For a little town, we had a large grocery store that was part of a national chain. Since it was the biggest market and served not just the locals, but most of the tourists, it carried everything from flip-flops and beach towels to one of the largest wine selections on the coast.
It also had a staffed deli counter with plenty of hot lunch and dinner options, a full-service bakery, a pharmacy, and a Starbucks kiosk. Next to that kiosk was an open dining area decorated à la high school cafeteria, with uninspired fiberglass chairs and tables and mediocre lighting. But it had free Wi-Fi and air conditioning, which made it weirdly popular.
At full capacity, the little dining area could hold about two dozen people.
Even though there were at least twice that number of people in the space right now, it didn’t feel all that crowded.
That probably had to do with the relative size of half of the people, which was small, and the average age of those same people, which was ninety.
It was an eclectic group of septuagenarians. A few white hairdos in tight curls, but the majority had died their plumage in neons and pastels, a virtual who’s who of Manic Panic on display.
The preferred clothing of the day was a mix of stretchy slacks and long skirts and sleeveless tops.
That was probably why all the tattoos caught my eye. The tattoos. So many.
Some were a little hard to distinguish through the wrinkles and sags, but the K.I.N.K.s all had some version of yarn, knitting needles and a banner of words across it on their shoulders, and the C.O.C.K.s all had similar ink on their arms, except there appeared to be a red rooster and hook theme mixed in.
The remaining members of the crowd were a mix of ages, men and women, mortal and monster. The youngest on each side was a girl about ten years old brandishing a neon yellow crochet hook and half of a crocheted turtle corpse, and a boy about twelve gripping two slick silver knitting needles that carried an almost finished Pink Floyd THE DARKSIDE OF THE MOON flag.
As a matter of fact, everyone was not only standing and yelling (except the kids, who were sitting and watching it all with wide eyes), they were also all shaking handfuls of whatever craft they were crafting at each other like two armies banging swords against shields.
The K.I.N.K.s and C.O.C.K.s were about to rumble. They’d even drawn a line in the sand, which was a ball of yarn rolled out to divide the two halves of the dining area with one fuzzy strand of blue.
The group on the left all had needles, the one on the right all had hooks, so K.I.N.K.s to the left, C.O.C.K.s on the right.
Bertie marched up on one side of me, and Bathin lingered behind, looking overly interested in a stack of fire starter logs and bags of organic coffee beans.
It was hard to tell, even as I paused on the edge of the dining area, exactly what was being argued. But it was clear that there was no backing down on either side, and the volume was steadily growing.
Mob violence. Finally. Something easy.
“I want everyone to settle down.” I pitched my voice to carry over the argument.
All heads turned, all eyes landed on me and the badge I’d stuck on my hip. They knew me, I knew them. We all lived in this little town together. Went to all the community events and fund raisers Bertie forced upon us, slogged through the four Oregon beach seasons of cold rain, freezing rain, windy rain, and raining tourists.
We even all shopped here in this big, overpriced, under-friendly supermarket.
We were a team. A town. A people. We weren’t going to let a little whatever-they-were-arguing-about push us apart.
“I need one person from each side of the yarn to step over here and tell me what’s going on.”
Two sturdy looking ninety-year-old women who were all nose and big watery eyes behind heavy plastic-rimmed glasses broke off from the front of each group and chugged over to me.
They looked like twins, because they were. The Macy sisters, Willie and Chester (their parents had planned for boys, and didn’t let a little thing like daughters divert them from going forward with their plans) wore bright tank tops, loose skirts and striped socks. All of their clothing was knit (Willie’s) or crocheted (Chester’s).
It should have looked tacky and old fashioned. Instead they wore those clothes with a sort of vintage mod style that made it look trendy.
And yes, they each brandished a shoulder full of ink with the acronym K.I.N.K. and C.O.C.K. emblazoned brazenly over the lion’s share of their crinkled real estate.
“What seems to be the problem?” I asked.
“This,” Willie jabbed a needle with the softest gray gossamer lace floating off of it at her sister, “harridan swooped in with her jolly band of hookers and took our meeting space.”
“It’s a free country!” Chester warbled. “Those tables are first come first serve. We were first.”
“You know we meet here every Thursday. This is K.I.N.K. territory and the lawman, well, woman, is here to drag you away.”
“On what charges? Making better looking scarves with luscious drape?”
