This is a fictionalized account of real life.
Megan learned about the samosa lady the way one learns about everything these days: Facebook. Moving was frustrating, even if it only was to the town next door. Remembering to turn left instead of right out of the parking lot at school was hard enough, but replacing the perfect Indian take out was far trickier.
So she threw it out there: where’s good for Indian in this town? Within a couple of minutes other bored suburbanites ignoring their kids at the park started responding. Samosa lady’s name popped up on Megan’s feed. Of course it was a real name – not Samosa Lady. A quick search for the address yielded nothing. Megan’s more in depth investigation led her to discover that the samosa lady sold her wares out of her vehicle in a local grocery store parking lot. The time went up and the orders went in.
Suv’s, mini vans and the occasional up-market compact car arrived in dribs and drabs five minutes before the designated pick up time. It was like a drag race meet up for middle class white women.
“I feel like I’m meeting a drug dealer,” Megan attempted small talk with the woman in front of her in line. “Samosa lady probably doesn’t answer desperate pages for chana masala in the middle of the night though.” A forced smile for that last one. Nonetheless, it was a cash business.
Megan wondered if the grocery store minded this invasion of their parking lot. The mild excitement of this transgression lent a frisson of danger to her life. She was too self-aware to not acknowledge this fact. Of course, there wasn’t actually any danger. The woman had a health department inspection sticker for Christ’s sake. Nonetheless, Megan reassured herself with the knowledge that she had purchased something at the grocery store almost every time she came for the samosas. Probably a few people did that. The grocery store may even benefit from the interlopers. It was practically community service.