We're standing in the aisle of the Savon when I see them. "Oh,
look! There are the Peeps I've been looking for." The bright, yellow packaging
stands out among all the other candies as I race down the aisle towards them.
Grabbing a box, I nestle it gently in between a ten-pack package of toilet paper
and the sundries already loaded into my basket. "These are the original
ones too," I continue. "You almost never see them anymore."
My boyfriend walks up behind me, "Those aren't the original Peeps."
"Yes, they are."
"No, they're not-- the bunnies are the originals."
"No, the chicks are the originals."
"No they're not."
"Why would they call bunnies 'Peeps'? I mean, originally, wouldn't they
have called them something like, 'Pffts Pffts' instead?" I retort, making
the universal bunny motion-- fingers cutely curled under, hopping a bit in front
of chest.
My boyfriend rolls his eyes at me, which usually means I've said
something stupid. In this case though, it means that I have said something so
stupid as to not even be worth further explanation. Conversely, it's his
way of getting out of something He knows he's wrong about without having to
concede his wrongness.
Boyfriend turns the corner and starts down the next aisle. I pause for a second
and then, with a surprisingly sudden anger, turn and walk quickly past the rows
of sweets and hustle up behind him. I catch up to him standing in front of the
Budweiser display. They're on sale, and his face has that particular glaze to
it that only happens when something he really loves is within sight.
"I hate when you roll your eyes at me."
"What?"
I point to the docile yellow marshmallows resting innocently in their box inside
the cart. "Those are the original Peeps."
He rolls his eyes. Again.
"Jesus Christ! Think about it. Look at how old-skool they look."
I instantly feel stupid for using the term "old-skool", but it's
true. "See? The chicks have a totally vintage feel that the bunnies--"
here I hold up a box of the offending non-vintage bunnies for emphasis-- "just
don't. And look at the colors! The yellow of the chicks compared to the blue,
pink and purple bunnies-- I mean, how much more modern a color can you get than
purple?"
He squints his eyes at me with a look that says, This is the stupidest conversation
I've ever had, and then he says, "This is the stupidest conversation I've
ever had. Are you really intent on ruining a perfectly nice day? You did wake
up kind of crabby, you know."
"I DID NOT WAKE UP CRABBY!" I yell. Then I bring my voice down a
notch. "You always do this-- you're wrong about something, or you don't
know something, or someone proves you wrong about something, and you have to
put the blame on them because you can't just admit that you're wrong, even if
it's about something totally meaningless!"
"So I'm wrong."
"Yes!"
"About what?"
"The Peeps! THE FUCKING PEEPS!" I'm gesticulating wildly now, using
the Peeps for emphasis. "You're wrong about the bunnies--" (pushing
the bunnies into his face) "--being the first Peeps when it's obvious that
the chicks--" (grabbing the chicks out of the hand cart before he can crush
them with the case of Budweiser) "--are the first Peeps!"
"And you're not in a bad mood?"
"No! I'm in a great fucking mood, I mean, I was until you started acting
like--"
"Can we not do this here?"
I realize that some of our fellow patrons are starting to take notice but I've
always hated being shushed just because someone might hear, so I start hissing
instead. "You're just saying I woke up in a bad mood because you don't
want to admit that you know NOTHING about Peeps."
He looks at me, for all the world, like he's sorry I'm so confused about my
life. "I think we have everything we need," he says, and walks up
to the checkout counter. I have no recourse but to join him.
We stand at the counter. And wait. We wait on what must be the SLOWEST MOVING
LINE IN THE HISTORY OF SLOW-MOVING LINES AT SAVON, which is to say it's really
fucking slow. In the silence, my mind reels with all the times we've disagreed
about THINGS; There was the brown recluse argument (they do not, in fact, kill
people) and his conviction that fencing was an acceptable major in colleges
all across the United States. After boiling spaghetti you DO NOT run hot water
over it to get rid of the starch. And pizza bagels are just not considered gourmet.
By anyone.
It all gets me thinking: Maybe these arguments HAVE a deeper
meaning. Maybe we've got nothing in common. Maybe I'm just fooling myself that
we're totally in love. And then I hear my mother's voice. She says: You've
never learned to compromise. Ever. In anything. Relationships are a give. And
a take. (She says it just like that, too-- "A give. And a take.")
You're looking for perfection, and you're never going to find it. I
look over and notice that my boyfriend is totally content to just stand in line.
He's not thinking about anything-- he's not even reading a magazine. He clearly
DOES NOT love me, or he'd be feeling as distraught as I am right now. COMPROMISE
MY ASS! Couldn't he at least SEEM upset? He should be worrying that I hate him,
that this is the end, the last straw, the coup de grace, as it were.
He could be losing me forever, RIGHT NOW, THIS VERY INSTANT. The fact that he
CLEARLY doesn't care AT ALL throws me into an even greater rage than before
and also, I feel sad that it's all over.
The Checkout Boy completes his first transaction. We inch forward in line.
I creep closer to my boyfriend in what I sincerely now believe might be the
last time we're in such close proximity to each other. "I guess this is
it then. I mean, I guess this is goodbye--"
"Babe-- seriously-- can we talk about this when we get outside?"
"Why?"
"Because I can't fucking stand fighting in public."
"Outside will still be public."
"So wait until we get in the car."
"You're gonna drive and fight?"
"You can drive. I'll fight."
"I can't drive and fight at the same time. I can barely drive and listen
to music at the same time." We move another inch forward. We're next in
line.
When we finally get outside, it's started to rain. In New York, the second
the skies open up, street vendors magically appear with self-destructing umbrellas
affording, at the very least, a few blocks' shelter before coming to resemble
deranged spiders; metal skewers spindling through the wind, black material ripping
from its seams. And one generally keeps a little something in their bag for
inclement weather; a long-sleeved shirt, a jeans jacket tied jauntily around
the waist.
No such thing in L.A. In L.A., the rain catches you unaware: there are no corner
hustlers waiting in the wind for your measly three dollar bill, there are no
hoods on our tank tops to warm our exposed heads, no spare sweater sets in the
convertible to ward off the goosebumps that shoot up ones arms from the sudden
drop in temperature. Nothing so much as a shelter over the bus stops if you're
unfortunate enough not to own a vehicle. Los Angeles is built on the dream of
sunshine all the time or go the hell home.
As we run thru the rain to the car, one of the bags my boyfriend is holding
gives way. Sundries fly across the pavement. An aerosol can skitters over the
parking lot with impressive velocity before rolling to a stop in a puddle of
water. I don't care. Let it roll. Let them all roll! I continue on to the car.
Behind me, I hear my boyfriend walking across the parking lot to retrieve the
fugitive items. That's sweet, I think. I would've let them go. See above. I
watch as he waves at a car to stop before it hits an errant bottle of Jergens
body lotion. He picks up the bottle and waves again, this time, in thanks.
Jeez, maybe he IS a nice guy. Maybe I'M the bad guy. Maybe I'M the asshole.
Maybe I'm pushy and mean, and maybe it's my fault that the day is ruined. Why
the hell am I making such a big deal out of a box of marshmallow animals that
I don't even like to eat but whose mere existence fascinates me?
This rain sucks. Blame it on the fucking rain.
By the time we've made it up the stairs to the front door with our packages,
I'm exhausted. I sit down on the couch and wrap my arms around my legs while
my boyfriend unpacks the bags. I've lost all desire to talk. I just want to
drop the Whole Damn Thing, whatever It is, and crawl back into bed.
But then I see my laptop. And it would be so easy to find out. After a brief
silence, broken only by the tapping of the keys, I read aloud:
"In 1917, Sam Born opens a small retail candy store in New York, marketing
its freshness with a sign that declares, 'Just Born.' Blah blah blah, blah blah
blah..." My boyfriend has stopped unpacking and stares at me through the
peek-thru in the kitchen wall. I continue.
"In 1953, Just Born acquires Rodda Candy Company pf Lancaster, PA who,
although known for their jellybean technology, also make a small line of marshmallow
Easter Peeps which are made by hand-squeezing marshmallow through a pastry tube."
I turn the laptop around, so He can see the accompanying image. There, on peepsworld.com,
in all their brilliant yellow, white, and pink hand-squeezed glory, are the
Original Peeps. They are perhaps somewhat crude by today's standards, but they
are unquestionably chicks.
I cruise through the timeline, salivating over the prospect of
dating the bunnies' appearance: it now seems imperative that they be as modern
as possible. "1960s; 'Just Born produces marshmallow trees and snowmen
for the holiday season.' 1978; the sons take over as co-presidents of the company.
And-- oh, look: 'In 1980, Peeps Giant Bunnies become available.'"
I stop reading and stare at the screen.
Over my shoulder, I hear the sound of a Budweiser popping open. "What
are Giant Bunnies?"
"I guess that's what they're called."
"Well, when did they become purple?"
"Lemme see here..." I page through some irrelevant information, looking.
"Uh... 'In 1995, Lavender Peeps are added to the Easter line-up.' And then
it looks like they did blue in 1998 to commemorate their 75th anniversary."
We both consider this.
"Hunh. Purple before blue then," he says.
"Yeah. Purple before blue."
"I thought purple was the most modern of all colors."
"Chicks before bunnies, though."
"Well..." my boyfriend sidles over to where I sit on the couch. "I
guess that makes both of us right."
"Yeah," I say, totally bushed, "I guess it also makes both of
us wrong."
And then we sit there for a moment, both of us staring at the ground until
he breaks the silence.
"I'm sorry I rolled my eyes at you."
I tag him.
"I'm sorry I said I thought we should break up."
"I'm sorry I antagonized you."
"I'm sorry I woke up in a bad mood."
"I know you know everything about Peeps."
"Fuck you."
And then we sit there on the couch, smiling, knowing that although we have
the uncanny ability to annoy the hell out of each other, we also have a tendency
to quite frequently fill the other with the greatest elation either one of us
has ever felt.
The rain fell. The computer screen buzzed to sleep.
It was time for breakfast.
Deborah Stoll lives in Venice, CA. Her first
book, Drink, Love, is forthcoming from Equator
Books in 2005. Her short story "Messages" is featured in the March
issue of Swivel, and her children's
book, The Robin Girl, is currently being made into an animated movie.
