I’m posting these photos mostly because I got in trouble for taking them in a Market Basket supermarket in Keene, New Hampshire.
Just after photographing the meat sign I was confronted by a man in a bloody butcher’s apron (such striding along the length of the meat cases!) who asked if I was an “agent” or a “vendor”, which I denied but had the unsettling guilty feeling the non-guilty get in wrong-footed surreal situations. “We have special rules about taking pictures.” I guess I nodded. I imagine the special rules are: “don’t.”
The dressing down continued for a while and I don’t think I dissuaded the guy of his hypothesis that I was stealing corporate secrets. “I just like your sign ,” I said, “it’s very...” (in the moment I couldn’t think of the word that means the opposite of disingenuous).
And, really, that Market Basket is a photographer’s dream, it’s a bonanza; moments before, I had buried myself in a display of Jeff Koontz-like, exquisitely reflective silver mylar balloons in every digit, 0-9, which they, Market Basket, in their presumably well-researched retail wisdom, stock directly across from the meat. I was tempted to buy out the whole set, because we could have done such profound things together, me and The Digit Balloons! (forgetting for a moment the fiscal irresponsibility of this idea vis-a-vis my current unemployment).
Eventually, meat-man conceded that I wasn’t technically “in trouble,” and allowed me to complete my shopping. A vivid example of that famous New England hospitality and warmth. I shop there because they reluctantly, very begrudgingly, barely let me.
Then again, I’m the one who (sometimes) drives to the Granite/Live free or die! state, (considering the state’s position on motorcycle helmets, I tend to think of it as Live free and die!) to do my grocery shopping. I suppose that part’s on me.
At least I put all three cylinders in the GR to work getting myself back to Vermont and home, enjoyed a cloudburst on the brief I-91 stretch, saw two bald eagles, one rainbow.