One for the Gipper
Not really. But something odd. The other day I was driving through a small town who's main industry is the state penitentiary. I noticed a new sign, "Grand Opening, Tile Store". It's a cheesy sign, it looks homemade, would be better off advertising a garage sale, but still, I stop. Because I'm pretty curious about tile.
Some of you may not know this, but you can't just go out and buy tile. Here's an actual fact: if I gave my middle-school daughter $50, she could come home with all kinds of illegal drugs. But I, armed with cash, credit, advice column credentials and so on, couldn't buy tile. It's more carefully regulated than heroin. You might think tile is a euphemism for something else, but no, I'm talking about little 4 x 4 inch squares of ceramic stuff that you'd stick on the wall, or inside the shower.
Sheesh. So I go into this so-called store, and I realize I've been here before. Not exactly here, but places like it. Because it used to be a bar, the big dumpy kind that is common in college towns and on the Jersey shore. And, I guess, in penitentiary towns, which is sort of like college for some people, I suppose. (You spend 4 or more years there, then get out with no real plan.) Anyway, it's the kind of bar with maybe 2 lightbulbs and 6 pool tables. So anyway, by the smell of the place, I'm thinking it was a bar yesterday (smoke, beer, vomit). There are still only 2 dim bulbs for this rather large room. All of the pool tables are covered with cloth, upon which tile is laid out.
Now, for reasons I won't go into here, I'm looking for 40 amber glass tiles. (Sheesh, I almost put a link the particular tiles I want, but then thought, shit Courtney, get a hold of yourself, not a soul is interested in that.) I've been trying to buy these tiles for a while, but, as I said, I could more readily score cocaine. AND, cocaine would be way cheaper. Way. So this beefy looking guy (looks like he was the bouncer in the bar yesterday) says, "whatcha lookin for?"
"Um, tile? Do you have any Crossville tile?"
"Crossville? No, that's American. We only deal with imports."
I'm looking around at this seedy place in this seedy little town thinking huh? You're too fancy for American tile? But I say, "well, do you have any glass tile?"
"No, that would be American, glass tile. I just deal in imports because I can do stuff with imports that I just can't do with American tile."
Two thoughts here: Europe has no glass? Venice? Umm, can that be true? Then, ick. What, exactly, does he
do with the tile that's what, illegal to do with American tile? Is it something he learned in prison?
Anyway, I still don't have the tile. I see my contractor everywhere, this is a small town after all, and every day he says, well, did you get the tile yet? I see him when I get coffee, or when I get a tattoo, or when I go to see the
erotic fire dancers at the park. Everywhere. I have to pretend, um, the tile, yeah, that's coming. A bit later.