Places I go not to get shot
I've got a little list.
It's a list of the places I go most often.
I live in a town of 88,000 in southeastern Massachusetts. I go to the same places all the time, and because I'm not what anyone ever called "sophisticated," they're mostly small, unfashionable places.
Work, which is a small radio station. Five different diners because I like breakfast out. Two bars. One corner store. A cigar store. A Chinese takeout place. A pharmacy.
Pretty damn safe, no? Who's gonna shoot up a corner store that sells Popsicles, lottery tickets, ethnic groceries and a brand of incense called "Midnight Love"?
These people with their fancy concerts, bar districts and Walmarts; they're begging to get shot. Not me. I'm in those joints where the owner is behind the counter, there's no parking lot and people buy off-brand beer in 20-ounce cans. I may get shot in a robbery, but a mass shooting is a long-odds bet.
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This is good. This is smart. I creep through life like a snail on a leaf, eating, drinking and shopping cheaply, and it's finally starting to pay.
Trouble is, my wife goes to Walmart, and Target. She goes with my mother-in-law, and they buy paper towels and $7 blouses and ice cream for me. I've been encouraging her to buy more from Amazon.
So, on Saturday, after I eat breakfast in a 10-stool diner, I go home and sit on the couch, wondering how my wife and mother-in-law are doing.
If only my wife would settle for a little less wildness in her life.