No Liquor at Pokey’s

Paul Dent and Patrick Bowles went into the place and Paul didn’t hide how eager he was to share what he’d found with his friend. He asked. “Have you been in here before?”

Patrick shook his head.

Outside there had been a sign bracketed to the edge of the building that said Pokey’s Liquors. It was white and broad and backlit and printed with tall red letters in some saloon font. And right across the brow of the shop, above the narrow open doors, there was a banner/billboard with little pictures of beer and wine and canned soup and cigarettes. Which struck Patrick as strange because can cigarettes be advertised on billboards anymore? Prices were stickered around the pictured items like garnishes, prices too low to be correct, even for a modest liquor store.

Now inside it was obvious this wasn’t any liquor store. Behind the white-washed doors and the papered front windows it was a big beautiful market. The ceilings were high and the tall windows at the back wall looked half a football field away. A long freezer had milk and eggs, butter, yoghurt, and everything cold behind polished glass doors. Rows of well-stocked shelves went back and back. There was even a kind of food court in one corner with a bar. Beer taps sprouted from the counter and there were kiosks where pizzas were being baked or Thai noodles were being fried or some rare crop of pickles waited in fantastic jars to be served on newspaper with, maybe, some fresh thick pastrami sandwich.

There were exotic and beautiful things right, left, and center. Not just food either. Shining brass bottle openers. Cobalt coffee cups with matching saucers. Candles with rock salt and herbs in the wax. Copper flasks. Elaborate long-spouted kettles, fantastic whisks, and multi-tiered colanders with a mirror finish. Just inside the door a tall basket held little snack bags for sale. It was no brand Patrick recognized. He examined them. They were spirit animal crackers. Eight dollars a bag.

Patrick wanted to know, “What is this phony place?”

“What do you mean?”

“This isn’t any liquor store.”

“No. That’s just what they call it. Come this way.” Paul led the way to the food court, to a counter piled with whole fruits, pitchers of pulpy juice, and unlabeled powders. A line of fierce-looking blenders were mounted to the counter. “They have really phenomenal smoothies at this place.”

The menu was on a card. A young man in a green apron stood ready for their order.

“That one.” Patrick pointed to his choice.

“Which?” The young man craned his neck over the row of blenders.

“This.” Patrick turned the card and put his finger on his choice. He didn’t want to say it.

The young man read it. “The Jubilacious Bodacious Smoothie? You got it! Is that all?” Paul ordered the same and the man went to work.

Paul said, “Nice in here, right?”

Patrick’s eyes wandered around the space. “Why did you bring me here?”

“What do you mean?”

And Patrick indicated everything. The fifty different cheeses on display in wheels too big to carry out. The artisan loaves of coarse black bread. The impractical raw soaps and innocuous teas and powders and botanical cleaners. The prices were ridiculous but that wasn’t the most obnoxious part. It was the playful, winking entitlement presumed in everything. The store was a prop, a feature in a lifestyle which stroked itself. It pretended to be a liquor store, a gritty, functional place where people in a neighborhood buy paper towels or dish soap or peanut butter or relief from a tedious weekday. Instead here was this gleeful place, an overly curated, too sweet, shallow and frivolous movie set that made a tone deaf parody of real grocery shopping. The city had places like this of all kinds, made to entertain young new-rich adults with gimmick services and liberal wealth flattery. And to take their money. God, it took their money.

When Patrick finished tallying the injustices he added, “Isn’t it sort of shameless? I feel like a dope shopping in here? Don’t you?”

“No.”

“You like it in here? But think of this…” And Patrick took a breath like he might start again.

Paul interrupted him. “You really overthink it.”

“I’m not. I — ”

“You know you’re kind of a snob.”

And that stunned him. “Well…I…” But Patrick didn’t know how to start again. That criticism hit very close to the bone.

“You can’t just enjoy yourself in here? It’s beautiful.” Paul said, “They’ve brought the whole world to us. We are like kings in here. You don’t want that? Everybody on Earth wants that.”

The smoothies came out. The young man said, “Two Jubilacious Bodacious!”

Paul said, “What do you carry someone else’s guilt around for? You’d rather be in some actual crummy liquor store? That you’d find in any little town, anywhere in the world? What for? So you can stop in for paper towels or dish soap or peanut butter or a cheap plastic bottle of cirrhosis? I don’t want that. Anybody could have that. I live in Dukeport. I want this.”

The young man called again, “Two Jubilacious Bodacious!”

Those words made Patrick blush. But he went to the counter and claimed the tall white cups. They walked on and Patrick drank through the big green straw. He didn’t like it, but said nothing. His friend Paul had the straw in his mouth and a grimace on his face. What did he get on that soapbox for? He’d made his friend unhappy with a lecture and he was sorry he’d done it. He asked, “How’s yours?”

Paul stopped sipping. “This isn’t what I had before. I don’t think this is their best one.” He popped the lid and looked sadly at the contents inside. “It’s really too sweet.”