Who Are You?

Oh we went here, we went there, friend Mel and I buzzed around town during her weekend visit to Buffalo.  The car museum has a Frank Lloyd Wright gas station built inside of it, copper spires, pink stucco walls.  He is not a favorite of mine, and I wouldn't live in one of his houses here in the north unless there was a very fat bank account for repairs to roofs, which are low with angles designed to go with prairie winds.  A heavy snow sitting it's fat self atop particular architecture means leaks, shifting, and maybe you're up there, shoveling so it won't collapse.  Do the driveway, sidewalks, and then the roof.  In one of our Nor'easter's or lake effects, your free time belongs to Mother Nature; have a thermos sent up while doing the flashing.  Get the dog up there.  That bank account would have to supply a caretaker, simply for the fussiness of Wright.

But the cars were lovely; Auburns, Hudsons, a Stanley Steamer, carriages, heavy beasts up to 6,000 pounds.  Getting up to 100 mph was expected; but stopping with drum brakes took a long time, there were no quick stops; three times the distance of modern day cars had to be estimated.  Something jumps out in front of you, it's good bye something.

Thrift shopping, outlet browsing, and here is where it got weird.  I had to make a stop at the ladies room, fine; across the way was the mens room, with an "Out of Order" sign taped to the door.  "Use the restroom near register 15".  To someone who didn't step out and around to the actual register, but only noted the numbered post, the restroom nearest 15 was the ladies room.

The sign was poorly worded, another mens room was ten feet down from the register but you had to go look for it.  I can understand the confusion.  However, just before I exited the cubicle, there was a knock at the front door. Housecleaning?  A timid woman wondering if this was more than a one at a time bathroom?  I paid no attention as there was room for everyone who needed solace.

I swung out, headed to the sink, got my hands wet, and out of the corner of my eye saw an immense shape in black, standing on two legs with the door open and a day's growth of beard.  Erk.  I didn't think of the sign on the opposite restroom, however a thought temporarily wondered if this was a transgender event, even though the shoulders themselves could have stopped a Duesenberg.   This was not a male transing to female, nor female transing to male; this was demonstrated by the flicker of fear in the man's eyes as he glanced over his shoulder to see who was washing hands.  His whole face said oh no, but his best defense was his only one, he pretended not to see me.  I agreed, but hustled.

Now, of course it was the sort of management which does not put paper towels in their rooms.  I figured a high-powered dryer would cover the sound of a standing tinkle, and the fellow was not done.  Besides, if it truly was a transgender person, I didn't want to insult them by shrieking and running.  I didn't wait till my hands were all dry.  Shaking them off was fine.

Friend Mel pointed out the real temporary bathroom intended for men, down a short hall near register 15, but really, could there have been an arrow saying this-a-way? Here's a tip, fellas.  If you think that you are ever instructed to use a women's restroom, knock harder than a timid tap.  Shout a halloo in there.  Wave a white flag, get yourself all the way into the stall and shut the damn door.  Better yet, go to the people in charge and ask what on earth, but then you open the possibility of being laughed at, you nitwit, we didn't mean the ladies room.  Poor guy.  You know he was on camera. Hopefully, security notified the front desk that hey, we have a situation, for as we headed for the cashier, another man approached, looked suspiciously at the ladies room door, turned and left.

A cold front is said to be on it's way, to temporarily cause a short rain and lower temperatures, back up to mid-80s to 90s thereafter.  A haze lingers as the last of the sunlight glances around before escaping to China, Australia, Russia, where another collection of humans will look to the horizon at rise and set.  Always rising, always setting, the roses and golds at the angled horizon are the next continent's midday blue sky.  If the human eye were not adept at recognizing blue, the daytime sky would seem more violet as air molecules are slightly closer in size to the wavelength of violet light; pure air scatters violet light three to four times more effectively than it does the longer wavelengths. A violet sky, lovely; blue can go sit with Frank Lloyd Wright, as it is my least liked color.

Here is dusk; the swallows dive and arc for dinner through the masses of flying insects hovering over the harbor.  The cooler air is welcome, the leaves rustle from the breezes brought by temperature fluctuation, the cats sigh with relief, the neon lights of the restaurant over on Pearl Street illuminate with brilliant red against the dunning sky.  

Sleep well, traveller.  Sleep well, roosting birds, readying for the night.  Rocks, water, wood, and sand, lay still.  The light of the stars is above the blanket of cloud, waiting for your dreams.  Good night.

Words

Whimsy, whimsical; delish, munch, yummy, veggie, peek, luscious; there are school buzzwords such as "meaty" for lessons, which almost sent me through the roof; drill-down, rich, robust (you can tell when the coaches have received a memo on vocabulary to use).  Shortened words, like vaycay (guilty), or gorj; these words are fingernails on a chalkboard to me, irritating, almost like ripping out an artery.

Contrary to many, the word "moist" doesn't bother me, but talk to me about "savory" and I want to rocket through the troposphere unless it is being used as a noun. Now that you know my weak points, realize that you can push me into a coma just by saying the word "munch", but do remember that it rhymes with "punch" which is a good probability in my fight or flight status.  By accident.  A good belt in the pan.  Try it.  Crunch.

I avoid saccharine, syrupy, warm horseapple pie nonsense because to me it is a pig dressed up as a silk purse.  Wait.  Sow's ear. something like that; for under the lush vegetative monotony of the word whimsy is a credit card of pretension.  Dodgy misdirection invented to draw attention away from the true matter; it's a magic trick designed to draw in those searching for non-existent perfection to fill their boredom or social awkwardness.  I'll get the veggies for munching on while we peek at the delish dessert menu for Waffledump's reception.  Ooo, luscious whimsical cupcakes!  Disclaimer: I recently watched the film "Bridesmaids", which inspired this rant of meow.

Now maybe you genuinely enjoy Barbie, Lifetime, QVC and their pipeline to China, or finding a card to be given to a wacky, wonderful, witty woman.  You go for it and never mind me; just be careful where it takes you in life.  Read stuff deeper than Hallmark.  Think about really doing a kindness for someone and be genuine about it, no snide see-what-I-did-for-you's.  You'll feel better whilst sitting down with a bowl of munchies, after peeking at the Christmas presents.

Nothing commercial escapes the twee, not even cat food.  I brought home two bags from two different companies, both for sensitive stomachs; my guys get variety under the tenet that no one would like to eat mashed potatoes every meal, every day.  The advertising for one is scientific, noting the ingredients in clear wording; the other, however, is a mess of brocaded wallpaper in a house of cigarette fiends.

It states the brand, under which is the line "created for your cat's natural greatness".  The word "savor" has a trademark after it, and dang, this stuff is all about "embracing senses through taste, texture, and aroma".  Embrace my foot you doofus bag of cat food.  On the back are explanations as to why you should win the Nobel Prize for buying this product:  "created for purposeful appreciation and a keen sense of awareness", "created for life without compromise", and "created for a cat like yours".  Like Roger?  Come and get the little greatness, his digestive system is why I'm buying the sensitive stomach kibble.

The ingredients, that you are distracted from by the cozy wording, are a plethora of fillers: soy, corn, and poultry by-product meal which is ground up feathers.  I have sworn on my mother's grave never to write a short essay on pet food, it would kill you to know.  However, my Mom doesn't have a grave, she's in my dresser drawer after I rescued her ashes from where my father had them, on top of his Zenith t.v.  He watched television all day, so the black tupperware container that the ashes are returned in (inside a plastic bag with a twist tie), would get hot.  This may have had Dorothy think that she ended up in hell, until the bells rung on The Price is Right.

Now, the cat food is a brand my cats like, but I should have read the ingredient listing other than the advertising on the front, announcing that salmon is numbah one on the roster.  You know that if I saw the word "embracing" in the blurb there is no way the store would have gotten my seventeen dollars.  The cats are eating it, my four chowderheads, with delight.  I will keep an eye on their keen awareness, we don't want them to become too smart and figure out how to get to the casino.

The air is cooling now that the earth has turned up its sideways horizon past the sun; sort of neat to think we stand perpendicular to it, and thus spin forward or backwards, depending on which way we face.  Winds blow clouds about the sky; cathedrals and buildings form and roil as cumulus rise, a white city floating in the air, a place of colors turning from yellow to gold to orange to coral-rose-purple, and then dusk.  Thoughts flow, then are caught by the tide of sleep and taken to the sea in fisher nets to disperse amid currents.  Hang your fingers over the side of the dory, let little fish bring you pearls, shells, words.  Good night.




  

Twenty-seven Cents

 Finding a penny brings a childish flush of success; I imagine it's a message, an omen of luck.  A nickel is more fun, a dime is like passing Go in Monopoly; a quarter is a slot machine of cherries; and a dollar?  Holy crow, a whole dollar blown against a fence or lost in last October's leaves entitles you to polish your buttons, straighten your shoulders, and be nice to people for at least half the day.
Someone cuts you off in their car?  Bless them, they may have to get to a bathroom; you say hello and the other person woodenly stalks by on stiff legs? They are preoccupied with their inner life, a sorrow, a shyness.  The words "blithering snot-nosed drooling idiot" don't occur in your happy dollar day mind.  Half day, really.  A whole day is a five.

Where do I find the most pennies?  In the parking lot, which boggles because this is a subsidized housing complex that I was able to get into seventeen years ago when I was making $13,000 a year.  They can't kick you out.  But the point is, the folks living here are not rolling in dough, (yet for the life of me I can't figure out how some of them afford the cars they drive), but when some clean out their car, the change is tossed to the pavement.  Few others pick up the pennies, stepping over them as if they were toadstools.  Not me.

I have a piggy bank resembling a double decker British bus, thanks to Brit friend Rachel, and here is where I deposit the cashola, some barely recognizable or whose shape now resembles a potato chip due to plow blades or several hit and runs.  Whee for me!  The tin bank rattles with free money, and I pretend that I am ahead of the game.

Last mid-week, on the way to the car, two pennies were lying in a parking space; hot diggity!  Two!  Next to them, blending into the gray tamarack, lay a banged up quarter.  What?  Who throws out money when a can of cashews is now approaching $9.00?  Did it fall from a child's hand?  Was it someone new to the country who has a driver's license but not a good grasp of currency?  A young person who has not yet had to forage for food or go to a soup kitchen?  What is this 27 cents doing here, unattached to any human hand except for mine, which scooped up the treasure and tossed it into my purse before anyone could run up and ask if I saw a lost quarter.

Of course I would give it back, you ask me for money, you'll get what I have; last week a man asked for help, I gave him ten, no questions or admonishments.  An older fellow came up to me in the thrift shop, and asked for a dollar so he could buy a Stevie Wonder cd.  You'll need the tax, too, sir.  Were they scams?  Maybe, but their clothing and body carriage were not the sassy, hold the tiger by the tail sort.  They were poor, beaten by hardship, thankful.

The ones I don't attend to are the cardboard sign people that wait at the exit ramps of highways.  You have the strength to stand for hours, you can try to get a job or real help; the leader of the ring sends these usually drug-addled folks out and gives them a small percent of what they collect.  They get a few bucks, drugs, and imagine that they have a job, poor fellas.  Sometimes there's a dog with them, a golden Lab that looks dirty but well-fed.  One ring was busted this past spring, but they are slowly showing up again in different parts of the city, as the usual spot is now under construction, and construction guys are nosy to what's doing.

Finding a penny is my four leaf clover, and since Canada has done away with theirs, I cling to our Abe Lincolns like they were unicorn gold.  Don't mess with my money; the different states on the backs of quarters, yeah, cute.  I still think the Mercury dime is cooler than Franklin D. Roosevelt, the flying eagle quarter is missed, and the Walking Liberty half-dollar was taken over by a Kennedy which also disappeared.  A good, solid silver dollar is now a flimsy, brown thing that you rarely see at all, and the workers at the mint must be bored silly or have gotten into ye tankards because they are fiddling with the nickel, enlarging Jefferson's face till it looks plain weird.

Today, on the way home from the layers of shale, a long train was running through; well, not really running, more like a fifteen mile an hour saunter.  It held up traffic while the lights, bells, and gates of the crossing signals were doing the job of alerting us that this was dangerous, and to keep back.  Eventually, the train plodded on and the gates lifted.  And went back down.  And lifted, stayed, hesitated, and then began waving like a demented clown while the red lights kept blinking and the bell clanging.  Things were on the fritz; Stephen King was in charge.

Finally, the gates went up and stayed, and the first few vehicles rumbled over the double track, then over another single track.  Then gotcha! The gates dropped down. We waited nervously, for all our mothers (except the ones who had violists for children), had repeatedly taught us that railroad tracks were extremely dangerous.  Not to be fooled with.  Especially the sentient ones.

The gates flim-flammed up, you could tell the drivers each held their breath for a moment; they proceeded cautiously, and the blue pickup truck on the opposite side then lost half of his windshield as the possessed gate guillotined down. The striped barrier bounced on the roof of the pickup, giving it deliberate whacks while the rest of us watched in dismay.  After five good hits, the monster raised to attention and stood still.  GO GO GO I mentally messaged the car in front of me, for logistically, he had time if he didn't dawdle once the thing was at it's apex.  But who wants to rev across three sets of train tracks?  He hunkered down and went, making it.  

My turn.  I pinned that blinking bastard to the sky with a look, glaring at the thing with justice and the American way while I got me and my car past the gauntlet.  I will rip your wooden guts out and shove your wiring up your black and white circuit box if you even think of coming down on my car, you crackhead signal from hell.  No, no, I know it's an inanimate object with a malfunction, and can't react to human mental commands.  Or swears.  But it made me feel better.

Home, and at 8:55 in the evening the last of the sun lingers, telling you that it's summertime.  I am tired, for whacking rocks is hard business, but I found a few treasures.  Gladly, slip yourself to bed after a day of monsters or of happily being pleasant.  Did you find a penny?  I am sure you found something, whether communion with another, the surety of love and constancy, or just a leaf, a feather, a song carried from the throat of a warbler.  It all ties in.  Sit under the crescent night moon and write your story; tell a tale.  I will read it.  Good night.