Picture it: Medford, 2005. Thanksgiving Day.
I lifted my body from bed and gazed out the window at the heavy flakes furiously falling from the heavens and quickly covering the ground. My then girlfriend told me that the friend who was suppose to have us for dinner had bailed. So we were stuck, without food, without car, without family in Tufts housing on Thanksgiving.
Then I heard the 3 magical words that every overly-anxious, over-protective andy-dyke yearns to have spoken to her by her SO:
"Go find food."
I strapped up like I was Sherpa Tenzing, and boldly braved the elements while my beloved stayed in bed. I stumbled down a barren Boston Ave, jerking on closed door after closed door.
Finally, like a sugar-and-fat oasis amidst the storm, I pulled on the door of Tufts Variety and it miraculously opened. What before my wonderous eyes should appear?! This crawlspace of a convenience store had one of everything I could need. Variety, indeed.
In a truly strange twist of fate, there was one remaining Hungry Man Turkey Dinner left, with corn, stuffing and mashed potatos. Best ghetto Thanksgiving EVER.
In the year that followed, I visited Tufts Variety often, fetching candies and ice cream. Not one inch of this store is wasted space--its a tight fit but it all fits, from ice cream novelties to lean cuisine frozen dinners, from soda in a can to peanut M&Ms. Hard-on for scratch-offs? There are PLENTY to be had here. It's grungy and dirty, but I prefered it to those other convenience stores with their "wide aisles" and "well-lit environments". The guy who ran that counter (always the same guy, always!) may not have known my name, but he sure did know my credit card--the $10 minimum on CC purchases meant I usually walked out with 3 more strings of Nerd Rope than I necessarily needed. read more