Archive for the ‘out and about’ Category

My Victory is Evidenced by My Trophy Slice of Pie

Sunday, December 13th, 2009

My victory is evidenced by my trophy slice of pie. Just a few minutes ago a large platter held stuffed hash browns (filled with sour cream, cheddar cheese, and chives), four slices of French toast with a dollop of butter and a cup of syrup, and four slices of bacon. The plate has been carried off by the wings of a waitress and in return, the question, “Would you like pie?” I’m a milkshake man. I do like pie, but I like milkshakes more. “It’s free tonight so if you’d like pie just let me know.” And so knowing my rightful duty as a human being of this earth, I accepted her gift with a smile. In place of my Oreo milkshake I got a free slice of Oreo cream pie. So good. So free.
Oreo Cream Pie
This pie represents a change in me. This pie would once have been, rather than a trophy, a horrible reminder that I was unable to finish my dinner. But it’s not that I didn’t eat the food, I wasn’t sad that I wasted it; I was unable to eat it. I had no appetite. What little I did eat was forced, or liquid. The backseat of my Honda Civic was littered with upwards of 25 empty bottles of Odwalla protein shakes. In a plastic bag the haunted wrappers of many Odwalla “Super Protein” bars. These have been my diet for the past two months. Occasionally I could manage half of a regular person’s meal; on a good day. For the most part, meals which had once filled me with pleasure only filled me with the sudden urge to vomit. But today I came into Shari’s feeling different. Not only did I gulp down 10 pieces of gyoza from the teriyaki place a few hours before, I came into Shari’s and ordered that magnificent platter and in less than 6 minutes had filled my stomach with every visible piece of edible goodness that once rested there. And then I got pie.

The satisfaction I’ve received merely from the success of this meal is something not many know. To be proud of having eaten dinner. To be proud for functioning as a normal human being does. What a peculiar feeling, but rewarding as well. As if normalcy is less a sign of mediocrity and more an enlightened state. Not a single bite of food has been left here tonight. And for functioning more like a human being ought to, I am proud.

Posted in meditations, new experiences, out and about | No Comments »

A Raccoon on the Rooftops

Thursday, December 10th, 2009

The night has been deemed Loft Night. Loft Night is a night of female bonding and mild to moderate inebriation. With pride and pleasure I truck two of my dearest friends to the Loft in Edmonds and drop them off for a night away from the world. The sky dark and their eyes alight, I drop them off and they begin to smile long smiles that, I imagine, don’t end until they fall asleep, if then. Smiling for many is a common, habitual act, but for these girls a true smile is valuable and rare. Something one would be willing to pay to see. Being able to so effortlessly produce smiles from ear to ear on these girls is akin to parting the seas. I drop them off and know that no matter what happens tonight, I can be sure that sheers, ex-husbands, mothers, sisters; even myself, will play no part in ruining their evening of escape.

I drop them off with love and warmth, set them on a Washington winter avenue a block before the Loft so they can pull sweetly on their cigarettes for a minute or two. I weigh my foot down on the gas pedal, pull a u-turn, blow a kiss, and disappear into the night. A phantom for now. I drive through the darkened Edmonds streets, eerie with the crisp vacant feeling of the 18 degree weather. Every turn becomes a drift in my mind, every stop smooth and calculated; the lights do not turn red to stop me, I turn them red to take a break. When they turn green it’s only if I’m ready. My evening ritual: I drive to a 24-hour diner, order a breakfast plate and an Oreo milkshake. I write. When I’m done, I head back towards Edmonds; all the while commanding the street beneath my tires. I stop at the QFC to buy two electrolyte boosted water bottles so that the girls will have a less hung over day tomorrow.
Raccoon on the roofIn the parking lot of the QFC a man is driving an old Ford pickup truck wildly. Obviously drunk off his ass. It’s unnerving, but I am a phantom and would take a hit from his truck like a patch of fog. I head back towards Edmonds. The girls have nearly another hour of fun ahead of them. I do not tell them I’ve arrived; I want them to feel no pressure. After a very deliberate bout of parallel parking, I step carefully out of the car into the frozen night and feel naked it’s so cold.

I hop out of the car in a dance-like maneuver in my winter garb. I dash behind the buildings and duck into the alleyway. I hop onto a metal dumpster and leap up towards the roof, grabbing the edge of it. I pull my body up and over the side, rolling onto my back and making sure not to ruin any of the buttons on my pea coat. I breathe hard with adrenaline pulsing through my veins. My breath is visible in front of me, before the starlit sky, like a cloud. The Beach Boys are in my ears.
They’re mocking the night; the world. I sit up quickly and begin to prance about the rooftop like a bandit in the night. I’m frolicking up there like a raccoon in a garbage can. It’s exciting and wonderful. From business to business, I gallop over their thousands of sleeping products, merchandise all waiting to be bought, empty rooms full of money and nothing all at once. Liberating. Absolutely liberating. Living on the edge, but not criminally. I would never steal or hurt others. That’s not me. I just need to do things mildly against the rules. Bend them really. Add a spark but never light a fire.

I’m lying on the marquee of “The Fabric of Life.” The girls step out of the Loft and walk up the block, just below me. My phone rings. It’s one of the girls.

“Where are you?” she asks.
“I’m nearby. Where are you?”
“We’re smoking at the Fabric of Life.” I hang up.

I lean over the edge and shout shrilly like an old woman, “Could you girls not smoke here?! The fumes bother me.” It startles them and they retaliate.

“Don’t fuck with us when we’re drunk!”

But one of them laughs. They love me. They’re glad I’m there. I love them. I’m glad I’m there. On this night I would choose nothing different to do but be there for these girls; to allow these girls to have a night of fun the world would otherwise never permit. To say that we are simple or that it doesn’t take much to please us would be a lie. Maybe. But when pleasure comes it comes full force, and in a way that I’m sure no one else understands. The night’s a success. I run over the rooftops again, slip on the slanted edge of one and think about the embarrassment of being caught doing something so ridiculous. I realize that being caught would be worth the feeling. Like these girls and their escape in the lights of the Loft, I need this escape above the people of the streets and above all the problems of my daily life. I hop down off the roof, onto the dumpster, and walk back to the car. I open their doors one by one and help them gently into their seats.

Posted in love, new experiences, out and about | 2 Comments »

Wouldn’t it Be Nice if We Made Pet Sounds?

Sunday, December 6th, 2009

My therapist claims my childhood was something I missed. “Daniel,” she says, “any time there’s an opportunity for the boy in you to come out, take it.”

My father always played 97.3 KBSG on the radio in our green Ford Escort station wagon. “Good times and great oldies, 97.3 KBSG.” Most of the music drove me bonkers and I could only tolerate it when, rarely, I Get Around or California Girls came on. The Beach Boys were the only marginally sane musicians to be heard from the God-forsaken station. I would’ve given nearly anything for Star 101.5 or KISS 106.1, but could not listen to my Backstreet Boys CD because The Wagon didn’t have a CD player. Even then I had no deeply rooted affection for these boys of the beach. But now, all blossoming and full of adulthood, with the winter months coming on fast, I play the Beach Boys at least once a day. I do not listen to them for nostalgic pleasure, nor to warm my Pacific Northwestern skin and think of California. Fuck California. I listen to Brian Wilson, Al Jardine, Bruce Johnston, Mike Love, Carl Wilson, and Dennis Wilson because I need these boys to help maintain my sanity. Or at least to come to terms with losing it.
Pet Sounds album cover - the Beach Boys
In the Beach Boys I find absolutely no clichéd love song. The Beach Boys were merely onto something before the rest of us. They knew that however many years later these songs would become a sadistic juxtaposition to a life hardly worth living. Pet Sounds, widely considered their most influential album, and one of the most influential albums of all time, contains absolutely no songs about California, beaches, surfing, or cars. Pet Sounds is as incongruent with the rest of the Beach Boys’ discography as its name. Pet Sounds appeals to the boy in me. The one who, when stuck at a red light, throws tantrums inside, beating his fists against the inner walls of my chest. I’m re-teaching myself. That boy missed something big in his upbringing, there’s supposed to be something in there about love and loving others, being loved, having a family; whatever-the-fuck, that this boy missed. I press play and Pet Sounds spins its way through my brain teaching me all the lessons my parents forgot to. Perhaps that’s an overstatement. What exactly would I be learning from the literal translations of these songs? I guess I’d learn that it’d be nice to be older, which, I suppose it is. I’d learn that girls treat you much better than you do them (ha.) I’d learn that sometimes you shouldn’t talk, you should put your head on my shoulder and listen to my heart beat. Just listen.

Pet Sounds is a progression of maturity. It appeals to the boy in me as, I can only guess, a father would to his son. Whereas Celine Dion’s latest album probably has a title track that claims I can both be a completely independent woman and yet I can’t live without you, boy; Pet Sounds only learns. There is no backtracking. There is, I understand, some contradiction. But as any reasonably taught Lopate-ist will tell you, contradiction is absolutely necessary. God Only Knows is one of the most intelligently written love songs ever. Fucking ever. Let us for a moment consider the lyrics: “I may not always love you, but long as there are stars above you, you never need to doubt it, I’ll make you so sure about it. God only knows what I’d be without you. If you should ever leave me, though life would go on believe me, the world could show nothing to me, so what good would living do me?” Though it took at least 137 plays of this song for me to grasp the true nature of its honesty, I have come to understand it. About a month ago, sitting in my blue Honda Civic LX, Carl Wilson sang me some of the truest words to carry me through countless years.

Confucius, The Beach Boys; Beach Boys, Confucius; teach each other some shit.

Last night, with a half-full flask of seven times distilled vodka, a wool pea coat, and Pet Sounds I danced through the darkened courtyards of Meridian Park Elementary. And I gave no shit whether it made me insane. I realized in that moment, if my sanity is lost, then my insanity is all I’ve got and I will embrace that lack of sanity. God only knows what I’d be without it. And still, while walking through the school, snow falling silently, I thought, Wouldn’t it be nice if I were older? All of the doors were locked, I know because I tried. Like a bandit under the cover of night, I tried to open each and every door; peered inside. Looked for things the little boy Daniel might want to play with. Things that I apparently forgot to learn as a child. A couple of pulls from the cold tin flask and I sprouted wings. I vaulted a fence and climbed on top of an oversized metal container, the kind on the back of semi-trucks. I stood there as I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times lectured my ears. I looked up into the black sky, saw nothing, and back down. I could see over all the buildings at the school. “Sometimes I feel very sad,” Brian Wilson cried to me. Ah-fucking-men, brother. “They say I got brains, but they ain’t doin’ me no good. I wish they could.” Have truer words ever been spoken? I suppose this is beside the point. What might be the point is that up there, upon this metal container, with my breath turning to a ghost before me, all of the lights at the school turned off. All at once. As if cued by this event, Brian sang to me, “Each time things start to happen again I think I got something good goin’ for myself, but what goes wrong?” What the fuck goes wrong, Brian, what goes wrong? What Brian claims is that he “just wasn’t made for these times.” I, for once during the course of this album, disagree. I think I was made for these times. But perhaps you were not made for those times, perhaps you were made for my time, Brian. Your beach was something my boy needed. You, friend, get me through the darkest of times by singing in a brilliant harmony with your brothers that makes ice beautiful again, and makes Daniel a child again.

But even as little boy Daniel dances like a lunatic around empty schools in the middle of the night, the only thing he can think is how nice it would be to be older.

Additionally, Sir Paul McCartney considers Pet Sounds one of his favorite albums of all time, with God Only Knows being his favorite song on the album; perhaps ever. Does this make me a knight by association? Dylan said Wilson should will his ear to the Smithsonian. Elton called it “a timeless and amazing recording of incredible genius and beauty.” That’s two knights and a genius. If I’m not a genius knight at least I have two knights and a genius to back up my sentiments.

Tags:
Posted in music, new experiences, out and about, philosophy | 2 Comments »

The Skin Magician

Saturday, December 5th, 2009

Summer. The sun strong, but the Washington shade cold like autumn. The scene: a family-friendly park in Shoreline. Unsuspecting. Safe, supposedly. But something in the air is wrong. Something touches my skin and tells me, You should not be here.

I had fallen asleep, vulnerable, shirtless, shoeless, half naked, unguarded beneath the shade of a large tree, the green grass keeping my back cool as the sun crept up shirtless, vulnerable close to my toes and threatened to burn my dermis. I was unaware I had fallen asleep. Suddenly, as if thunder from the clouds, I heard the jolting voice of the Skin Magician.

“Aren’t you cold?” it boomed.

“What?! Huh, uhhh, uhh, no no no, I’m not cold…” I jumped up as quickly as if I were trying to walk across a bed of fiery coals.

“Were you asleep?”

“No, I was just relaxing.” I rubbed my eyes and opened them wide as if to prove I hadn’t even been close to sleep. The Skin Magician smiled. Creepy.

“Well it sure is a nice day out here, huh?” His conversation was brimming with all the awkwardness of a cold pot of water forced to boil against its will.

“Yeah, pretty remarkable for Washington,” I said.

“Ahhhh, yes. Mmmmmmmmmm.”

About this point I began to question his motives. My drowsiness was vacating quickly, my senses coming to me. I looked at him with heightened suspicion and he returned my gaze with wondrous eyes like stars. Creepy. And the noises, the incessant grumbling and moaning noises. When he had no words he simply grabbed the handrail he stood next to and turned his head to the left and up, staring into the sky, moving the clouds about it with his magic eyes. Silence ensued for seconds. Seconds longer than minutes.

“Mmmmmm. Wow. Yes.”

I lay in uncomfortable silence, unsure whether to bolt or experience whatever was happening, as awkward as it may be. But mostly, I was unsure what to do. I was about 90% sure the Skin Magician was hitting on me, 10% of me still thought it possible he simply sought pleasant conversation.

The Skin Magician wore no cap, no gloves, no cape, no tuxedo. A t-shirt, jeans, tennis shoes, a bald and shining head; a very unassuming outfit for a magician of such caliber.

“Wow, do you see that?” he asked me inquisitively, with tremendous conviction. He could obviously make the silliest things glow with interest. “Watch this pole,” he said, shaking the railing he held tightly in his grip. The railing stretched out for at least a hundred feet, all the way down a long cement walkway through the park. “When I shake this bit here you can see it still shaking all the way down to the end.” He dropped his head very close to the rail, cheek almost against it, and continued to make it quiver beneath him.

I was in awe. I was now 100% sure that he was hitting on me. If it is ever unclear whether a man is hitting on you, ask yourself this question: Does he direct your attention to a phallic symbol and proceed to manhandle said symbol as if it is the body of another human? If you answer yes to this question, you, friends are being hit on by, perhaps even, the Skin Magician himself.

“That’s crazy,” I replied. Anyone who knows me would’ve known my interest was completely feigned. What rested in me was merely fear. Fear alone. I reached for my socks and began to pull them on slowly.

“So, you like to ride bikes, huh?” he asked me, nodding his head toward my bicycle. Shit, yes I do, I thought. I’m riding a bike and he most certainly drove his car here. How ever will I escape if the Skin Magician decides not only to turn me gay, but cut me in half and have two parts of me to do as he pleases? I know his assistant would not be some lovely lady either, no, the manssistant would be wearing a Speedo tuxedo and bunny ears. I’m fucked, though I wish I weren’t.

“Yeah, I like to ride. Especially on days like this, you’ve really got to take advantage of the weather.”

“Absolutely,” he said, too smoothly.

I pulled my shoes slowly over my feet, being cautious not to make it deathly apparent I was clothing myself. The Skin Magician, rest assured, would pull his wand from his back pocket and force the clothes high up into the trees. I must move as a snake through the underbrush and make no sudden movements, only stealthy, boneless ones. The Skin Magician, no doubt, knew only of sudden, bone-full ones. He was moving the clouds about the sky once more with his eyes. My heart beat a pitter patter that could rival any Led Zeppelin jam. Terror does not describe what the Skin Magician had strapped me with. A more appropriate likening would be chains and leather straps, whips lined up on the walls. Weird shaped tools, strange circular objects, many things laid out on table which had no obvious utility but would very clearly become obvious once near any of my body’s few orifices. I reached down and grabbed my shirt. This would be difficult to do stealthily.

“So, what do you do?” he asked. “Are you a student?”

“Yeah, I go to the University of Washington.”

“Oh very nice. What are you studying?”

“English. Creative writing.”

“Ahh, a fellow artist. I studied the visual arts. Painting and acting, mostly. Yes, yes, I’m definitely an artist too. Very cool to run into another.” No no no, we are fellow NOTHINGS, Skin Magician, your life is one complete illusion. Free me, NOW!

My shirt was a tight fitting orange v-neck. I carefully unrolled it from its balled up shape. One hand in the bottom, up, slowly to the right arm of the shirt; the other arm in the other side up, slowly, to the left arm; my head bowed down and slipped into the bottom hole. Everything goes black. My shirt covers my vision as I try to slip it on quickly, but never quick enough, and my fear grows. Inside my shirt I can see nothing. I know not where the Skin Magician is, nor what he’s doing. My heart. Pound. Pound. Pounding.

In my mind I pictured the Skin Magician dancing in dubious circles around me, waving his wand in wild motions, smiling up to his ears and jumping five feet in the air, somehow silently. He was casting the wickedest of all his spells and all because I tried to get dressed, to cover up this skin of mine. All because I wanted to remain a straight, woman-loving, man. I wanted nothing more than to be anywhere but in the middle of the Skin Magician’s wicked dance. I pulled my shirt down and there he stood, not dancing in circles, but closer than before. He was on the grass now, not holding the railing. Only five feet from me, maybe. I stood up.

“Well, I really should get going,” I said nervously.

“Where do you live?” he asked. I felt five again. Do not talk to strangers. Do not talk to Skin Magicians.

“Oh, you know, just over by 145th, kind of near Central Market.”

“Ahh, really? I was just about to do some grocery shopping there, maybe we’ll run into each other.” He smiled the smile I had imagined moments earlier, except he was not dancing, only figuratively. It was so far from an evil smile that it was worse than evil.

“Yeah, so I should get going,” I said, grabbing my bike and standing it up. I was mostly clothed now, the only skin showing being my arms, my face, and my shins beneath my rolled up brown corduroy pants and still, I felt acutely exposed. Even if he did not come near to touching me, his eyes, his disposition, his magic, was molesting me with every moment his presence persisted.

“Haha, maybe,” I forced, trying to be cordial. Do not let your captors know you suspect their evil. If anything, convince them you have succumb to Stockholm Syndrome and when they least expect it, run. Run for your fucking life. For the health of your body’s orifices. I straddled my bike between my legs. He walked closer, right next to me.

“My name is Dana, by the way,” he said, offering his hand. I quivered inside, contemplated my next move.

“Daniel,” I said, offering mine. We shook hands. I imagined him shaking that pole in his hands. My brain gagged.

“Oh, funny,” he said. “Both D names. That’s very funny. People used to make fun of me for mine. But very funny we’re both D’s.” Shut. The. Fuck. Up. And free me, Skin Magician. Stop this horrible torture. “Do you email?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure,” I replied. “I don’t have one of my cards on me though,” I lied.

“Oh, me neither,” he said to me. “But here, I’ll just tell you. It’s,” he began to speak very very slowly, and very very surely, “‘Skin Magician’.” He enunciated each letter carefully. My blood curdled, my veins twisted, my eyes twitched, I got a pilo-erection and froze.

“Spelt as it sounds?” I asked stupidly.

“Yes, except with an underscore between ‘Skin’ and ‘Magician,’ at yahoo dot com.”

“Okay, very neat,” I said. I slipped my foot into one pedal of my bike, then the other. Mounted it, barely moving, standing still on the pedals as if frozen in time; he was holding me there, still as stone with his eyes. I could almost make out the wand in his eyes. Then, with a sudden second of mercy, he freed me. He gave me a moment to run, and I capitalized.

I pushed my legs as hard as they would go, already out of breath before I’d even begun, I hit a stone and nearly crashed the bike, but pedaled with excessive ferocity. Down the hill, to the left, away, far far

away from

The

skin_magician@yahoo dot com.

Posted in decisions, new experiences, out and about | No Comments »

Blood, of the Red and Bleeding Sort

Tuesday, September 22nd, 2009

Today, I accomplished a feat I hadn’t attempted since probably around the age of 12. I was in the left turn lane waiting at a red light near the local supermarket. From my mount, my bicycle, I felt proud. I felt relieved, glorious, free, human, and very alive with all that morning air coming through my nasal passages. Radiohead flowed easily through my ears; the last song I recall listening to was “Let Down.” How telling. The light turned green, the white Mazda in front of me accelerated through the intersection and took its passengers off to work or coffee. I slipped my feet into my pedal straps and pumped, furiously, as I always do with the adrenaline of morning and the permission of glowing green modernity hanging high above the street. I took the turn fast and hard.

My left pedal reached for the cement street. It caught, tripped and flipped. I was propelled the opposite direction, thrown freakishly fast to my right, through the air, through the oxygen, through the hard pavement on the other side. Since my feet were strapped into the pedals, the bike and I flew as one. A grim example of the threats we constantly impose upon ourselves. At the time, the melding of my body to the bicycle was a sick reminder of how we always manage to destroy ourselves with the technology we create, however primitive that technology may be. I slammed into the cement with tremendous force. My ankle hit, then my knee, then my other knee, then my elbow, then my shoulder, and in conclusion, my skull. This, thankfully, was wrapped in another piece of man-made technology, a nice plastic helmet. I managed to bounce and slide, simultaneously learning not to turn too fast and hard, and not to wear button ups on bicycle trips. As I lay there, head throbbing in tremendous pain, my first thought was, Shit, I need to move before I get run over by an eighteen-wheeler, followed by the unsuspecting motorcyclist. So I did. I promptly jumped up, grabbed my bike and pulled off to the sidewalk. From memory, I count roughly 9 cars at the intersection, including one parked up the road with two construction workers pondering an upcoming job. How many of these people stopped? How many asked if I was okay? How many thought it was at least a little out of place that my head had just bounced from the pavement like some sadly deflating beach ball? None.

Ankle

And so I learned the terrible lesson of how people are unwilling to help unless it’s at a time convenient for them. Now, here I am, mildly concussed, fighting the strong urge to sleep, and being watched over by gracious friends. At least things pay off in the end.

Side of knee

This is not the first in my string of bad luck. Though, as Jason so dutifully notified me, luck does not exist. Luck may not exist, but this in no way devalues that many unfortunate things have graced my life more than I would like lately. In the past week one of the more memorable unfortunate events came in the form of a flat tire on my trusty blue automobile. Flat tires are unfortunate, we all know, but can generally be a 15 minute fix. That is, considering that your spare tire isn’t also flat. Which, of course, was my case. As such, a 15 minute fix turned into a 3 ½ hour ordeal. Friends, friends saved the day. By the grace of a magnificent Karli, I was lent a minivan (which I felt strangely proud to be caught driving. Call my psychiatrist.) I drove my terrible tires to the nearest Les Schwab and had them fixed up. Now, I should probably note that it’s not the presence of inconvenient events in my life that drives me crazy. I thrive on the disruption of the status quo. It’s the fact that on top of every captive thought fighting its way through my brain, I now have physical evidence of my despair. A true-to-life incarnation of my internal suffering.

Knee

This all inevitably leads to the ever-present question that’s rarely evoked, Do I deserve this?

To which I reply, Why yes, I do. I’m such a strong believer in the need for struggle in one’s life that I would probably always answer yes to this question, but only to myself, rarely to others. Because we should also be hundreds of times harder on ourselves than others, right? It’s funny how dictating your thoughts into text makes you sound so absurd. This is the point at which I say, Maybe the only thing that’s true is that nothing’s true. Which, of course, can’t be true; infinite loop. My life is run by infinite loops. The world is an infinite loop. If it weren’t, we’d all fall up into space, right?

My neck hurts, too.

My passionate hate toward technology is growing. Throughout most of my life technology was like a gift, it graced me with pleasures I never would’ve known otherwise. The escape of alternate realities, the way automobiles turn miles to feet, the way lights light a dark room. But the escapist in me has grown bored with the bullets and blood of pixilated figures. The drifter in me is growing ever more fearful of colliding with other drifters. And the lights always show us things we never wanted to see, and their color is so nasty compared to sunlight or moonlight. I just need to find the middle ground. But the technological resentments seem only to be growing. Someone give me a bow and arrow, a bucket, a blanket, and a knife. Throw me in a forest. Give me some pages, a pen. Burn the buildings. Let’s go be naked in a cold river coming off colder glaciers. Let’s leave all this behind.

“I really feel like you should go to the doctor and have this checked out.”
“I don’t have health insurance, it’s too expensive.”
“But you really should go to the doctor for this sort of thing.”
“It’s too expensive.”
“It’s just that, this seems like something you can DIE from.”
“Yeah, but it’s so expensive.”

In conclusion, I’m just grumpy that no one will let me sleep.

Elbow

Posted in out and about, pain (mostly), philosophy | No Comments »

Regularity is a Crime

Sunday, September 20th, 2009

In Des Moines there’s a little breakfast joint called Jack’s Country Restaurant. On the front window is a gargantuan blue decal that says 30th Anniversary. This, I’m sure, has been up there for more than a year. On the other window another sign says, Best Food in Town, which is mostly true. The first time you enter Jack’s Country Restaurant you feel uncomfortable. The doorway opens directly into the middle of the floor, tables and booths surround you, and everyone, without fail, acknowledges your entrance. There’s a strong sense of intrusion. Jack’s has just the right amount of grimey, too. The floors look like they’ve gone at least a week without vacuuming and the windows are painted with many five-year-olds’ maple syrup designs.

Jack’s Country Restaurant is a café of regulars. These people don’t need menus, they’ve memorized them, they’ve probably contributed to them. These people are all well into their lives with mortgages, thousands of dollars of debt, grandchildren, garages cramped with wrenches and rusty bicycles. These are the kind of people who upon entering are welcomed by name. I used to find comfort in this sort of entrance and appearance, and in fact, still do. Most mornings I go to a café in North Seattle where they know my name, we have a sense of understanding. It’s good, both sides benefit. But there’s something about Jack’s that unsettles me. No matter how many times I go there, I will never feel like anything more than an outsider. I suspect that Jack’s is an enabler. Jack’s makes it okay for these people to stay in Des Moines and disregard the rest of the world. The men who come to Jack’s are men I never want to be: T-shirts held tightly beneath leather belts looped through denim shorts, knee-high socks coming out of old Nike sneakers. These are lonely men, and most are married.

Maybe Jack’s unsettles me because it’s full of waiting. A mile or so down the road from Jack’s is an old folks’ home. The residents come with their children to Jack’s and order coffee and eggs. They make surface discussion because the parents don’t care what the children are saying, but appreciate their attempt to make their lives feel normal, and because the children have no idea how to talk about death. A friend of mine said the other day as we passed an old folks home, “Just because you put the word ‘Manor’ in the name doesn’t mean it’s a nice place to live.” There was an old man seated in a walker staring blankly at the cement as we drove past. Never do that to me. I refuse to be kept like a reptile in controlled temperatures with scheduled eating times, predetermined outings, and semi-regular visits from the outside world.

The other day I was in Jack’s eying the regulars (those I assumed to be regulars, anyways) and a young woman walked in. She looked extremely out of place, as I’m sure I did. With here was a little brunette with big, bulgy brown eyes. I couldn’t tell whether this woman was her mother or her baby-sitter, either way, I was quickly disgusted with her treatment of the child. The woman ordered the girl strawberry pancakes and whipped cream. This woman, like the elderly, was in waiting. She kept looking to the door and back in the kitchen as if whoever she expected might decide to take the back door. Finally, a man walked in with a long sleeved Mariner’s t-shirt. The little girl was quite obviously frightened of this man. The waitress brought the girl hot chocolate. After a couple minutes, the girl crossed her arms and silently began to cry; that huge unfathomably sad cry that makes anyone within 30 yards want to make everything better. I was sitting almost directly across from the girl and couldn’t help but look. I wanted to smile at her, say, Really, things will get easier, but I was afraid I’d only frighten her. The couple began to develop a prognosis.

“I smiled at her and I think it may have startled her,” the man said to the woman.

“Oh, come on, did he scare you?” she said to the girl mockingly. The girl didn’t respond, the tears kept coming. “Come on, speak up. Big girls don’t cry,” the woman said. I wanted to tell the girl to cry, cry, cry, let it all come out. “Listen, stop crying. You don’t need to cry.” I wanted to through my water glass at the woman’s head. “You need to stop crying, why are you crying?” The girl could do no more than shake her head left and right.

I glanced over at the girl again and she glanced back.

“Do you like toys?” the man asked. “There’s a dollar store down the street,” he said to the woman, already prepared to buy his way into their lives.

“You like toys, right? What do you like?” the woman asked the girl. She was a terrible mother, or an even worse babysitter. “I think there’s a Toys-R-Us around here,” she said to the man. “Would you like to do that?” she asked the girl threateningly. Again, the girl could do no more than shake her head.

“Alright, you’re not doing this in here,” she decided finally, “sorry,” she said to the man and stood up to take the girl outside. They stood in the frame of the window for all to watch their tiff like a silent film in color.

The man kept himself occupied with his menu. He was lonely. He was in the wrong place with the wrong woman, that much was apparent. The girl and the woman came back and the pancakes arrived.

“Would you like more whipped cream?” she asked the girl. The girl nodded.

The entire time more old people came, lonely men left, and I watched, eating my eggs, English muffin, and sausage links. That day I decided not to order from the menu. When the waitress came I had it all closed and nicely waiting for her. I wanted to play my cards, it felt daring.

“Two eggs, an English muffin, and two sausage links, please.”

“Hasbhrowns?”

“No, thanks.” She grabbed my trifold laminate menu and pranced away to take coffee to some regular. I didn’t know how much anything I’d ordered cost, but I didn’t want any of the menu choices, I wanted to construct my own little meal of simple pleasures.

The couple finished their meal. The man looked discontent, but mildly happy. The woman looked confused but had convinced herself she was content. The girl was on her way to developing into some terrible mixture of the two.

I got up, paid, left a nice tip, and left. I haven’t been back to Jack’s since. If I went to Jack’s enough and ordered without the menu, I’d become a regular boxed up in a little café and turn stale like the crumbs of pancakes on the floor. Des Moines wasn’t meant for me. Des Moines is a town of quiet doom and invisible walls. My six months in Des Moines were more than enough to teach me I have a lot more to offer than Des Moines has to accept.

Posted in out and about | 4 Comments »