Happy Cows

“I wouldn’t get that if I were you,” a voice to the left said.  “Not from happy cows.”

“Oh?  What do you recommend instead?”

“I’d go with the Humboldt Fog.  Tastier.  And the aforementioned happy cows.”

“The cows in,” she turned the wedge of cheese over, “in Wisconsin are desperately unhappy then?”

“Miserable, from what I hear.  No sun, surf or sand.”

“But they have the Great Lakes.  I bet you can probably go surfing.”

“It’s not the same.  The cows know it.  Humboldt Fog.  You have to do your part.”

“My part?  Whatever do you mean?” 

“I recognize a fellow Californian when I see one.  Have you no state pride?  Do you want us to continually come in second to Wisconsin?”

“Only in cheese-making.  We own butter and milk.”

“All the more reason for you to buy Californian cheese.”

“But Humboldt is goat’s milk.  No cows, happy or otherwise, were used.”

“Exactly my point.  The cows need a break.”  But he couldn’t keep a straight face as he said it. 

“You talked a good game,” she said, “even if you don’t know the difference between goats and cows.”

“Seriously, though, the Humboldt is a fine cheese.” 

“I know.  One of my brothers actually moved up there.  Although he’s not ranching, he’s farming.”

“Weed, I imagine.”

“Other things too.”

“You are far from home then.”

“So are you.  Where are you from?  Be warned if you say L.A. I am never speaking to you again.”

“As if.  I like my snobs deathly serious and overly caffeinated.  Hence the move to New York.  But I feel at peace in this store.  A little slice of home.”

“Which is…?”

“Lincoln.  It’s a city – I use the term loosely – right outside of –”

“Sacramento.  Shut up.  There is no way.”

“What, what did I say?”

“I lived in Lincoln for six years.  I went to high school there.”

“All hail the mighty Fighting Zebras.”

“One of the most bizarre mascot known to man.  Zebras?  Why?  There are no zebras indigenous to California.”

“I agree.  I went to UCSC.  Fiat Slug foreva.” 

“Did you just say ‘foreva’ like a pre-tween girl?  And when did you graduate?”

“I’ll have you know all the cool kids say it.  Miley told me so.  Graduate from where?”

“From Lincoln, you idiot.”  She stuck her tongue out at him.  "What else would I be asking?" 

“Well that’s mature.  Go get the cheese.  You’ll be glad you did.”

With an apology to the people behind her, she ran out of line and grabbed a wedge of the Humboldt.

“It is a good cheese,” she said somewhat sheepishly.  “Only reason I'm letting you talk me into this.  But I’m still getting my Wisconsin sharp cheddar, California cows be damned.

“Right.”  He had the good grace not to laugh.  “That makes sense.  1998.”

“You graduated ’98?”  He nodded.  “But that’s the year I graduated!"

"Are you sure?”
 
She laughed.  It was a stupid question, he knew. 

“I mean, are you sure it was the same Lincoln High School?”

“It’s the only high school in town, last I checked.”

“Ryan Everett.  Proud member of the two first names club.”

“I’d shake your hand but,” she pointed to her overflowing basket, “it would entail too much rearranging.”

“I’ll consider it shook.  And you are…?”

“My manners!  I knew I left something at home.”

“That’s what all the pretty girls say.”

“I’m Melinda.  Melinda Wilson Hutchinson.”

“Not the Mel Wilson who used to be in drama club?” 

“The one and only.  Good thing I left her behind, huh?”  She smiled tightly. 

He cut across to her line.  “Sorry about that,” he said to the woman behind them.  “She’s an old friend.” 

“You only have four things.  Go back to the express line.”

“Nah.  I got tired of shouting across the way.  Besides, it’s obvious you don’t remember me or you would know I thought the world of you then.  I came over so you could get a better look, refresh your memory.”

“Sorry to say but you’re not ringing any bells.”

“Picture me with glasses, overalls and curly hair.”

“Ohhhh.  Percy!  Is it really you?  But you said your name was Ryan.”

“It is.  Percival Ryan Everett.  I stopped going by Percival after high school.”

“Wait a minute?  Weren’t you going to be a farmer?  I distinctly recall you telling me that.”

“It’s good to see you too.  The line’s moving.  We’d better inch up.”

“I’m flabbergasted.  You look fantastic, by the way.  I’m sure you get that all the time.  Are you still acting then?  How did you end up in New York?  Oh, you must tell me everything.”

“It’s a long, interesting story.  I’ll tell you about it at dinner tonight.”

“So we’re having dinner now?”

“Of course.  My place or yours?”

“Oh you’re a sly one.  Mine.  Otherwise my food will spoil.  But you’re getting the wine.” 

“Of course.  What kind of date would I be if I showed up empty-handed?”

“Go first, you have less stuff.”  He placed his items on the counter.  “A date, eh?  I don’t recall being asked.”

“Consider yourself asked.  What time?”

“I missed when I said yes.”

“You were very excited.  Had to wipe your memory clean of the whole event.  Too much excitement.”

“I’ll just bet.  How about now?”

“That’s $17.84.” 

He handed the cashier a twenty and started emptying out her basket.  She gave them both a dirty look. 

“Can’t now. Buying groceries.” 

“I meant afterwards.”

“Oh.  Well, I'm going to your place.  With a brief stop at the liquor store.  You?”

“It would serve you right if I made you carry my groceries home and then went out without you.” 

“You can’t.  You want my story too badly.  So nosy.  Ouch!” he said, rubbing his arm where she’d punched him.  “You have an arm on you.” 

“I got into kickboxing a while back.”

“I said debit or credit.  Lady, you paying attention?”

“Oh, apologies.  Credit please.”

“You’re contributing to the downfall of American society with the profligate use of credit.”

“It’s for the miles.”  She signed the receipt slip with a flourish. 

“Next!”

“We should take this elsewhere before she throws us out,” she said, glancing at the frustrated cashier.  “Scary she is.”

“Let me.”

“No, I’ve got it… Or not.  Thank you.”

“The liquor store is two blocks down.  Do you want to drop your stuff off first?”

“Oh no, I live in the Heights.  Wine first, definitely.”

“Why are you shopping down here then?”

“Well, I like their bread and cheese.  I go after work sometimes and do a really big run.  I keep telling myself to bring the shopping cart, so I don’t have schlep onto the train with fifty bags but then I’d have to bring it to work… What?  You’re staring!”

“I’m realizing how much I missed me some Mel.

“Oh stop.  See what you’ve done?  I’m blushing."

"It's a good look."

"I've missed you too,” she said quietly, “but don’t let it go to your head.” 

He chortled at that. 

“Alright, enough sentimentality." 

"Your wish is my command.  Let’s have a non-sentimental dinner, a few glasses and witty conversation, not necessarily in that order.”

“Dork.” 

“Lead on, fair mistress, and I will follow.”  Rearranging the bags, he gave her a cheeky bow.

“You’re the one who knows where the liquor store is!”

"So you still can't navigate your way out of a paper bag I see."

"Oh do shut up."

"It's on 58th and 8th Ave."

"Thank you.  Was that so hard?"

"I thought men were the ones who hated to ask for directions."