Alameda is a strange, strange town, excuse me… island- in the middle of the San Francisco Bay Area. Literally smack in the middle. Floating along like a turd in the great toilet bowl of the bay.
As a disgruntled teenager, I would look across the water, and stare longing towards the highly visible San Francisco Skyline dreaming of my escape from the phallic shaped island. To my shock and horror, somehow I managed to find my way back post graduation. As a “grown-up” I’ve discovered this place is incredibly pleasant. Since Alameda is located IN the bay, there really is no reason for “outsiders” to come here, unless they are purposely coming to Alameda for a reason… you don’t just stumble into Alameda. This creates a very small town,”ya’ll come back now” type of feeling with many of the folks who reside here. As with most secluded towns, there used to be a colorful splash of racism, but luckily this is quickly fading out. The absurdity of this folksy, neighborhood feeling is the fact that Alameda is a city.
It’s not THAT small, ya’ll… we have three high schools for crying out loud. So while many residents may FEEL like they know everyone on the island, they only really encounter one or two familiar faces on a normal outing. The rest are just weird friendly encounters with strangers.
“Hello! The weather is great isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is! Have a great day, Buddy!”
Trader Joe’s is a lot like Alameda. How so? Well, it’s a corporate supermarket that thinks of itself as your neighborhood grocer. Everything is wholesomely prepackaged and marketed with down home wit. Heck, even the monthly newsletter looks like it’s been drawn by a crazy person and printed at Kinko’s.
Babies get balloons and everyone who works there has that same Alameda weirdly too familiar charm.
“Hey! Looks like your getting ready for a party! I love this type of paper napkin!”
Now, both are great when separated, because they serve as mini hootenanny vacations from true city life. That comfy everyone knows your name feel without everyone actually knowing all your dirty freaky deaky secrets. Yet, when the powers of both combine… something awful happens.
The freedom of TOO much familiarity starts to set in.
After going to the gym, I decided to buy a bottle of wine at TJs (among other things… I’m not THAT much of a lush, people). When I got to the check out, the cashier was a bubbly young man in a hemp necklace. His hair stood straight up, cemented in place by various products. He was pleasant, I was pleasant and the whole transaction seemed rather routine, until he got to the bottle of wine.
“Do you have an ID for me to check,” he smiled a cheesy Trader Joe’s grin, took my driver’s license, then proceeded to stare a beat or two longer than the usually once over most cashier exhibit. “What that…” he did a comical double take, then exclaimed, “YOOOOOU were born in ‘82?!?!?”
“Oh… come on…” it wasn’t necessarily the first time, I was questioned about my age, but it normally came from a person who was older, and old people generally can’t decipher a 15 year old from a 30 year old. This guy was young, and obviously born WAY after 1982. He continued,
“I thought you were MY age… but noooo, you’re born in 1982! This is crazy! I can’t believe it!” By this point everyone else in line started to take note, and since this was Alameda, the woman behind me had to add,
“you do look young for your age.” I didn’t like the fact that my 27 years of life was shocking.
Newsflash: 27 isn’t old.
“I mean, I have a girlfriend and all, so it’s not like that or anything… it’s just so crazy that you were born in 1982, I seriously, thought you were my age.”
With that comment, Junior McBabykins made me feel like a old hag pedophile.