The young cashier guy with the reddish hair at Whole Foods was bored. It was around 9PM. One hour ’til he would get to go home or wherever he was headed on Saturday night.
I breezed through his line,with last minute Valentine’s for the kids.
“What’s that on your hand?” he asked.
I looked down, having forgotten about the stamp. It was a treble clef, with a musical note or two. Dark blue ink on the back of my hand.
“It’s a stamp,” I said.
“What for?” he asked, all friendly.
“I just came from a concert, I was singing in a variety show. You needed to be stamped to get in.”
“A variety show? I didn’t even know they still had variety shows! What kind of a variety show was it? Who was performing?”
And since he asked, I rocked his world.
“It was a lesbian variety show. Raising money for women’s concerns, I guess.”
His eyes got large.
“I was singing in a feminist chorus, and before I left I saw three different acts, each one was a single woman singing and playing acoustic guitar.”
His eyes got bigger.
I leaned in,
“A whole auditorium of gay women were in attendance. Not a man in the joint.”
“Where was this?” he asked.
“At a synagogue on Mayfield Road,” I shrugged.
His neck jerked back in shock, “A synagogue? That makes it even better!”
He grinned, “You just made my whole night telling me all this.”
I took my bag and went home to relieve the baby-sitter.
Today, the faintest bluish spot remains on my hand where my stamp was.
I’m just glad to have had the opportunity to help.