by mattmcgotty
Before working at City Market, it was nothing more than some conveniently placed supermarket with a parking lot chaotic enough to rival a Whole Food’s in Chicago in the middle of winter during a zombie apocalypse. I had no business in this enigmatic spot. Constantly reminded of the co-op episode of Broad City in which Abbi and Ilana were banned “for life,” I kept to my domain: grundle cubism in the form of powdered eggs and the obscene amountsof Frank’s Hot that camouflaged any reminder of what I was truly consuming.
But times have changed, and, through no fault my own, I am now an adult which has come with a unique set of absurd predicaments people have been calling “responsabilities.” Long gone were the days of casually browsing City Market’s salad bar and respectfully looking at the anonymous heroine needle drop-box as I shit myself in the public bathroom. Soon, the anarchy that comes with 2-for-1 deals on pho broth would be my own reality. And what better way immerse myself in such disarray than to work there full-time? This question stayed rhetorical for about 2 weeks before I sent in an application and braced myself for the ride of a lifetime. That is, until I was given the parking guide from my manager and I realized I had applied the South End store.
A recent $20 dollar investment, the South End City Market is the space that the Downtown store could only dream of being. Now, thanks to the acres of land freed up thanks to Abenaki genocide and forest demolition this street is home to a plethora of developmentals for every millennial’s overrated need. On the brightside, thanks to adaptive reuse, the steal beam factory that crippled Grandpa Franky (and subsequently gave him the nickame “Fat Foot Frankie”) has been modernized for $13 IPAs in glasses shaped like Lumpy Space Princess. And, with only biweekly inspections to counteract the decay and asbestos; drink up, Burlington.
On the topic of millennials, because the South End store is centered towards the suburban inhabitants with electric cars, it is almost entirely free of anyone that might be disruptive to the piece of mind of the shoppers (homeless people). This is in spite of the spacious aisles that could realistically accommodate the entire unhoused population of Burlington, but that is neither here nor there. I understand people need to save 11% on Extra Virgin Olive Oil bottled in a canteen. And through my time here, I have been privvy to an uncanny glimpse into the Myspace maniacs that are now raising our next generation.
Down each aisle is a slew of jubilant infants roaming the store with their families. But over time, these seemingly perfect children have begun to fit certain tendencies that I can’t help but shake. They are all non-binary as fuck.
The baggy clothes were merely the beginning. There has been increasing lack of colors to mark these children’s gender. No hot pink unicorn shirts that proclaim “Born to be Breedable” nor baseball hats with racist caricatures disguised as mascots. Instead, the muted colors reflect their mellowed out nature. Perhaps this is assisted by the baby xanax to mellow out all their little “imperfections,” but it comforts me to be able to look at these children and just see a regular child! With names like Ripley, Domino, and Ryan (but for girls), City Market feels like a planet in Star Wars with two moons. Not to mention their shoulder-length, unkempt hair that bounces with each step purposefully taken by them. It’s truly beautiful, seeing children effortlessly developing without the confines of any expectation of their perception to total strangers.
I don’t give a fuck about these children, it’s not my problem. I truly have no need to imprint what is best for this children considering they don’t even know themselves! I take this snapshot with a grain of pink himalayan truffle salt, although it is still a promising development that gives me an excuse to ease up on my generational resentment towards their idolification of Ruth Bader Ginsberg. #RuthkandaForever