H-E-B

heb with kroger's stickers
Originally uploaded by uselessnanhai

Visiting a liquor store at 2 in the afternoon, John and I select a couple bottles of wine. John chooses a Shiraz because of the kangaroo on the bottle. I go with my old standby, Firesteed Pinot Noir. I notice the liquor store has that stale smell of hops and cardboard. When we first walked in I was so disoriented by the stark walls and large windows that I didn’t even notice the door leading into the wine room. We run into Raul, stocking white wines. John met Raul a few months back when John first moved to town. Occasionally, after his shift at Barnes & Noble, John likes to stop in and look over the selection. He likes to learn about the various high end bourbons, scotches, and tequilas.

I still feel a little uncomfortable shopping for alcohol with John. When I met him he had never drank. He talked a lot about his father’s addictions and how he vowed to not become like him. While I supported his decision, this was always a point of contention between us. I love to go out for a margarita with friends once a week. According to John, this made me a borderline alcoholic. It was only this past New Year’s that John decided he was ready to enter the world of beer pong, bars, and middle of the afternoon wine runs.

Raul adjusts bottles of Riesling and Gewurztraminer while he tells us how the store was robbed just last week. He says he wasn’t really scared, just a bit shaken by the events. I stare at them both wide eyed, feeling so out of place. They talk about robberies like they happen all the time. Me, I live in a small suburb of a small city covered in snow this time of year. Daily crime for us involves someone stealing a yard gnome. Raul gives John a few recommendations before we take our selections to the cashier.

As we near the front of the store an old man stumbles in, rambling in Spanglish. He is wearing a red and white winter jacket. Although it is December, it is inappropriate for the 80 degree weather in San Antonio. He asks the cashier for a fifth of whisky and pulls out a pocket full of change. It is obvious he is a regular by the good natured joking of both clerks as one of them counts out the assortment of nickels, dimes, pennies, and quarters. They laugh and make comments on the road work being done out front. The man looks around and makes eye contact with us as we turn the corner where the other clerk is ready to ring us up. Although he looks friendly, I pretend to not notice and make myself busy by inspecting a tequila display.

I don’t fit in here, a pale white northern in this sea of tan Texans. I worry that at any minute someone will point to me and say, “Wait a minute, she isn’t from here” and I will be promptly driven and deposited at the border of Texas and Oklahoma.

The old man looks at John. He smiles and then his brow furrows as he notices something. He points to John and says, “Hey man you got something on your back.” Immediately intrigued, I turn to look at what he is pointing to. There nestled between John’s shoulder blades on the back of his red periodical table t-shirt is an H-E-B sticker.

H-E-B is a chain of grocery stores. The initials stand for Here Everything’s Better. It makes me laugh because they are located throughout Texas and one cannot help but notice the amount of pride Texans have in their state. On our first date, two years earlier in Wisconsin, John told me he was a sixth generation Texan. He planned on being married, having children, and dying in Texas. He also professed his admiration for our Texan president, George W. Bush. Being a liberal who voted for Nader back in 2000 without any hopes that he would win, I was unprepared for this conservative loyalty to one’s state and everything in it. John often spoke of going to H-E-B on his breaks from work. Heb, I would think in my head with a smile.

Earlier in the day, John took me to H-E-B to buy some groceries. In an apartment of 20-something year old boys, I was ensured there were not many vegetarian options available. It was at the checkout cxt line that I spotted the H-E-B stickers. They were hanging near the bagging area. It was obviously a ploy to keep children and 32 year old Wisconsin visitors occupied while the adults paid for the groceries. I couldn’t resist taking one. I put it on John’s back, knowing it would irritate him. I thought back to a conversation we had on the phone one night shortly after John had moved back to Texas. He told me that whenever he buys something, like a shirt or sweater, he inspects the entire item for any loose strings, tiny tears, or flaws in the fabric. He won’t purchase something if it isn’t perfect. I had laughed at this story because I couldn’t be more flawed. If I were a shirt on a rack, I would have mismatched fabric and a missing sleeve. John tried to put the sticker on me but I simply stuck it on the back of his shirt where it would be hard for him to reach. Defeated by my childish antics, he left the sticker there.

Without missing a beat, John looks over at the old man, shrugs and with a gesture my way, says, “It’s her.” He says it like they are conspirators in a plot I am not allowed to know. The old man smiles wide, exposing a mouth full of rotting teeth and gaps. He laughs in a sympathetic way and looks at me knowingly.

For a second I am confused. I take John’s statement literal. I wonder, am I on his back? I look at the sticker and suddenly feel sheepish by his meaning. Maybe I should take the sticker off. Before I can do anything, John grabs my hand and we walk out into the warm Texas sun. I wonder if I have embarrassed him but I look over at him and he is smiling at me the whole time.