what you want, you should live so long." Arnie weighed out two pounds of fresh Yamaha. “Do you like bass strings?” he asked. “A few would be nice. I'd like a leg, too.” Arnie gave her a neatly wrapped two- pound package of Yamaha piano. “Here you are, Mrs. Gittleman.” She sighed. “I never thought I’d have to buy Yamaha to feed my family." “You don’t have to,” Mendel said. “Mendel, my love, if you don’t behave, I’ll let the Pac-Man into the house tonight to eat you.” Mendel cowered behind a bag of Chip Chunkies, the Cookie with More Chip to the Chunk. “Goodbye, Mrs. Gittleman,” Arnie said. “Interesting blender you have there." “I’m not a blender,” Mendel corrected him. “That’s right,” his grandmother said. “He's a banana head.” They were rolling into the Take Your Chances Bake Shop when they heard a siren behind them. It was a two-wheeled shopping cart equipped with flashing red lights, pushed by a woman in a blue and white uniform. The woman was making the siren noise by screeching through a cardboard tube. Mendel recognized her from his readings in various comic books. “It’s Miriam of the Kosher Patrol!” “Oh, hell,” said Mrs. Gittleman. Miriam of the Kosher Patrol leaned her cart against a rack of Celluloid Party Snacks and came towards them. A holster on her belt held a large cotto salami. “Identification, please.” Mrs. Gittleman opened her purse and extracted a small square of cardboard. She handed it over. “Mrs. Ruth Gittleman, secjbnd base,” Miriam read. She studied the data on the back of the card. “Too many strikeouts last season, Mrs. Gittleman.” “Excuse me for living.” “Is that your blender, Mrs. Gittleman?” “I am not a blender!" “Mendel, stop yelling! You’ll never catch a husband the way you’re going. Officer Miriam, this is my grandson, Mendel the banana head.” “I see.” Miriam returned the card and began searching the contents of Mrs. Git- tleman’s cart. “Ah,” she said, holding a loaf aloft. “Thin-Sliced Foam Roll!” “Do we have to put it back?” Mendel asked, hopefully. “No,” Mrs. Gittleman said. She grabbed another loaf and read the label aloud. “'This product has been ritually slaughtered to conform with the strictest kosher standards.'” Miriam consulted her handbook, frowned, reluctantly tossed the bread back into the cart. “It's okay.” “Maybe you think so," Mendel said. Mrs. Gittleman whacked him on the head with a package of Two-Ply Wipe Ups. “A shoe!” Miriam cried. “My foot is in that," Mendel said. “Would you please hurry?” Mrs. Gittleman asked. “I don’t want to miss my favorite soap opera. Leslie is going to blow up Bruno's dog on Life's Tender Moments." Miriam yelled in triumph. She had found the package of piano. “Is this Yamaha piano?” “No,” Mrs. Gittleman said. “It’s a double-neck Stratocaster with reverb. What difference does it make what it is?” “Mrs. Gittleman, Yamaha piano is not kosher. I'll have to read you your rights.” * “Arnie the Meat Man wouldn’t sell me piano if it wasn’t kosher,” Mrs. Gittleman said. “Yamaha! Feh! I should feed Yamaha to my only grandson who is eating me out of house and home? Please let me have two pounds of Steinway like always. ” “You have the right to remain silent. If you do remain silent, we’ll make something up.” ( “I was only thinking of my grandson!” “Stop thinking of me;” Mendel said. “You have the right to representation in court. If you cannot afford it, the court will appoint an Orthodox rabbi to represent you.” Mrs. Gittleman hefted her can of Veg- Glop. “Get out of my life, Miriam, or I’ll tattoo your teeth." Miriam backed off. “I’m reporting this to Central," she said. “You can’t get away with it. And as for your grandson or blender or whatever, he can just forget his Bar Mitzvah!” “You’re too late,” Mendel said. “I’m thirty years old; I've already had my Bar Mitzvah.” “We can make it retroactive!” Miriam yelled, pushing her cart at top speed down the Piss & Vinegar aisle. Mrs. Git- tleman’s can of Veg-Glop sailed after her. Scratch one can of Veg-Glop," Mendel said. “Scratch two pounds of Yamaha piano.” Mrs. Gittleman wheeled the cart around. “I’m trading it in. It’s not worth the aggravation.” “What are you planning to trade it for?” Mendel asked, fearfully. “Saxophone,” Mrs. Gittleman said. Mendel climbed on a sack of Neolithic Burger s. “Abandon ship,” he cried, dropping over the side. “Miriam, wait for me!” Mrs. Gittleman stopped the cart. Choosing a Magenta Crayola from her purse, she amerfded her shopping list to read: “Stop dept, store way home — buy blender." And she continued on her way to Meats & Dead Things, and the smiling assistance of Arnie the Meat Man. • Steven Bryan Bieler is a Seattle writer who has just finished a two-year adventure in self-publishing. T. Michael Gardiner is a Seattle artist who is designing this year’s Bumbershoot poster. GRAPHICS & Records — Tapes — Posters — Cards — Incense Monday-Saturday 10-6 • 790 E. 11th. Eugene 97401 • 485-4848 MEDIA CONSULTING Cheryl Reed 345-0942 wknds., eves. 26 Clinton St. Quarterly 1575 P^ABLZT tUGOT.OQmM “Flowers of Distinction” • Eugene’s largest selection of flowers from around the world • Flowering and foliage plants • Bonsai • Contemporary vases
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