An employee at the Harvard Square Liquiteria prepares a smoothie behind the counter. Liquiteria offers fresh smoothies, cold pressed juices, and prepared foods. ALANA M STEINBERG
I walk up to Liquiteria, intrigued, practically purring with intrigue. I think I might catch three stray cats so we can all literally purr with intrigue. What possibly could this new business serve? Their name makes no sense, it isn’t a word in the dictionary. I was unbearably, intensely intrigued, so I decided to look the word up. Nothing. I even read through all of Shakespeare’s plays in case this was one of his new words that didn’t catch on. Once again, nothing. I did find the word lackcustard, which somehow never caught on.
In the window, I see meadows. Grass as far as the eye can see. It’s waving as if stirred by some coastal Italian breeze. Imported Italian air. Nice. Not cheap, not cheap at all. When I enter, it turns out the stirring meadows are just little boxes of plastic grass. How was I fooled? Sorcery! Liquiteria is truly an enchanting place.
Upbeat pop music is playing and the singer keeps repeating “everybody.” I like this place. I want to be part of everybody. I just want to fit in.
I walk up to the cashier who is donned in her best Best Buy blue shirt, intriguing of course. Come to think about it, they are all wearing Best Buy blue. Maybe they work at Best Buy too. Wait! Is this a Best Buy? This would not be the first time I wandered into a Best Buy unknowingly, innocently. Last year, I spent the first four CS50 lectures in one, just looking at computers wondering when they’d teach me something.
Squinting, I look around and go through my checklist. Are there TVs everywhere? No. Is the floor poorly carpeted? Tiled. Do the walls say Best Buy? Liquiteria.
The cashier catches my puzzled look. I recover and act casual. Hands on my hips I let out a barking laugh. “Ha! It’s a fine day to be alive, isn’t that right my fellow Liquiterian?” She looks at me normally, so I know I’ve acted casually. Perfect! I’m already a part of everybody. This is so much easier than fifth grade.
“I’ll only take the best, but don’t you already know that my chummy liquiterian!” She shrugs in that classic Liquiterian way and I pay. $8.50 That’s a lot of money, honey. I purr with intrigue.
I wait. They call my name as I’m stroking my back. Purr. Purr. Purr.
The Best Buy employee hands me a cup with green “liquid.” Oh, I get it now. Liqui-teria. Like a liquid cafeteria. Genuis, pure genius. The drink was like a bad jamba juice, but the name. Everything is in the name. I would pay $8.50 over and over again to say that godly name. Liquiteria. Liquiteria. Liquiteria. I love this place.
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