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.