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The
Truth About Peeps PAGE
TWO: I creep closer to my boyfriend, now sincerely believing this might be the last time we're in such close proximity to each other. "I guess this is it then. I mean, I guess this is goodbye. " "Babe, seriously, can we talk about this when we get outside?" "Why?" "Because I can't stand fighting in public." "Outside will still be public." "So wait until we get in the car." "You're gonna drive and fight?" "You can drive. I'll fight." "I can't drive and fight. I can barely drive and listen to music." We move another inch forward. We're next in line. When we finally get outside, it's started to rain. Running to the car, one of my bags gives way. Sundries fly across the pavement. An aerosol can skitters over the parking lot with impressive velocity before rolling to a stop in a puddle of water. I don't care. Let it roll. Let them all roll! I continue on. Behind me, I hear my boyfriend walking across the parking lot to retrieve the fugitive items. That's sweet, I think. I would've let them go. I turn and watch as he waves at a car to stop before it hits an errant bottle of Jergens body lotion. He picks up the bottle and waves again, this time, in thanks. Jeez, maybe he IS a nice guy. Maybe I'M the bad one. Maybe I'M the asshole. Maybe I'm pushy and mean, and it's all my fault such a fine day has been ruined and sure, while we're at it, I'll take the blame for this being the 14th day in a row of rain. He's walking back towards me now, cradling the rescued goods in his arms like infant children. Our children. THE CHILDREN WE WILL NEVER HAVE. The rain's coming down in sheets. I wonder if he's fucking my best friend. God I'm in a bad mood. We get in the car. I clear my throat. He turns on the blower. Subaru's make good blowers, I think, as the frost on the front windshield begins to melt. By the time we've made it up the stairs to the front door with our packages, I'm exhausted. I sit down on the couch and wrap my arms around my legs while he unpacks the bags. I've lost all desire to talk. I just want to drop the Whole Damn Thing, whatever It is, and crawl back into bed. But then I see my laptop. And after a brief silence, broken only by the tapping of the keyboard, I read aloud: "In 1917, Sam Born opens a small retail candy store in New York, marketing its freshness with a sign that declares, 'Just Born.' Blah blah blah, blah blah blah..." My boyfriend has stopped unpacking and stares at me through the peek-thru in the kitchen wall. I continue. "In
1953, Just Born acquires Rodda Candy Company of Lancaster, PA who,
although known for their jellybean technology, also make a small
line of marshmallow Easter Peeps which are made by hand-squeezing
marshmallow through a pastry tube." I cruise through the timeline, salivating over the prospect of dating the bunnies' appearance: it now seems imperative that they be as modern as possible. "1960s -- Just Born produces marshmallow trees and snowmen for the holiday season. 1978 -- The sons take over as co-presidents of the company. And -- oh, look: In 1980, Peeps Giant Bunnies become available." I stop reading and stare at the screen. Over my shoulder, I hear the sound of a Budweiser popping open. "What are Giant Bunnies?" "I guess that's what they're called." "Well, when did they become purple?" "Lemme see here..." I page through some irrelevant information, looking. "Uh... 'In 1995, Lavender Peeps are added to the Easter line-up.' And then it looks like they did blue in 1998 to commemorate their 75th anniversary." We both consider this. "Hunh. Purple before blue then," he says. "Yeah. Purple before blue." "I thought you said purple was the most modern of all colors." "Chicks before bunnies, though." "Well..." my boyfriend sidles over to where I sit on the couch. "I guess that makes both of us right." "Yeah," I say, totally bushed, "I guess it also makes both of us wrong." And
then we sit there on the couch, sleepy-eyed from shopping, done
with our stupid fight, knowing that just as we can annoy the hell
out of each other, we also have the ability to fill each other with
the greatest elation either of us has ever felt and that sometimes,
on a rainy Saturday morning, it's hard to tell the difference.
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There's
a difference between waiting in line in Los Angeles and waiting
in line in New York. In New York, the lines are long. For everything.
It's a matter of course: you wait for the movies, you wait for your
dinner reservation, you wait at the Korean Deli. Fairway, Dean and
Deluca might take a half-hour out of your day, and that's not counting
shopping and perusing time. You wait for the bus, the subway, hailing
a taxi. You wait on line at H&M for the cheapest clothes that
will only last one single season before falling apart, but what
a season that will be! You wait for elevators, for secretaries a
hot pastrami on rye, Novi at Russ and Daughters, a slice of Original
Ray's. And you don't mind, because in New York City, waiting in
line is half the fun. The Checkout People are not actors. They are
JUST WHAT THEY ARE; they're a Waiter, or a Sales Clerk, a Subway
Conductor, a Bus Driver, a Purveyor of Fine Fish, a Connoisseur
of Jewish Deli Meats. They take pride in what they do, and if, by
chance, you bring something unmarked up to the counter, they know
how much it costs -- price tag or no. And behold -- the lines snake
beautifully around in loops, gracing the very spaces filled with
stinky cheeses, fresh breads, vintage movie posters, the distinctive
scent of a deal. But here in Los Angeles, everyone in the service
industry is a malcontent, wishing that they were somewhere else,
feeling that they deserve better and making it known to all.
It's enough to make you want to scream: For God's Sake, JUST TRY.
PLEASE, JUST TRY. 
