"Nice rock!" — "Grandpa's?"
Grandpa's (formally known as Grandpa Pigeon's) was lower on the food chain than Wal-mart. A place to buy your snow tires and deodorant.
It was below the hill. Which in our town meant, it was looked down upon by the people on top of the hill. Which is to say, all of C-ville proper. We collectively hated shopping there.
But Grandpa's was a favorable destination for the surrounding poor towns below the hill. It was their mall by default. You would end up at grandpa's a couple time a summer... motor oil and a soccer ball pump. Get in and get out. It was scuzzy.
That's the scoop. With one exception... everybody bought their jewelry there?!
Across the board, highfalutin suburban government and blue collar alike. It if was a tenth anniversary, then Grandpa's for a necklace. Round numbered birthday, Grandpa's for a tennis bracelet.
And most importantly, the engagement ring.
When you knocked up your high school girlfriend — or her best friend, you were Grandpa's bound.
People swore that Grandpa's jewelry was high end quality (and at a "reduced price!")
In a store where everything else was shoddy, the jewelry was supposedly top notch.
"No! It really is!"
It was always a testimonial, not a comment.
Actually a very defensive argument. One not worth challenging.
Because if you did choose to challenge, you would be saying that any of the jewelry that they were given, and that any of the jewelry that they bought people, and any of the jewelry that their relatives bought people, was shit. Having an actual debate on the topic was a "yo mamma" joke. Forget it.
So, engagement rings in the front of the store, ammo in back.
Grandpa Pigeons is now long gone. R.I.P.
- - -
My girlfriend and I are are in our current city San Francisco. Two old friends of ours (that are a couple) are visiting, up from LA.
3 of the 4 of us are from C-ville; my girlfriend is from P-ville — same story different state.
Collectively the four of us have been away from our hometowns for 100 years!
But divide that by 4 and subtract the square root of the Christmases back there... and it is still home, even if it's homely.
News flash! Our friend have just become engaged! The proof is displayed on her finger...
I say, "Nice rock!" — "Grandpa's?"
. . . moment of truth . . .
"Of course not." Fred says. Whew!
And then he went on to tell a story as long as mine.
Seems that the skinny in LA is a "by referral only" phone number passed around. The call leads to a nice South African guy who wholesales to friends, and friends of friends, and friends...
No storefront. Just describe the ring you want and give him two weeks. Wait. Hope you described it right. Then meet him in downtown at his tiny office and trade cash for rock. Sounds like drugs but it is a clean deal. A win win.
Fred has found a new Grandpa.
