Joanne Sherman’s column: The snarks of August

I’m standing alongside a baked-goods vendor at the farmer’s market. I won’t say which vendor so that I don’t embarrass the players in this drama — not the perps, nor the victim. I’m waiting for someone and while I loiter, I observe and I listen. That’s my hobby.

It’s 12:17 and the market runs from 9 to 12:30. As I dawdle, minding everybody’s business, two women approach the bakery table. The vendor just ran to the bathroom and told the honey vendor on the other side that she’d be right back.

The 11th-hour shoppers eye what’s left of the baked goods and exhibit that universally-recognized expression that translates to: “I am not happy.”

Brows furrow, mouths turn down. Total snark, two levels above resting bitch face.

“This is ridiculous!” one says, loud enough for me, the honey girl and the pickle guy across the lawn to hear. “There’s only one pie left.” 

The bakery vendor returns, sweet, cheery and smiling because if you go to farmer’s markets you know that’s how bakers are. She says, “Hi. Can I help you?”

The nasty-faced ladies stand in stony silence for a moment, then one points at the pie and asks, “That’s not stale, is it?”

Be still my heart and cue the music! These are the moments I live for. Other people pray for peace, smooth ferry crossings or that the milk’s not sour. Me? I pray for material.

As the question: “That’s not stale, is it?” hovers in the air, I realize I’ve heard those words before, also spoken during the dog days of August, circa 1997, at Fedi’s. People new here don’t know about Fedi’s, but oh how we loved that place! Tucked between the liquor store and Center post office, it was where we’d make daily trips to see Jan and Sue, and their dad, Doug.

Most of us were scared of Doug. If he liked you — and who he liked changed on a rotating basis — he was Prince Charming. But if it wasn’t “your” day, he could be kind of, well … let’s just say, intimidating.

As I stood at Fedi’s deli counter, a stranger wearing a collar (a priestly collar) joined me and read the hand-scribbled poster that instructed customers to order everything at once, and, “Speak up! We’re deaf, not stupid.” So this innocent out-of-towner points to the coffee pot, then yells, real loud, “That’s not stale, is it?”

And that is how the warning, “Don’t poke the bear,” was invented.

Doug lifted his attention from my ham and cheese on a roll with mayo and grinned at the priest. I swear to you, every person in Fedi’s froze. As did people in the liquor store and even Chief Read, who was at his desk across the street. Remember the day the world stood still? Yeah, it was on that day.

Doug finally spoke. “Stale?” he asked. “I sure hope so. We specialize in stale coffee. Let me check.” He raised the carafe high as if reading the bottom. “It says April,” he said, his voice bellowing louder with each word, until hikers could hear him in Mashomack. “Four months old. Is that stale enough for ya’ Padre?”

That poor man, realizing his collar was no protection from the wrath of Doug, raced out of the store and is probably still hiding.

But enough about that August day, let’s get back to this one, where I’m loitering at the Farmer’s Market, which ends in 12 minutes.

“That’s not stale, is it?” the woman has asked. Before the vendor can come up with a good, Doug-like reply, the woman says, “I can’t believe this is all you have left. One crummy pie.”

Then to her friend, as if the vendor is invisible and I’m not leaning in to listen, she grouses, “Why can’t these people ever bring enough stock?” They turn abruptly, and start to walk away, in a huff. The snarkiest lady says over her shoulder, “I may come back to buy that pie. Unless I find something better. We’ll see.”

What I see is that the cheerful baker is not smiling and shining the way she was before that dastardly duo arrived. I try to make her laugh, then, as we chat, I spy one of the snarks tromping back with her evil eye on that crummy pie.

I don’t even like pie, but there is a devil on my shoulder. Or maybe it’s Doug. I lunge, snatch that box right off the table and tell the vendor, “I’ll take this!” 

She smiles and says, “Sure thing,” and even gives me the family discount. The woman is two feet away, shooting us both an indignant glare, but all that snark is wasted on us. We just look back at her, and grin.

Doug would have been proud.