anyone who knows me knows i have an unhealthy obsession of schwegmann's. here's the essay that blew advanced comp away. i got a good grade on this bad boy. overdramatic, yes, but come on, it's schwegmann's...
a month after writing the essay i stepped foot inside. i stole an 's' off the wall and some dutch apple pie stickers. my life was at a pinnacle...ha.
I cannot help but look away when I pass Schwegmann’s on the road.
I cannot even imagine how something so sacred to the middle class
could burst to pieces. Schwegmann’s was once the Buckingham
Palace (of produce) in Slidell, Louisiana. Today, no royal
guards stand watch, and no one leads tours. Still, however,
anyone with a curious side can visit Schwegmann’s to pay respect.
I have revisited the burial site of the supreme grocery
store numerous times. Eerily, the theme to The Good, The Bad,
and The Ugly always pounds away in my brain as I near the
grounds. Schwegmann’s is the ghost town of Slidell. Sometimes
old plastic bags even float by, serving as makeshift tumbleweeds.
The dusty, dirt grounds famous in western films are instead an
endless sea of gray concrete, cracked and broken. Busted glass
is in almost every window. Overgrown weeds replace the once-tidy
gardens. The stop signs have fallen over, losing the futile
battle to remain upright, standing for the law. The shopping
cart racks have been overturned. There is nothing orderly about
the grounds. Everything is decrepit. The building is empty.
But just like a ghost town, Schwegmann’s is obviously not always
that desolate.
The air surrounding Schwegmann’s is thick with urine and
beer. Stale cigarettes, mold, and general must are common
tenants here too. Behind the building are piles of foul
underwear and rows of soiled mattresses, reeking of mildew and
human waste. Single shoes and holey socks without their mates
lie haphazardly around the grounds. Anyone who walks nearby can
hear the crunching of broken glass beneath his feet. Cigarette
butts and half-empty liquor bottles line an incline, leading to
large aluminum doors once used for loading. Usually the echoes
of voices can be heard inside. Though faint, the noise speaks
volumes on Schwegmann’s true purpose: a makeshift residence.
At one time, the doors were tightly locked and chained with
large links, asserting the city’s views of the closed store: off
limits to EVERYONE. Recently, however, the glass doors have been
shattered, asserting the tenant’s views: newly-formed five-star
hotel.
More intriguing than the “hotel,” however, is the
craftsmanship. This does not pertain to the frigid red bricks or
sinister, tinted windows. Unbeknownst to most people,
Schwegmann’s is a place where dabblers in fine arts can display
their budding skills. The back wall of Schwegmann’s has served
as a makeshift gallery for quite some time. The pieces, however,
are not for sale. Instead, they are splattered, sprayed and
etched onto the immense canvas, breathing life into the morbid,
mundane brick. The air is constantly dense from fumes, proving
that someone has recently updated the ever-evolving masterpiece.
Although the residents do not admire the impressive work (instead
they use it as a toilet), the wall plays an important role in the
mystique of the building. Just like a red rose amongst a pile of
weeds, the wall makes anyone who visits have some amount of
gratitude that the building isn’t just sitting there.
Though I could speak at length about the outward appearance
of Schwegmann’s, I cannot say one word about the inside. In
fact, I have never set foot indoors since its closing. In a way,
I have robbed myself. Endless questions flutter in and out of my
mind. Are the aisles still there? Are rotting corpses inside?
Is it as big as I thought it was as a child? Chances are, I will
never know. Every time I have attempted to approach the large,
mangled glass doors, I have caught sight of a tenant and quickly
fled the scene.
I wonder still. The air was once fresh and crisp, and my
young lungs inhaled every drop as if it were the sweetest treat
in all of the land. Now I can barely inhale a whiff of the
stale, musty toxic fumes without feeling my lungs seize and beg
me to stop being torturous. I was once excited to run my hands
up and down the cool, slick walls and feel the unique texture.
Recently my hands have stuck to the slimy bricks and scraped
against the rough, rusty metal, leaving me feeling as though I
need to take a shower or two. My childhood shopping memories
have collapsed.
Schwegmann’s was once the epitome of grocers in Slidell.
When I was a child, I begged my dad to bring me there. I could
run up and down the gleaming white aisles with wild abandon. Now
I look upon it as a penitentiary. The independence I craved as a
child was swiftly stolen from me when the business closed. Now
the once-lively building has become morbid and dismal. My dreams
are filled with memories of fluorescent lights and
air-conditioned happiness. My reality now consists of muggy air
and dangerously sharp corners.
