MEMOIR
Cock Fight
New York City, Trader Joe’s joys & the perils of hailing a cab
BY DEAN WRZESZCZ
I was loaded down with four
overfi lled double bags of groceries
from Trader Joe’s as I
crossed Sixth Avenue with
quick, clipped steps, like a strongman
in a yoke walk competition. I
stopped at the corner and placed
my bags down to hail a taxi. A yellow
SUV driver fl ashed his lights
and pulled over within arm’s reach.
I sighed in relief.
As I slid open its door, I heard a
man shouting.
“Excuse me, sir, but that’s our
taxi!”
To my right and further up the
block, I gave what I thought would
be a parting glance to the 30-something
who approached me, his female
companion following close
behind. I looked around to see if
I had ignored a designated taxi
line. I assumed they were from out
of town. New Yorkers would have
grabbed the next taxi passing by.
Rather than offering a lesson on
taxi hailing etiquette, I focused on
loading my groceries into the vehicle.
With back and forth momentum,
I swung two of the bags like
kettlebells onto the far end of the
back seat.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” the man said
as I reached for my last bag.
What’s with this guy? If he had
wanted a ride with his name on it,
he should have used a car service.
“Jake, don’t!,” his girlfriend
screamed.
An hour earlier, I had been celebrating
a friend’s birthday in New
York City’s Chelsea district. After
the cake was served, Betsy, an
elderly woman who lives with fi ve
cats, announced she was leaving
because it was past her “babies’”
feeding time. I did the gentlemanly
thing and offered to escort her
home.
“Thank you,” she said, lightly
touching my shoulder. “And they
say chivalry is dead.”
“Take some lasagna with you,”
our host said. “There’s too much.
It’ll just go to waste.”
“My cats don’t like lasagna.”
Dean Wrzeszcz, 1957-2020.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Yes, sweetie,” Betsy said, patting
me on my back. “I have acid
refl ux, but I’m not senile.”
“I’ll take a piece,” I said.
As a decades’-long gym rat with
decent culinary skills, I usually
prepare most of my meals. But I
was running low on provisions at
home, and I needed something to
wolf down after my late-night gym
workout. I probably wouldn’t get to
the store until the next day.
After dropping off Betsy at her
nearby apartment building, I
walked toward the 23rd Street
subway station and noticed the
lights still bright inside of Trader
Joe’s. Comparing my supermarket
in Hell’s Kitchen to the Chelsea
gem before me was depressing. Not
only was my local market subpar
in quality, but it exploited its lack
of competition by indulging in freerange
pricing. I often left the store
carrying only a few necessities and
resenting the amount I paid for
them, earning its “Food Extortion”
nickname.
At TJ’s, I could load up on frozen
chicken, fi sh, and vegetables,
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and staples like basmati rice and
coconut oil — enough to feed my
muscles for weeks — and still save
more than enough to cover the taxi
fare home.
The one downside to shopping at
the chain was its popularity. But
walking into the store an hour before
closing that Tuesday evening
was like discovering an alternate
universe. There were no burgeoning
lines running along the outer
perimeter, no gridlocked or doubleparked
carts blocking passage,
and no self-absorbed, headphoneclad
customers traveling incommunicado.
I practically had the
place to myself.
I felt unencumbered as I positioned
my cart at the beginning
of the fi rst aisle, tempted to speed
down like a Mercedes on the Autobahn,
grabbing what I needed
and making a fast exit. Instead, I
savored the rare experience, exploring
every aisle and reading
lists of ingredients before making
choices.
I indulged in pondering the redundancy
of the label “organic wild
blueberries” on a bag of frozen fruit
until discovering a non-organic
version of the same cultivar. While
loading my cart to near capacity, I
began singing along with a disco
Gloria Gaynor—including hand
gestures — without self-consciousness:
“Go on now, go, walk out the
door
Just turn around now
You’re not welcome anymore…
I felt a sense of serenity as
I left the storeand spied a taxi
within minutes. But when an irate
tourist tried to claim rightful ownership
of it, placing his hand on my
right shoulder, I shrugged it off as I
stepped into the cab.
His girlfriend wasn’t complicit.
“Why are you doing this, Jake?”
“Because he’s a cunt!” he said.
Defi nitely from out of town.
While I couldn’t detect any discernable
accent, I felt safe in ruling
out Canadian.
It was the fi rst time I’d ever been
called the “C” word — in the third
person! — a word learned as a
boy in Pennsylvania never to use
unless I was willing to suffer the
consequences, and only as a last
resort. Like kicking a guy in the
balls, it was the nuclear option.
“Fine! We’re coming in with you!”
he said.
As I sat down and placed the bag
on the fl oor in front of me, I considered
asking them where they were
going. Maybe they needed directions.
In the few seconds I took to
deliberate, he shouted, “Okay, then
we’ll take your food!”
The words snapped me out of
my denial. I tried sliding the door
closed, but his head and half of his
torso were already inside, his arms
reaching for the bag at my feet. His
girlfriend shrieked in escalating
volume. “Jake, stop! STOP!”
I pushed him away with my left
arm while my right held the door
from opening further. I thought
of punching him in the face, but
I was struck by his resemblance
to my dentist, a gentle man from
Cairo. What kind of a person hits
➤ COCK FIGHT, continued on p.27
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