Carded For Cookies

Grandpa is a great guy, but he’s got this thing about Oreo cookies. He can’t get enough of them. Before we knew what an obsession was or a sugar addiction, there was what Grandpa called his sweet tooth. And every few days, when Mom, Dad, and my sister, Sarah, visited his condo on the shore of the Pacific Ocean in Newport Beach, California, he would give me five dollars to run up to the 7-11 to fetch him some double-stuffed Oreo cookies. Under normal circumstances, this isn’t a problem for a 13-year-old boy. And in 1984? I would get sent to the store with a note to pick up Mom a pack of Marlboro Reds. Here’s the thing – no one would question it! A 13-year-old buying cigarettes? No problem – as long as you had a note.

Grandpa wasn’t a smoker. Mom could do it outside the condo, as far away as possible. But if Mom couldn’t get comfortable? She’d go without smoking. Then she’d get crabby. And irritable. Dad and Grandpa couldn’t stand her like that, so the compromise was smoking outside at the edge of his patio, so he gave her an empty Folgers coffee can for her cigarette butts. As his daughter-in-law, my Mom tried to do right by him. The whole time we were there, Mom smoked two cigarettes, savoring each one. But this weekend was different because it was the 4th of July.

If you know anything about southern California, holiday weekends, like the 4th of July, are a big deal. People come from all over the country to enjoy the sun, sand, and surfing. Grandpa loved the fireworks but hated getting out, despising the traffic and the outsiders. He and his closest neighbors, one on each side of his condo, complained loudly about the tourists. And you could always spot them – white zinc on their noses, pale complexion, flocking to the West Coast for the weekend because it’s California, and we’ve got the best waves for surfing. Okay, so at 13, I am biased, being a surfer myself. On these weekends? That’s when Grandpa would send me, Mom or Dad, to the store. He’d send me for the Oreos, but sometimes I’d go with Dad to get a six-pack of Budweiser and a four-pack of Bartles and Jayme’s wine coolers for Mom. Grandpa didn’t drink anything but bourbon and only on rare occasions, like the 4th of July.

Grandpa bought Sarah and me bikes to ride the paved sidewalk from Newport Beach to Huntington Beach. Mom didn’t care how far we went, having purchased a pair of binoculars to watch us on the sidewalk. Or at least that’s what she told Dad she needed them for. But this was 1984. We rode our bikes back and forth between both piers, sometimes as often as three times in the same day! We only did that once, and we were both so wasted afterward that Dad had to carry us out to the car for our two-hour drive back to Riverside. I don’t remember the ride home. Neither does Sarah!

“Hey, Justin!” Grandpa wore a Hawaiian print button-down shirt, a Panama Hat, and shorts. His sunglasses were Ray-Ban Wayfarer’s, the ones everyone wore in 1984 because Sonny Burnett from Miami Vice wore them. Don Johnson, acting as Sonny, made those the hottest sunglasses in the 1980s. I think Grandpa had four pairs of them, which weren’t cheap!

Sarah and I were playing outside when Grandpa hollered for me – for the second time.

“Justin! Come here. I need you to run to the store!” Grandpa was waving a bill in his hand. I assumed it was a five, like always. Running up in my flip-flops was tough, flapping as they did against the soles of my feet. I had tennis shoes, but Mom and Dad preferred Sarah and me to wear something more comfortable at the beach. That was Mom’s way of saying something that wouldn’t get sand in them. One time, I heard Mom complaining to Dad about the sand in the car. “Mitch, it gets everywhere. We need to buy the kids sandals.”

“Why? So they have one more pair of shoes to lose?”

“Mitch, they are not shoes. They are sandals or flip-flops.”

“Toe pinchers. That’s what they are.” Dad never took off his shoes unless we went down to the shoreline of the Pacific. Then he’d go barefoot. But it was rare.

“I don’t care. I’m getting sandals for the kids when they are here at the beach.” Mitch rolled his eyes. “Suze.” He stopped whatever he was going to say, kissing her forehead. “Get them whatever you want. Whatever is best for them, okay?”

“You won’t have to vacuum the car as often.” Suzie’s sing-songy voice rang out. “And you know what they say?”

“Happy wife,” Mitch said.

“Happy life,” Suzie smiled. “Yes, dear.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“Justin! Come on, kiddo. I need Oreos.” I got closer and could see the ten-dollar bill in his hand. He never gave me that much money at one time! I think I saw a twenty in Dad’s hand once. But no one ever trusted me with more than a five until now. “Run to the 7-11 and get me the double-stuffed Oreos.” He stuffed the ten into my hand, closing his hand over mine. “Bring back the change, AND if you do it quick enough? You can go back and get a Slurpee. But you’ve got to be quick, okay, kiddo?” Mom and Dad were listening to Grandpa’s speech to me, seeing my eyes get big at the idea of holding a ten-dollar bill.

My shoes, my tennis shoes, were inside the back sliding glass door. Dad refused to let us ride our bikes without shoes on. I couldn’t figure out why until I saw a teenage girl crash her ten-speed right outside Grandpa’s condo. She was wearing flip-flops, and it looked like she had torn off her red-painted toenail. Well, not tear it off, but she did get a nice bit of road rash on her foot! Not something I wanted to experience! So, I obeyed Dad’s rule.

Socks? Yeah, that wasn’t happening. I left the socks inside the condo, sliding my feet in the Vans. Black and white checkerboard patterned Vans. The coolest ones. The ones that every kid had. And every single teenager on the beach. The guys, anyway. Stuffing the ten into the pocket of my cutoffs, I pedaled as fast as I could to the 7-11. The parking lot, as it always was, was packed. Cars and trucks coming in and out. Some were surfers, and others were teen kids looking for a six-pack of Coke to take to the beach. A couple had adults buying alcohol or cigarettes. Mom brought her two packs so I wouldn’t need to go with my ‘note.’

Ducking and dodging adults was a game I liked, except on holiday weekends, like this one. Man. People were everywhere! Buying Budweisers or wine coolers. A few of the younger twenty-somethings were buying MD 20/20. I’d learn that Mad Dog, as it was called, was cheap, but the tradeoff? The worst hangover ever! But that was a lesson for another day. Not today. Today? All I needed was the cookies.

A young guy stood behind the cash register, asking people for identification to buy alcohol. No one showed him an I.D. for cigarettes. Just the alcohol. After playing dodge the adult-like people, I found what I was in there for – the Oreos. Snatching the blue packaging off the shelf, I approached the front. The red-headed kid with a few pimples was ringing up beer, wine coolers, cigarettes, Coke and Sprite, and a few Slurpees, which is the one thing I’d be back for.

Four people stood between me and Mark, the cashier. I read his tag when I entered the store, but no one cared what his name was. They only wanted the convenience of getting in and out faster than your traditional grocery store. Which, when it came down to it, it was! And Mark was making quick work of the line. Items lined up on the counter, preventing everyone from holding their ‘stuff,’ meant that my Oreoes were sandwiched between two six-packs of Budweiser and three four-packs of Seagrams wine coolers of various flavors.

I’m pretty sure the dude in front of me was a surfer. He had long hair reaching his shoulders, braided into a ponytail. He was a skinny dude with muscly arms and a flat stomach, the telltale signs of a surfer. His Wayfarers were tucked into his hair, just above his forehead. The kid behind the register asked him for his identification, which he handed over. Mark scrutinized the I.D., flipping it over a few times before handing it back to the surfer, ringing him up, and the cash exchanging hands. The small amount of change surfer tossed into a donation jar next to the register. It was for the Special Olympics or something like it.

I wasn’t paying attention, and the surfer left the store, the ringing security thingy making that terrible high-pitched sound, snapping me back to Mark, who was snickering at me.

“I need to see your I.D.,” he was trying to keep from laughing out loud.

I looked at the kid and blinked a few times. “What?”

“I need to see some identification. Please.” His smirk widened. “Look, kid. Either show me some I.D. or leave.”

I looked at Mark, patting my pockets. “I’m 13. I don’t have an I.D.”

“Then I can’t sell to you,” Mark said. Four girls were right behind me, wearing bathing suits. Either they were going to the beach or going to a party. A couple of grown men, one with a scraggly beard, were outright laughing. I thought they were laughing at me. “Yo, Mark,” the bearded man half-shouted, “look down, will ya?” Now the girls were laughing, joining with the guys. “Since when do you need I.D. to buy Oreos? Dude.”

Mark’s face turned bright red, and he didn’t say one more word to me, rang up my purchase, and gave me back the change from the ten. Grandpa started to chew me out, saying something about taking my sweet time. Then he asked me, “What took you so long anyway?”

I replied, “I got carded for cookies.” Grandpa, Mom, and Dad couldn’t stop laughing for ten minutes. I know. That’s how long it took me to go back and get my Slurpee.