Sometime in the summer of 2012 my grandma asked me to go to the grocery store, Seafood City in Chula Vista on 3rd. She wanted to make sandwiches, but wanted fresh bread. She asked me to bring back a dozen birotes, so I said okay.
I got into my car, took 4th to Palomar, and Palomar to 3rd, then pulled into the parking lot. I got out of my car in the mid 80 degree weather, wearing an outfit I rarely strayed from: black pants, a Hanes v neck t shirt, and a red beanie, like a cartoon character that never changes.
I walked into the grocery and immediately was hit with AC and the odors of your typical store ranging from fish, to sweet cakes, produce, and various meats all mixed into one large potpourri of fragrances.
The bakery was to the right as I walked into the grocery. Walking up to the baker I looked at all the cakes, and looked at the breads, then looked at the cashier and all the bakers. I remember the smells and smiling as I walked up to the counter. I looked at the cashier and the cashier asked me what I wanted and I smiled and I smiled…… and I smiled…
And then it dawned on me that at some point between 4th ave and where I was standing I forgot what my grandma had sent me to Seafood City for. I was lost and it was clear that I was lost. I told the cashier “one second, please” and I backed up 2 steps (the respectable amount of steps to back up so that another shopper can go in front of you and order. I’m big on these trivialities of common decency like giving the wave when someone lets you in front of them in traffic or showing pep in your step as you cross the street).
I stepped back two steps and looked around at everything behind the cases hoping that absolution would rear its head in the form of a sign with the thing that I was there to order, but it did not.
I thought hard and tried to remember what the name of the bread was. I knew it was bread and I knew it was fresh warm bread, but I couldn’t just ask for fresh warm bread (or maybe I could’ve, but I didn’t). I thought harder and harder (It felt like 20 minutes had passed, but it was two at tops) and then I remembered the end of the word, “ote”.
But being a fairly newcomer to southern California, having spent most of my life on the east coast, and now learning to speak the bare minimum of Spanish in order to get by I only knew one word that came to mind that ended in “ote” and I knew it couldn’t be that word, but I did think that many words have multiple meanings, so in turn maybe it could be that word.
Not being confident enough to ask, I said, “sorry sorry, I’m going to call someone” and then took two more generously wide steps back hoping that someone would go in front of me. No one did.
I called my grandma and asked her what it was she wanted from the store. She said, or at least she said what I interpreted as the word that I thought it may be, but didn’t want to say, I heard in her response, “Ask for a dozen of cerotes and make sure they’re fresh.”
After a long pause, I asked again, “I’m sorry, what was that?” but she kept saying it, “cerotes.” It’s all I could hear, cerotes cerotes cerotes. I kept asking her to say it again and she kept on saying it, cerotes. I took a couple of steps forward and I was smiling a massive and uncomfortable smile, mustering up the confidence to ask this woman behind the register for something that I know I shouldn’t be asking for at a bakery.
Over the phone I said, “So you’re sure that’s what it is right?” I walked up and looked at the woman behind the register, my grandma in my ear through my phone with a heavy Mexican accent saying, “YES!”
[Urban Dictionary defines cerote as: Spanish for turd. Usually refers to a large, unbroken shit.]
I got to the register, my Hanes cotton V neck t shirt feeling more and more like a toddlers turtleneck tightening around my throat, my face you would assume would be dripping with sweat underneath my red beanie, but was in fact bone dry in fear as my face still held strong to a smile found commonly on a ventriloquist’s doll. I asked one more time to my grandma over the phone in a muffled, but articulate tone stretching out every letter in each word, “So you want a dozen fresh and warm cerotes?” to which I was FINALLY gifted with the response I was waiting for, “I don’t want you to ask for a cerote!”
“Well I don’t know what you want! I’m just going to give the lady the phone.” Shame and frustration had taken over, so I gave the cashier my phone and asked her to please speak to my grandma because I didn’t know what she wanted.
This was a mistake.
My grandma, 77 years old, known best for not letting anything go and slide through the cracks, decided instead of just asking for the birotes felt it best to tell the woman that I wanted a dozen cerotes, fresh and warm.
I had no smartphone to hide behind, I had no newspaper to shield my face, I instead had to take that cashiers laughter, ridicule, and humiliation face to face. It did not stop there though, the cashier then turned to the 5 older bakers standing behind the counter and told them the story, so that they too could joined in on the fun. I was then given back my phone to the sound of my grandma bellowing with amusement, the kind of laughter that evokes tears, stomach cramps, and even a light sweat.
I hung up.
After she bagged the bread the cashier then called me up to the counter handed me the bag of birotes and said, “Here is your bag of cerotes, fresh and warm.” I left, got into my car, drove home, and I couldn’t help but laugh at myself with the smile of a ventriloquist’s doll across my face.
I got into my car, took 4th to Palomar, and Palomar to 3rd, then pulled into the parking lot. I got out of my car in the mid 80 degree weather, wearing an outfit I rarely strayed from: black pants, a Hanes v neck t shirt, and a red beanie, like a cartoon character that never changes.
I walked into the grocery and immediately was hit with AC and the odors of your typical store ranging from fish, to sweet cakes, produce, and various meats all mixed into one large potpourri of fragrances.
The bakery was to the right as I walked into the grocery. Walking up to the baker I looked at all the cakes, and looked at the breads, then looked at the cashier and all the bakers. I remember the smells and smiling as I walked up to the counter. I looked at the cashier and the cashier asked me what I wanted and I smiled and I smiled…… and I smiled…
And then it dawned on me that at some point between 4th ave and where I was standing I forgot what my grandma had sent me to Seafood City for. I was lost and it was clear that I was lost. I told the cashier “one second, please” and I backed up 2 steps (the respectable amount of steps to back up so that another shopper can go in front of you and order. I’m big on these trivialities of common decency like giving the wave when someone lets you in front of them in traffic or showing pep in your step as you cross the street).
I stepped back two steps and looked around at everything behind the cases hoping that absolution would rear its head in the form of a sign with the thing that I was there to order, but it did not.
I thought hard and tried to remember what the name of the bread was. I knew it was bread and I knew it was fresh warm bread, but I couldn’t just ask for fresh warm bread (or maybe I could’ve, but I didn’t). I thought harder and harder (It felt like 20 minutes had passed, but it was two at tops) and then I remembered the end of the word, “ote”.
But being a fairly newcomer to southern California, having spent most of my life on the east coast, and now learning to speak the bare minimum of Spanish in order to get by I only knew one word that came to mind that ended in “ote” and I knew it couldn’t be that word, but I did think that many words have multiple meanings, so in turn maybe it could be that word.
Not being confident enough to ask, I said, “sorry sorry, I’m going to call someone” and then took two more generously wide steps back hoping that someone would go in front of me. No one did.
I called my grandma and asked her what it was she wanted from the store. She said, or at least she said what I interpreted as the word that I thought it may be, but didn’t want to say, I heard in her response, “Ask for a dozen of cerotes and make sure they’re fresh.”
After a long pause, I asked again, “I’m sorry, what was that?” but she kept saying it, “cerotes.” It’s all I could hear, cerotes cerotes cerotes. I kept asking her to say it again and she kept on saying it, cerotes. I took a couple of steps forward and I was smiling a massive and uncomfortable smile, mustering up the confidence to ask this woman behind the register for something that I know I shouldn’t be asking for at a bakery.
Over the phone I said, “So you’re sure that’s what it is right?” I walked up and looked at the woman behind the register, my grandma in my ear through my phone with a heavy Mexican accent saying, “YES!”
[Urban Dictionary defines cerote as: Spanish for turd. Usually refers to a large, unbroken shit.]
I got to the register, my Hanes cotton V neck t shirt feeling more and more like a toddlers turtleneck tightening around my throat, my face you would assume would be dripping with sweat underneath my red beanie, but was in fact bone dry in fear as my face still held strong to a smile found commonly on a ventriloquist’s doll. I asked one more time to my grandma over the phone in a muffled, but articulate tone stretching out every letter in each word, “So you want a dozen fresh and warm cerotes?” to which I was FINALLY gifted with the response I was waiting for, “I don’t want you to ask for a cerote!”
“Well I don’t know what you want! I’m just going to give the lady the phone.” Shame and frustration had taken over, so I gave the cashier my phone and asked her to please speak to my grandma because I didn’t know what she wanted.
This was a mistake.
My grandma, 77 years old, known best for not letting anything go and slide through the cracks, decided instead of just asking for the birotes felt it best to tell the woman that I wanted a dozen cerotes, fresh and warm.
I had no smartphone to hide behind, I had no newspaper to shield my face, I instead had to take that cashiers laughter, ridicule, and humiliation face to face. It did not stop there though, the cashier then turned to the 5 older bakers standing behind the counter and told them the story, so that they too could joined in on the fun. I was then given back my phone to the sound of my grandma bellowing with amusement, the kind of laughter that evokes tears, stomach cramps, and even a light sweat.
I hung up.
After she bagged the bread the cashier then called me up to the counter handed me the bag of birotes and said, “Here is your bag of cerotes, fresh and warm.” I left, got into my car, drove home, and I couldn’t help but laugh at myself with the smile of a ventriloquist’s doll across my face.
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