power. I soon see my doctor, who ends up giving me more resources than I've ever had. I have a number to call for diet and exercise information. And she personally hooks me up with my own social worker, to help me navigate Medicaid. She's amazing. I tell her that, if I lose my Medicaid at the end of this month, I won't see her again as I will have to pursue regular health insurance again, and I've loved having her as my PCP. I'm outta there, down to Subway for a dinner salad, to a supermarket to grab a few groceries, and then home again.
Thursday after work. I'm climbing a hill off the block with the campers along an open field. I'm hard pressed to remember at this point when the last time I was able to switch back and forth across the street, to aid my ascent, without crossing fields of ice. The following morning, the last vestiges of ice and snow appear to be on their way out. I've been wondering about the location of a former homeless camp, not at the guard rail. This one was in a cul de sac without any homes built. I detour on my way to work. Last time I was past here (a good year ago?) the place had been swept clean. This morning, it remains free of any habitation. Also, there are now street signs which declare the property under the jurisdiction of the Department of Transportation. Interesting. At work, I get my scheduled call from my new broker. Though he doesn't see any amount of taxable capital gains on my 1099-DIV large enough to make my federal refund vanish, he does want to get together to discuss moving the investments I have with taxable capital gains. He suggests moving them out of my fund with taxable investments into the one which isn't taxable. He also teases me with the opinion that my former brokers didn't do such a good job setting me up with "what you need," he says. On the way home after work, I'm approaching the damaged guardrail, site of the former homeless camp. A big tarp is attached to a chain link fence. Under the tarp is a tent. Near the road is a wheelchair. The camp is back!
Friday. Coming to work down the block with the campers along the open field. The "Turkey Time" camper is gone. But at the damaged guardrail, the tent under the tarp is still there. But I can see dark clouds coming over the Rockies. The ice has practically gone and the previous snow has almost melted. What now? I'm at work when the flakes begin coming down mid-afternoon. At closing time, the street appears only now to be collecting snow. I know there's no ice underneath any new snowfall, so I decide to ride it. Before I even make it to the trailhead, it's coming down and piling up. Though it's slow going through a gathering amount, the going is steady. This newest bike of mine, a little over a year old, has a particular quirk. In snowfall, cold, or both. It doesn't want to come out of high gear. I make the decision not to use the high gears when it's snowing. I round a bend just before the underpass for the train, and not far from the connecting trail. A couple is playing with their dog out in the snowfall. The guy is one of these in shorts over leggings and a bright-colored waterproof shell. He makes the observation, "It's not warm." I mention my preference for warmth, to which he replies, "We're 1,000 miles from Florida." Okay you swinign' guys, stay hip. My clear safety glasses are fogging up, which keeps the snow out of my eyes. After removing them, I can only tip my helmet forward so the visor cuts the oncoming flakes. Along the river, past the junk "recycling" yard and the golf course, I'm past a big outdoor mall and over a bridge. I'm approaching an underpass with at least a couple of figures underneath. I ever so slowly descend toward them, one standing and the other kneeling on the ground. I pass them and the one standing, and old guy, says "Whazzup? Y'okay?" He says something else I can't decipher as I climb out the other side. As always, I react as I suspect anyone in civilization would, as opposed to anyone disconnected from it. I don't reply, as if I'm unsure our relationship is, or if we have one, and why he's checking on my own wellbeing. He's the second street guy this month to inquire about my state of mind. The standard homeless script would be to respond to me with the ethereal, "Sorry for being nice." The only other voice I hear is the kneeling figure, a female. I can't make her out.
The trip home takes me about two and a half hours, an hour longer than over clear streets. I decide to go to bed early, to get up early, with as much time as possible to get to work. Saturdays I open at 9 AM. It's still snowing when I hit the hay. I get up indeed early and the snow has ceased. I check bus schedules, and I elect to attempt the trail. The streets have snow and ice, but I can ride. On a long downhill, I walk over a long stretch of ice. When I hit the trail, the first few yards are unplowed, and ridable in low gear. I assume the entire trail is this way. A few yards along is a ramp from an underpass. A plow has cleared the ramp and down the trail ahead. In fact, I will pass the plow ahead, coming back the other way. I pass a second plow. The trail ain't bad at all. The underpass with the pair of homeless from last night shows no habitation this morning. I turn onto the connecting trail to work which has also been plowed, and I pass a third plow. I make it to a dog park as the sun is about to rise, and this is where the plowed trail stops. I ride through a good amount of snow, I will hear at work that it was some ten inches, and dismount to climb a hill. I elect to exit the trail for the streets and make my way fairly well through tire wipes. I'm down an otherwise busy avenue and around a few corners, when I arrive at a horse trail. This is the quickest route to work sans any moisture. The ten inches are here. I downshift and am able to slowly make my way to the street. With the sun making its way into the sky, it's a beautiful scene. Falling snow comes down in clouds, through which the sun comes in rays, with blue sky behind. I make it to work just about three hours since leaving the house. Just enough time for breakfast in the shopping center. The sun comes out and the temps rise above freezing. And I've never seen so much snow melt so fast. Saturdays we close at 3 PM. Some ten hours ago, I rode across streets of ice and exited a trail with close to a foot of snow. The streets and the trail are now almost void of snow and ice. I took a gamble that the unplowed section of trail would get plowed, and it has. I go flying along my route to the gym and get there as fast as if it never snowed.
Superbowl Sunday. I got a workout in, grocery shopping, laundry, and dishes all done yesterday. Today, after lunch with the sister, I'm taking my oldest bike into the sporting goods supercenter. The brake pads are worn or the cables are stretched. My sister has a target date of May 1st when she must be moved out of her home of I don't how many years. I won't be pedaling a path this way to wherever her door ends up. During lunch, we watch a streaming documentary about a climber. He describes climbing through rock, snow, and ice. I tell the sister how this sounds like my commute this week. After lunch, I elect to take the short ride to the bus, which soon scoops me up and hauls me to a train, which takes me to the end of one line and I am shortly at the bike repair department. I always expect to have to leave my bike here. It turns out to be the brake pads. The tech has new ones on in 20 minutes. It's such a beautiful day outside I decide to ride home. Tomorrow is the first Monday of a new schedule, in which i will be opening for my coworker every other Monday And, when I get home, I have a Valentine's Day date with a lady I reconnected with last summer. This week, I should go in for blood work. Thursday I have an appointment with my new financial advisor.
I'm at work Wednesday afternoon when the flakes again begin coming down. After work, I run over to a grocery in the shopping center. I come out close to the time the bus comes along. I decide to take it this late afternoon and see what the streets are like tomorrow. I'm soon aboard, and it isn't long before we're behind an accident. We creep up to a stop and pick up some passengers. One lets the driver know that the back-up is long. Another is commenting on motorists who "don't know how to drive." She remarks, "There's emergency vehicles, and ambulance..." I don't recall the last time I was stuck on a bus in traffic. Ever. I contemplate getting out at the next stop which we creep up to, and riding to another bus or train, or home. But I don't know what the ride will be like on what's already come down, and continues to come down. And I would have to continue north past one major avenue, down a hill and across a second avenue and climb again to reach a second one, all before I could even think about turning west toward home. I have no idea if the trail has been plowed. And it's nice and warm...and dry inside the bus. We've made it up to the accident. I decide to wait and see what happens. The driver puts it in park and gets out to have a word with a traffic officer. He returns and waits. Beyond a single police cruiser, there isn't much left of the scene. An officer is going to each of a handful of vehicles in front of us. He sticks his head through our door to tell us the wait will be another ten to fifteen minutes. We get going in only five. It's been an hour since I stepped onboard. I will simply make the same connections I would have, an hour later. At the gate for my last bus home is a grey-haired guy. He has a cane and wears a cap reminiscent of folk singers during the 1960. He's smoking in the bs shelter, and I have to stick my head out into the blowing flakes. AS the bus pulls up, he says to me, "Those bike tires must be slippery in the snow." When we get on the bus, he asks for a mask from the driver because, he says, his broke.
Thursday. I decide to ride the transit system to work. A quick breakfast in the shopping center, into the pharmacy for muscle ointment for my neck which has been hurting since I left work yesterday, and the into a coffee shop. Here, I get a hot chocolate and sit at a table. I floss my teeth as discreetly as possible. If I don't do it now, I won't have the time. I break open the ointment. Then I spend the next hour with my new broker. He shares my own impression that my previous broker is young, and tells me some things which he says other brokers don't ever explain. He mentions that not all brokers come from a brokerage background. We dig into my portfolio. He tells me he's hands on, and it sure sounds like it. We talk investments and portfolio structure as I don't recall doing with my previous brokers. He tells me that I appear to understand some basic strategy about using a down market as an investment opportunity, which even older clients of his appear to not fathom. I leave there with the impression that my mutual retirement account is in the hands of someone who wants it to perform.
Something else happened Wednesday. I began to feel my neck getting sore, as if I pulled a muscle. Which is what I thought I did. By Friday, I got up and rode to work, and all day the entire back of my neck was sore. My sore neck was interfering with other muscles I tried to use. It hurt to lift my arms above my head, or even from a plate to my mouth. When I swallowed, my throat didn't hurt. My neck muscles would feel a stab of pain and interfered with my swallowing. My neck hurt simply standing and holding my head. Also, I had plenty of sleep the night before, but I was dead tired. I had little appetite. I was like some kind of pain zombie. What is this shit all about? I feel bad enough that I accept an offer from the general manager to give me a ride home. I had a couple nights of a painful neck trying to find a position on my pillow where I would get some relief. In spite of this, I got plenty of sleep. And I still felt dead tired at work. Saturday, I felt as if I wanted to lay down on the floor and go to sleep. Enen though I went to work Saturday because i thought I felt a little better. I shouldn't have worked wither day, but I'm glad I managed to make it through. Saturday morning, out of nowhere, I have a new symptom when I think I may be on the mend from the ridiculously sore neck. I have blood coming out of my butt. It's not mixed with my stool, but appears independently. Saturday, I made my way by transit system alone. Overnight, I get nine hours of sleep, and I awake in disbelief of how much better I feel. As fast as it came on, it's on the wane. Including the blood. What a crazy fucking two days.
Sunday. I am effectively out of the two-day fog of neck pain, lack of appetite and energy, and desire to lay down on the ground. The blood is gone, as if it was never here. My appetite is playing catch up today, and after lunch with the sister I'm at a diner along the way to grab a couple of special grocery items. I felt so bad the past two days, I can't believe I'm watching myself pick up a bike made of steel instead of lighter composite, much less put it on a rack on a bus. This crosstown bus is a time-saver to the sister's place, a direct route I recently stumbled upon, and not a bad idea if I want to avoid overdoing the distance I ride today. I've enjoyed riding over to her place, mostly which I done after our mom passed, as she used to come and pick us up all the time. But she and her husband, and the dog, need to be out of their place of several years as of May 1st. I've just taken the same bus back crosstown all the way to a diner I sometimes frequent this way. It's a franchise and doesn't serve Hispanic cuisine. But I walk in today and most of the clientele, as well as all the employees, are Spanish speaking. Mexican music wafts from the kitchen. I believe that this place, though it's located at an intersection with a busy highway and a busy avenue, is most of the time not busy at all. So on a day like today, right around noon with strange February temps in the sixties F, the big parking lot has a lot of cars. The place isn't full but I don't think the staff is used to larger crowds. Service is slow. I take the time and freshly cleared head to pause and look out of the big windows. It ain't like I don't know the neighborhood. Directly across the street is an empty lot, favored by the homeless. At one point, they had occupied the lot of this place with tents and a camper. Today, a large tarp hangs off a high concrete wall running the back of the lot. Above is a big marijuana dispensary and another warehouse. Behind the tarp is the outline of one tent and a sign of a possible second one. The other end of the tarp covers half of a third tent. Next to this is a shopping cart and a line of trash bags. I watch a young homeless couple, the female pushing a walker piled with stuff, cross the opposite intersection. Out in our intersection, a juggler in the standard vest tosses pins into the air. For a handful of years, jugglers have been sharing this intersection with panhandlers. This is the only corner in the metro area I'm aware of with jugglers on a regular basis. Back across the street, the homeless couple are passing under a train bridge. Up along the tracks is a very small billboard. It reads, "Shackled by LUST? JESUS Sets Free."
After my meal, I can't believe I feel well enough to ride over to my weekend yogurt place. Along the way, I grab the few groceries. I end up riding all the way back home. The brief death virus kept me from shopping for the rest of my groceries, so I head that way after get back home. Across from the supermarket is a department store. I really need a new windbreaker, or shell, for the days when the temps are too high for a winter coat. The one I have is actually an emergency rain shell, which is too bad because I otherwise love everything about it. But it's already falling apart. I first hit the department store. Into the parking lot pulls a car which appears to have been a police cruiser from 10 or 20 years ago. It still has the spotlight. Tacked onto the driver side mirror is a small US flag. I will later see this same vehicle the following evening after work. I will be approaching my home when I will see it going down my street, still with its tiny flag. Tuesday. The cold temps and small flakes began blowing in just as I left work yesterday. The small flakes continued overnight and into this morning. The streets really are not bad, but I decide to grab a bus to a train. It should save me time as I need to deposit my greatly reduced income tax refund at the bank. If I can get to a branch closer to work, rather than the one just down the street from where I live, it will give me more time to navigate whatever ends up being on the ground. They both open at the same time, but this morning I have enough time that I should get there when they open. I look at the clock. The bus to the train will be here soon and I may as well take it. The train will drop me a short ride from the bank. It's cold and the small flakes are drifting in the wind. I walk my bike to the stop and park it before I take a few steps back to the corner, where I can see down the street any approaching bus. On the other corner is a guy who is coughing, and smoking. He also waits for something or someone. He may be a resident of the Section 8 housing behind him and also waiting for my bus. My vision is still pretty good. From years of experience, I can recognize a transit system bus from quite a distance. It has more widely spaced headlights and a bar of orange lights against a blackface, just above the windshield. The lights spell out the route and destination. I spot it and head back to the stop. Indeed the figure on the other corner comes across and makes his way to the stop. The bus comes to a halt and he climbs the steps as I put my bike on the rack. I follow as the driver is telling him, "I'll let you on this time, but next time you need three dollars." He responds with something I don't make out. I lean in and tell the driver, "Everyone has a story."
The bus adventures continue after work. I end up staying late and the bus will soon arrive. And, as usual, the snow is beginning to accumulate on the street. I take the bus, to the train, to the station for a last bus home. I've missed the usual one, but another will be along in 20 minutes. I could ride from here, but on the bus I won't have to deal with getting snowed on. I step off the train. Under a shelter on the platform are a couple of old drunks. One is telling the other about a bus which, upon its marque, announces it's "going back to the garage," he complains. It's 11 degrees F this evening and headed downward. Not only is this guy in just a hoodie, but it's unzipped. Yes, I'm familiar enough during these weeks of snowfall with the schedule of buses which come through here about this time. If I arrive at this station soon enough after work, I see the first bus which comes at the end of its day, and heads back to the garage. I walk to the gate for my bus back home, and the pair follow. It soon pulls up and the observant drunk is ahead of me getting onboard. He's slowly digging through every pocket he can remember he has. He claims he can't feel his hands. The driver asks him if he's looking for his transfer. He doesn't respond. The driver asks him the same question two more times. He's confused at the question. The driver suggests he have a seat and search for his transfer there. The guy wouldn't be true to himself if he was anything less than holistically confused. The driver attempts to explain to him, "I'm just giving you another option (to standing here and researching every pocket.)" The guy smiles and says, "You want me to shut the fuck up, huh?" "No, I'm not saying that," the driver responds. I don't know what the transit system can offer new drivers to put up with this kind of tangled overgrowth of pathos. He elects to shuffle to a seat. Of course he never finds any transfer, which may or may not have ever existed. His friend is another story. His friend suddenly exclaims that, just before the bus arrived, he called his brother for a ride. He yells at the driver, as if this is a bar instead of a city bus, to keep an eye out for a car. Soon the driver yells back that a car has materialized. His fiend bids him farewell, or whatever the drunk equivalent is. It doesn't appear that his friend's brother has invited him along. Perhaps, as far as his friend's brother is concerned, he can 'shut the fuck up.' Blood is thicker than alcohol. The short trip down the avenue is otherwise uneventful. Along the way, he pulls the cord to signal his desire to exit at the next stop. He takes a step out of the door and exclaims, "Shit..." before he comes back inside. The first thing which appears to shock him is the presence of snow. He asks for the next stop. At the next stop, same thing with another "Shit..." He asks for the next stop after this one. And indeed, the third "Shit!" is the charm. He's out. After which, it' almost as if...he's shut the fuck up.
Wednesday and Thursday, I cover my coworker's shift as well as my own. Both days, I get a ride in to work from my boss. Wednesday, I get a ride home from our shoe guy who stays until close. I haven't been out on the trail since Tuesday morning. The snow has been lightly drifting in off and on over three days. Though I haven't been out riding, the streets appear as if they can be traversed. On Thursday's ride in, I mention to my boss that I' recently took a look on the website of another company for which I put in a little over six years. Some 20 years ago, they had about 15 locations around the metro area. They are down to three of four stores, plus a plant. Just about the same size as us. It's not that I don't understand what has happened so brutally to my industry post-pandemic. The joke around my place of employment is the parade of weekly new customers coming through our door, of which there is no end in sight. But my history with my old place of employment gives me a lens which I cannot remove. If they can hang on for just a couple more years, they will reach their centennial. The owner of my company purchased another, much smaller 100-year-old company, for its plant to replace the one we were losing. The current owner of my old gig took the company over from his dad. It was the first company where I became a store manager. The company hired a coworker for me, and I came to believe at the time that we were the best customer service team anywhere, anytime. That's another story. One day right after New Year's I was let go, and for some reason to discover some fifteen years after we first met that she had stayed with the company, I was surprised. I had just assumed she had left. I got a call at work from her, at work, and she didn't expect to hear my voice which she immediately recognized. I suppose that we have just been in this business too long. She was working in the neighborhood I had moved out of, and i went to go see her one day before a dentist appointment. Her husband, though he was making six figures, still couldn't afford to stay in what is perhaps the most expensive neighborhood in the metro area. She has a twin sister who was also working for the same company. As they had been there so long, they were the go-to employees for training new hires. Both sisters and husbands are very close, and all four made the decision to move out of state. This would have left the company without their most experienced employees. Their exodus was, I think, just before the pandemic. On the trip to work early Thursday morning, my boss told me that he saw online, the company she and I worked for is up for sale. I don't know for how long. He and I have discussed that company before and he's mentioning it only now. Perhaps this year it went up for sale. I wouldn't call the management of that company friends of the service-seeking customers. I'm sure they will have squeezed every drop of blood from their company before they hand it off, if someone bites.
Two Tales of One Windbreaker
The weekend before the last one of this month, I went into my neighborhood Walmart. I had previously, sometime last year, picked up one of those emergency rain suits. I had been using the top half as a windbreaker on the days when it was too warm to ride in my winter coat. I loved this thing, but it was designed for minimal use only. By last weekend, it had come to be made more of duct and packing tape than its original material, due to the various and sundry tears which accumulated. The time had come for a real windbreaker, or "shell" as it's referred to in the cycling biz. I took a look in Walmart and didn't see any. I asked an employee with a badge which reads "coach." She asked me if I looked already. I said I did...and I asked her if she is aware...as an employee...if they have any. You feel me? She acted as if this was thoroughly unexpected. She checked her phone, told me the only windbreakers in the metro area were at another Walmart, wished me good luck, and walked away. You go, coach! Anti-coach? Repressed mass-murderer? If she does end up being the next Lee Harvey Oswald, you can bet she won't be caught dead in any windbreakers. Today is Sunday, and I am doing lunch with and helping pack up her home with the sister. Good news. They found a place to move. Though it is in a nearby town and not as close to the big city. After lunch and a bit of packing I headover to a sporting goods store in her neighborhood. I was actually headed for Target and stumbled upon this place. As soon as I walked in I saw windbreakers on display. I told the clerk that, for $75, this had better be some fantastic windbreaker. She claimed, "People are buying these, because they like them." Good enough for me. And they are on sale for $68. Another problem solved. I put the old windbreaker in a trash can by the front door, for some potential mass-murderer who needs it more than I do.
