Archives for category: Modern Society

A GUN FOR PROTECTION? A Timely Story

December 27, 2012 //

My father’s store was founded in the 1930’s in a relatively prosperous section of Philadelphia. As told to me, crime was not an issue during the first several decades of business. However, by the time I was old enough to be aware of such things, in the 1960’s, crime was an ever-present concern. Both society and the neighborhood had changed. As a result of various “redevelopment” schemes, vacant lots blighted the street; the surrounding residential neighborhood was grim.

As a textbook introvert, I was stupendously ill-suited to working at the store. I disdained nearly every aspect of it, from being obsequious to the customers (commonly known as “sucking up”), to breathing second-hand smoke, to straining to converse with my father’s employees. Fortunately, I was only required to work in my teenage years when Father’s Day or Christmas loomed, and the volume of business increased. My older brother, David, by contrast, was a social being who thrived in the retail environment. If the street and local economy had not changed, perhaps he might have used his gregarious skill-set to continue the business. But that is a different story.

Due to my limitations of age, temperament and personality, my main role was as an extra pair of eyes. I would feign melting into the background while, at the same time, try to make anyone who might consider shoplifting conspicuously aware of my presence. It was confusing. One had to project a welcoming expression while exercising vigilant suspicion. In politics, the phrase is something like: “Trust, but verify.” I had a similar task around the cash register when one of the employees might linger too long over the open drawer. Eventually, when it was completely clear I had no aptitude as a salesman, my father was happy to have me handle the cash register and perform my surveillance duties from that vantage point.

Happily, I never personally witnessed a criminal act at the store. Either shoplifting did not occur as often as my father feared, or I was not nearly as good at watching as we both thought I was. Unfortunately, during the slow times of the year, when my father was alone at the store with just one salesman, for hours at a time, robberies did occur. Every several years, while I was growing up, my father would be robbed, sometimes at gunpoint, of the contents of the cash register.

We also had some middle-of-the-night calls from the police when the store was burgled. These were truly terrifying events, especially when I was old enough to drive my father down at two or three in the morning to turn off the ringing alarm and assess the extent of the burglary. We would be met by a policeman at the door; they were always confident that the crook(s) had left the scene, carrying whatever merchandise they were able to carry, but one never felt certain. It was creepy to be in a room, sometimes ransacked, usually beside a broken window, that was so recently violated. Each nook or cranny might harbor a lingering thug; each floor squeak or footstep activated more adrenaline.

My father’s defense against the threat of crime was decidedly low-tech. He owned a large pistol that someone had given him long before I was born. He did not believe in guns, however, and did not know how to shoot, or even load the gun. It remained hidden in a corner of his office at the rear of the store for as long as I was sentient. For all I know, the gun might have seen action in Bonnie & Clyde’s era. The concept of actually confronting a robber with the weapon was not even considered.

There were gates pulled in front of the store each night to dissuade the casual burglar. One could reach between the bars and break the front glass to grab whatever was in reach, but the potential haul was not worth the trouble and the minor risk of capture. It was easier to climb up a ladder in the alleyway beside the store and break into the storage rooms on the second floor. There, one could find piles of out-of-season merchandise that a down-on-his-luck criminal might be able to re-sell at a flea market. For instance, one nocturnal crook made off with nearly one hundred pairs of shorts, in January. We almost felt sorry for him.

The real threat was the broad daylight, armed robbery, with its possibility for confrontation and violence. The only physical deterrent to that was a video camera, circa 1935, that was squeezed between packages of underwear behind the cash register. We positioned the lens to be visible to a customer in front of the cash register. We thought there was a chance that an extremely ignorant crook might fear the antique was actually functional and recording on a constant basis. In retrospect, this is laughable. (In truth, we all knew the camera was useless and, actually, embarrassing, but no one would ever say so).

The only actual deterrent to crime was the possibility that police would walk in while a crime was in progress. To that end, my father was friendly and solicitous to the long-time cop on the beat, an amiable African-American named Officer Seals. I perceived him as a mountain of a man, a pillar of strength. He was built like the football lineman he once was, and he projected safety and fearlessness. In any event, Officer Seals was plied with donuts and coffee in the morning and soda in the afternoon. If he would come in around lunchtime, my father would offer to order him a sandwich; anything to keep him hanging around.

Like my father, I craved Officer Seals’ presence. He was cheerful in a place where sincere laughter was rare. He allowed for a welcome relaxation of vigilance. My father and the salesmen vied to talk to Officer Seals like high school boys competing for the attention of a cute girl. One time, in the mid-1960’s, when I was about ten, my father came home and glowingly explained how Officer Seals arrived as a sullen young customer turned nasty. Hearing the man’s tone, the policeman grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the ground. “Don’t you ever talk to Mr. Sanders like that!” he is said to have yelled. He dragged the malefactor out the front door and literally kicked him in the ass, sending him on his way. For the next several years, this heroic deed was brought up every time Officer Seals appeared; my father wanted him to know his actions were appreciated.

Finally, in the waning days of the 1970’s, my father, now in his seventies, was planning to close the store. Officer Seals, too, was slowing down. His sculpted muscles now sagged. Still a mountain of a man, the metaphor now conveyed more softness than strength.

Instead of opening the store seven days a week from nine to six as he had done for over forty years, my father was now opening only five days a week, and closing before dark. The street was simply too forlorn; business was too slow. Often, only one employee was present, and if that man went to get coffee or was late, my father manned the store alone. It was during one of those moments that the worst-case scenario arose. A robber in a ski-mask, who may have watched the only employee depart, burst into the store. He brandished a gun at my father and demanded he be taken back to the safe my father had in the office. How he knew about the safe, we never knew. There, he pistol-whipped my father and made him, trembling, open the safe and hand over an envelope of cash and some jewelry. He grabbed my father’s ring off his finger, which included a diamond, and hit my father one more time to show he meant business.

“Don’t you call the police, old man,” he yelled, “or I’ll come back and kill you!” At that moment, Officer Seals arrived at the front of the store and realized what was happening.

“Freeze!” he shouted, as he crouched among the underwear, fumbling for his revolver.

The robber raised his gun and fired at the officer. His shot missed and he ran towards the exit. He fired again, shattering a display case. Officer Seals finally got ahold of his gun and fired three shots. One barely missed my father; one brought down plaster from the ceiling; and, the last one killed the “surveillance” camera that impotently observed the event. The robber disappeared.

After a few minutes, my father emerged from the office and stumbled over to Officer Seals, who was sitting on the floor, leaning against a stool. He appeared to be hyper-ventilating.

“Are you okay?” my father asked, holding a handkerchief to stop his own bleeding forehead while shaking the officer’s shoulder.

“Thirty years,” he said.

“What?” said my father.

“Thirty years,” he repeated. “Thirty years. I never shot my gun in thirty years.”

Officer Seals had to be helped up and given a tall glass of water. The policeman’s heroism was appreciated though his marksmanship and intestinal fortitude had been vastly overestimated. My father smelled a terrible odor and could not imagine what it was.

My father’s employee returned from his coffee break and called the police. A young pair, who looked like newly-minted Marines, arrived and took my father’s statement, all the while attending to Officer Seals. The robbery helped my father overcome his reluctance to finally close the store several months later. Officer Seals went on disability to calm his nerves before transferring to a desk job at the precinct to finish his career. My father sent him a gift package in appreciation and, for several years, they met periodically for lunch or coffee. They reminisced about the “good old days” when the street bustled with happy shoppers. They always came around to the final incident. As the years went by, the actual memory of the trauma became hazy, and all they could remember distinctly was their mutual survival.

“I was quite a gunslinger,” said Officer Seals.

“Yes, you were,” agreed my father.

Tags Crime, Gun Control or Protection, herosim

Categories Coming of Age, Gun Prtoection, Modern Society

THANKSGIVING SHOPPING

December 11, 2012 //

THANKSGIVING SHOPPING

It was the day before Thanksgiving, and we were readying our house for guests. We unpacked and washed new dishes, put away the deck furniture, vacuumed the carpets and swept the floors. When we appeared to be nearing an end, I fatefully asked:

“Is there anything else we need?”

“Well,” said my wife. “Let me think.”

Since I was determined to be agreeable, I waited more patiently than usual. After all, there is a lot of togetherness in a four-day weekend, and it helps to start off positively.

“I’ll go to Shoprite,” I offered, naming the disfavored local store where I was confident I would be among the few, bedraggled customers.

“No,” she insisted. “We need flowers, and the good ones are at Harris Teeter.”

This change of plans was critical, since Harris Teeter is a local juggernaut and would resemble the Beach at Normandy on D-Day. Still, I did not complain, since that would have ruined the effect of offering to go in the first place. She wrote me a modest list of other needs, including: fruit, a birthday cake for our nephew, and a roaster bag.

“What’s a roaster bag?” I asked.

“It’s for the turkey,” she replied. “It makes it juicier and prevents the oven from being splattered. It’s really important. Make sure you don’t forget it.”

Duly charged, I drove to Harris Teeter. I noticed the streets were hectic. People were driving to and fro, on missions like my own, as though they were squirrels gathering acorns before the winter. I blew my horn twice in the parking lot to avoid accidents, as much as I had used it in the previous six months. Finally, relieved, I found an open space, parked, and retrieved an abandoned cart that was looking for a car to dent. I pushed it past a throng of employees taking a smoking break and entered.

The scene inside evoked a Dante-like nightmare. Carts pushed by crazed shoppers careened in all directions. Lines snaked from the check-out counters requiring a newly-arrived customer to perform like a football running back; I found an opening and squeezed through. I turned my attention to the list.

My first target, the flower section, was easy to locate but difficult to enter. Adjacent to the entrance, it was ringed, like the check-out lines, by a line of customers, all of whom were ordering custom-made arrangements. With the benefit of long arms, I was able to reach a pretty, pre-cut bouquet. With the flowers obtained, I moved confidently to the bakery section. I picked up a birthday cake and, as a reward for my efficiency, a still-warm donut sample that required immediate consumption.

Next, I navigated to the fruit section. At Shoprite, I am confident about selecting fruit. I am often the only customer and can take as long as I need. Plus, there is not much of a selection, so choosing is simplified. At Harris Teeter, however, on the day before Thanksgiving, it was necessary to lean over and around other customers just to reach the fruit. I was jostled at the grapefruits by a woman in a pink Minnie Mouse sweatshirt who glared at me as though I were taking food off her dinner plate. She seemed determined to make me, a rare, male shopper, feel out-of-place and incompetent. She may have been correct in her assessment, but that did not make it right. Losing confidence, I despaired at distinguishing good apples from mealy ones. And how did one determine if the grapes are good if there were too many people around to allow for stealthy sampling?

I added the routine items to my cart like milk, juice, yogurt and bread by following the traditional nutrition-neutral shopping plan, namely: choose whatever is on sale. I dodged several head-on crashes in the cereal aisle and realized the list was down to one item, the “Holy Grail of Shopping,” the roaster bag.

It is common knowledge men are loath to ask for directions. Although a roaster bag could be a challenge, I deduced they would be in the vicinity of the aluminum and cooking products. If I could locate that aisle, I could rouse a roaster bag. Alas, I was in aisle three and cooking products were in aisle twenty-four, seemingly half-a-mile away. No problem, I was nearly finished. I arrived at the appointed aisle and began to look, up and down, left and right. Alas, no roaster bags. I looked around to make sure no one I knew was watching as I sought an employee’s assistance.

First, I found a teenager stacking merchandise and asked where I would find a roaster bag. He stared blankly and did not even feign comprehension. He gestured towards a female employee at the other end of the aisle. I wended towards a short woman pasting price tags onto cans.

“Do you know where I could find a roaster bag?” I asked.

“You want a toaster?” she asked, in a thick accent.

“No, a roaster bag,” I replied, enunciating as clearly as I could.

“Oh,” she said, “Do you mean a trash bag? Try aisle ten.”

I sensed this encounter was not going well. “Thanks,” I mumbled. I contemplated going home and telling my wife that Harris Teeter was out of roaster bags and choosing among lame explanations, such as: “They had a run on them,” or “I read that it is better to cook the turkey without a bag,” or “they don’t make them anymore.” I felt hopeless, when I looked up one last time and saw an acquaintance I knew slightly from the kids’ soccer. I vaguely recalled her name was Debbie. From the extent of her girth, I suspected she might be an accomplished cook. I greeted her like my dearest friend and then broached my dilemma.

“Of course they have roaster bags,” she said. “They are in the miscellaneous aisle. Follow me.”

It was as though Moses was leading me personally to the Promised Land. Debbie navigated expertly among the carts. Once amidst the miscellany, she scanned the peculiar offerings there, such as: sifters, cheese graters and spice racks, and, finally pointed to a section with several boxes labeled “roaster bags.”

“You’ll want this one,” she said, and handed me a blue box. I hadn’t even considered that there might be a choice of sizes and thicknesses. “It’s for a turkey,” she stated confidently.

Vastly relieved, I refrained from asking why roaster bags were not with their culinary cousins in aluminum and plastics. I refrained from questioning the system that would prevent a logical, amateur from locating a roaster bag without expert assistance. I declined the opportunity to consider the entire roaster bag industry. I thanked Debbie profusely, checked out, and returned home in triumph. When the turkey turned out to be the most succulent ever, I felt a thankful glow of satisfaction.

Tags roaster bags, shopping, Thanksgiving challenge

Categories Modern Society

UPSETTING THE EQUILIBRIUM

December 6, 2012 //

UPSETTING THE EQUILIBRIUM

The apartment below the girls’ had been empty since the semester began. Tina and LuAnn never gave it a second thought. They completed their school work, participated in the social rituals of college life, watched their shows and, in general, enjoyed each other’s company. Both girls were attractive, but in different ways. Tina was tall and thin and had a luminous smile. LuAnn was curvier, with curly hair and a mischievous twinkle in her expression. Each girl garnered plenty of male attention, and occasionally conferred “benefits” on mere friends, but neither had a steady boyfriend.

The lack of a constant male presence was probably what secured Tina and LuAnn as long-term roommates. This was their third year together. There was no issue of rivalry or loneliness as often arises among girlfriends when one pairs off. There was no issue of having a third person waking up regularly in the apartment. When someone did stay over, as soon as he left, Tina and LuAnn usually broke into giggles.

“College boys are such babies,” said one.

“We run circles around them,” said the other.

“I can’t wait until we’re in the working world and find some real men.”

“That’s for sure! Guys who make real money and drive nice cars.”

This situation prevailed until the day his presence was announced downstairs by the un-muffled sound of his pick-up truck. The girls raced to the window to see what was causing the commotion. Wafting cigarette smoke before him, a roughly handsome, highly tattooed, sandy-haired behemoth emerged from the cab holding a key to the downstairs apartment. He tossed an empty beer can into the back of the truck as a sort of exclamation point to his arrival. It clattered to a stop among several others. His gas station attendant/landscaper charm fascinated the college girls like cat-nip piques the interest of a tabby, though they would not admit it.

“Ewwww,” said Tina. “He’s disgusting.”

“What a loooooser,” said LuAnn.

Within a week or so, Tina needed some help with her bicycle pump. She wandered downstairs.
“His name’s Jack,” she reported upon her return, moments later. “He seems nice enough, but pretty dumb.”

“Really?” said LuAnn, feigning disinterest. “I thought he’d be ‘Spike’ or ‘Rocky’ or something.”

“Well,” said Tina. “He looks strong enough to lift a car, so his name is about right.”

The girls snickered at her joke. A few days later, when Tina was not home, LuAnn found herself in need of a ride to class. Jack helped out. Over the weekend, Tina purchased a new bikini and, while modeling it for LuAnn, found that she needed to walk down to her car to get something from the back seat. Later that same day, LuAnn decided that someone besides Tina should try out her brownies before she brought them to a party.

“Did you see what Jack’s wearing today?” LuAnn asked, upon her return, appalled.

“Sure did,” said Tina. “That tee shirt is four sizes too small. It must be from when he was in seventh grade.” She shook her head in disapproval, and added: “That’s probably the last grade he completed.”

The girls laughed aloud together, eying each other carefully.

The following week, Tina barged into the apartment, outraged. “His damned truck is taking up half of my space again!”

LuAnn glanced out the window. “There’s still plenty of room,” she said.

Ignoring her, Tina declared: “I’m going to go down and tell him off.”

LuAnn jumped to attention: “Don’t do that. He’ll get angry.”

Tina continued towards the door. Radiating concern, LuAnn changed tracks: “I’ll come with you.”

“That’s okay,” said, Tina, flying out the door and down the steps. She called out over her shoulder: “I’ll handle it myself.”

Tina was not back after fifteen minutes. After twenty minutes, LuAnn sent a text. There was no response. LuAnn paced back and forth. She strained to hear any sounds from below, but could not. After thirty minutes, LuAnn called. Still no answer. LuAnn was deeply concerned. She did not know what exactly she feared, but she convinced herself that it was necessary to rescue her roommate, her friend. She virtually ran out the door and down the steps. Emerging from the apartment at that moment, flushed with exertion, was Tina. Her hair was mussed, her clothing askew. She was smiling broadly.

“Are you okay?” asked LuAnn. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

“Oh,” said Tina, blushing. “My phone must be on vibrate. I didn’t hear a thing. Anyway,” she continued, “Jack and I are going to the beach.”

Behind her, Jack emerged, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He smiled shyly.

“You and Jack?” sputtered LuAnn.

“Yes,” said Tina, nonchalant. “Do you want to come?”

LuAnn sat stonily in the back seat of the truck while Jack and Tina snuggled up front. A flood of emotions coursed through her mind ranging from shock and humiliation to remorse and recrimination, and back again. To think, just the night before, she and Tina were speculating about their weddings and how they would be each other’s maid of honor. Now, she was deciding if she would tell Tina she was defriending her on Facebook or just let her find out herself.

Tags college roommates, social relations

Categories Coming of Age, Modern Society

GOING HOME

November 27, 2012 //

GOING HOME

Now ninety, she sits each day at the Alzheimer’s facility thinking of who knows what. It has been five years since she ran her car through a fence and then professed not to have known she was driving. Tests were conducted, and it was concluded that “compos mentis” no longer described her. The moldy food filling her refrigerator added further confirmation, if any were needed.

Nothing much changes at the facility from day-to-day. The patients, ninety percent female, are wheeled out to breakfast. Only a few walk themselves, and those usually have canes or walkers. After breakfast, the televisions cater to those who appear interested. Others slump and sleep in their seats in the common area. Most are wearing diapers beneath their clothes. Conversations are few since the patients are generally too befuddled to formulate a question or an answer. An eerie silence is pervasive, except for an occasional buzzing sound at the attendants’ station when any patient touches an exit door. The noise is activated by the electronic bracelets they wear to assure there is no escape.

The staff, composed entirely of Caribbean women, circulates in pastel scrubs adding a touch of the exotic to a scene otherwise dominated by shades of gray. Their lilting accents can sound charming, if you do not focus on the content, which often involves bed-pans or infections or even death. The workers do not appear emotionally invested in the decay that surrounds them; perhaps, it is necessary for their self-preservation that they remain uninvolved, largely oblivious. It is just their job.

In her day, and, in fact, up until she was in her late-seventies, she was an athlete. She played tennis and hiked. She loved music and art and gardening. She was politically involved, and there was a sparkle to her blue eyes. However, her broad range of enthusiastic interests was accompanied by a powerful self-centered narcissism that left friends and relatives confused about their feelings. Did they like her? Well, yes, she was so “energetic” and “positive.” In the end, most of her relationships ended in disillusionment and disengagement on the part of the acquaintances, as they realized, finally, that she truly only cared about herself.

The rare visits to the center by relatives or remaining friends provoke a similar confusion. There is a slow, inexorable decline in her functions, juxtaposed with identical surroundings where nothing seems to change except, occasionally, the cast of characters.

“Did she recognize you this time?” someone will ask.

“Yes, perhaps. It’s hard to tell. She asked how the family is.”

“They often cover that way, with general questions. Was she alert?”

“She hasn’t been alert for several years. But she still moves her arms. Her neck supports her head, sort of. She seems tired. But if she sees ice cream, she revives.”

“She still has an appetite?”

“Yes, for sweets.”

Doctors rarely enter the building, unless there is an emergency or Medicaid allows payment for a “mental visit.” But a slew of other service providers arrive each day to trim hair and nails, lead exercise, or sing folk songs, etc. There are church services on Sunday for those who are interested, and even those who do not know if they are interested. Instead of the television room, they are wheeled into a small chapel to hear a simple sermon after breakfast. It is ironic that she, an adamant atheist throughout adulthood, is usually among the audience.

Some of the patients have numerous visitors, particularly when they first arrive. Children come with grandchildren in tow, bringing gifts and food and flowers. With some exceptions, these visits slow over time as the families realize that their ministrations are not acknowledged or, worse, not comprehended. Alzheimer’s generally is not an acute disease. It works faster on some than on others, but its progress is, so far, unstoppable.

“Oh, I’m just on vacation,” she used to say, when she first arrived. “I’ll be getting back to my apartment any time now.” More recently, with a decreasing grasp on reality, she will say: “I’m just visiting a friend for lunch,” or “I wonder about some of the people here.”

Such pronouncements were greeted with humor in the beginning. They showed her fighting spirit. In time, they were less amusing as futility outweighed hopefulness. When she asked if she lived in California or Connecticut, it emphasized her lack of mental function. Instead of repeating these stories to show how positive she was, visitors regarded her confused questions as disturbing, as indications of how far she had fallen. After three years or so, she stopped asking about leaving. Optimism finally disappeared under the grinding tedium of a diminishing mind.

It was surprising, therefore, to receive a call last month from the social worker at the facility. It seems that, in what must have been regarded as a fit of enlightened humanism, New Jersey passed a law requiring that each patient be asked to reaffirm, annually, that they wish to remain at the facility.

“We asked her if she would like to go home,” said the caller, “and she said she would.”

“Do you think she is capable of going home?”

“No, I don’t,” said the social worker. “But we have to ask.”

“What do you want us to say?”

“As her guardians, you have to instruct us to keep her.”

“Okay. Please continue to keep her.”

“Thank you. We’ll check with you again next year.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“It’s the law,” was the reply.

So, she will remain at the facility for another year. Barring a miraculous cure or a merciful death, she will not be going home.

Tags Alzheimer's

Categories Alzheimer's, Modern Society

TAILGATING

November 19, 2012 //

TAILGATING

Certain parts of the American experience have eluded me. One such element was the “tailgate party.” Having attended a small college whose football team struggled against Quaker schools, and a graduate school that did not have a football team, I never attended a tailgate party. And, while much of my adult life was spent in northern New Jersey where the Jets and Giants are known to attract partiers to their parking lot, I was never tempted.

This hole in my resume of life was recently filled when my wife’s employer at North Carolina State University decided it would be a good idea if the Chinese students she helps to acculturate attended a tailgate event preceding a football game. Always marginally willing to experience something new, I volunteered to go along.

The day loomed sunny and hot, a final scorcher squeezed into the last week of summer. I thought I would help at home by offering the bit of football-fan knowledge I had, namely: one is supposed to dress in the color of the home team. In this case, that would be bright red. I looked in every closet and every bureau. I ran up and down the stairs. Unfortunately, other than a long-sleeved platform-tennis shirt and a souvenir Panama national soccer team jersey, my wardrobe is devoid of bright red. My wife also was unprepared in this regard because her employer, an independent affiliate of the University, directed its employees to wear company polo shirts; they are blue. Luckily, the shade of blue is not close to the “Carolina Blue” of the detested rival, the University of North Carolina. Still, blue is a long way from red. I opted for what I hoped would be an inconspicuous white shirt. After all, I thought, there could not possibly be absolute adherence to this custom.

I had several other pre-conceived notions. Naturally, the tailgate party would feature food. I anticipated this food would likely be served from coolers stored in people’s trunks. I surmised it would have been made at home or purchased from a fast-food place along the highway. I even predicted some celebrants would have some form of barbecue sandwiches, since barbecue is the much-ballyhooed local obsession. There would also certainly be beer, perhaps a six-pack for each car-load, maybe two.

Finally, as to my expectations, large sporting events engender traffic jams. However, since the game was not scheduled until six o’clock and the tailgate event was to start at two, I did not expect crowding to be an issue. After all, how many people would be at a tailgate party in the parking lot four hours before game-time, perhaps several hundred? I groused we were going too early. “What if the parking lot is not even open?” I asked.

Wrong, wrong and wrong.

We exited the highway about a mile from the stadium and immediately fell into a massive traffic jam. Pick-up trucks festooned in red flags and banners predominated. As we crawled towards the stadium, the challenge of locating our group’s designated location, “Space 2675,” became apparent. Hordes of fans holding plastic cups walked back and forth across the six-lane highway, seemingly oblivious to traffic. Music blared from speakers set up along the road by fraternities and sororities vying for attention from unaffiliated freshmen, like politicians looking for the last undecided voters. Everyone was shouting or laughing or throwing footballs or playing corn-hole, a horseshoes-like game indigenous to North Carolina that involves the throwing of beanbags. Each entrance to a parking area was blocked by a barricade indicating what sort of permit one needed to enter. There were alumni parking lots, season-ticket-holder parking lots, booster parking lots and staff parking lots. There did not appear to be any “regular people” parking lots within hailing distance of the stadium.

After fifteen minutes of circling, we were spun out of the main stadium area like satellites shot into orbit and alighted upon an open area abutting railroad tracks that was attracting random attendees like ourselves. After parking amidst the weeds, we asked several students and security officials about the elusive “Space 2675” and received looks blanker than an empty canvas. We started to walk towards the now-distant stadium, all the while receiving text messages and phone calls from bewildered Chinese students who were also somewhere in the vicinity. My wife tried hard to convey confidence that we would all eventually arrive at Space 2675 a confidence that she did not actually feel.

First, we walked through a dusty, unpaved lot that was staked out by student-aged revelers. Since they were uniformly dressed in red, we felt conspicuously out-of-place, both old and discolored. Food was not a major element among these participants, but beer certainly was. There were no six-packs in evidence – more like six kegs in the back of each pick-up truck. The guys were mostly dressed in T-shirts and shorts; the girls all wore cowboy boots. “Are we in Wyoming?” I wondered. I am still seeking an explanation.

As we reached the next level of parking lots grass and dust gave way to loose gravel, and the population changed. Vehicles were not mere pick-up trucks but resembled military-grade assemblages. They had tires appropriate for the lunar module. Others could certainly have towed airplanes. We were now amidst the Greek community at ground level. Nineteen-year-old boys were wearing white buttoned-down shirts with red ties over plaid shorts and sailing shoes. They smoked cigars and held plastic cups with alcoholic concoctions beyond mere beer. Every twenty yards or so, another tent was set up to house a booming stereo system and bar. Girls draped themselves over the boys and tried to out-do each other with enthusiastic, attention-grabbing gusto. Whose legs were longer? Whose shorts were shorter?

We rushed to move beyond the cacophony but still took time for a photograph or two, just as one would if surrounded by amiably oblivious, wild animals on a safari. Finally, after at least a mile of walking, we scurried across a highway to where paved lots began. The population shifted again. Here were alumni and boosters, the highest order of tailgating civilization. The music was quieter, the imbibing more dignified, but the infrastructure was amazing. As we rounded a corner behind the stadium, there was a sea of red tents as far as the eye could see. There were hundreds, perhaps more than a thousand North Carolina State-branded tents. Each was surrounded by a circle of support vehicles.

Several of the tents held a mere card table and chairs with some fast-food boxes. However, the overwhelming majority harbored folding tables with red table cloths, over-stuffed lounge chairs, flower arrangements, and massive barbecues aflame. The smell of sizzling meat competed to overload one’s senses with the noise of stereos and the sheer blaze of red bunting.

We must have looked conspicuously clueless because a kindly lot attendant in a golf cart pulled up and asked if we needed help. Actually, what he said was: “D’ y’all know whe’ ya goin’?” We gratefully sputtered something about space 2675 and he told us to “hop on in.” We hopped. Our savior chatted the whole time he drove us. We understood very little of what he said due to his thick North Carolina accent and the wad of tobacco contained in his cheek, but we were so grateful for the ride that we nodded and smiled encouragingly at every opportunity. At last, he deposited us in a relatively quiet outpost in the far reaches of the lot. A tiny sign informed us that we had arrived at the 2600 area, where non-regulars can set up a tailgate. Several of my wife’s co-workers were already there, looking exhausted. They gaped enviously as we departed the cart and casually bade our chauffer good-bye, as though our good fortune had been arranged on Expedia.

The company tent was modest and only a few students were present when we arrived. But staff and students alike were busy with cell-phones directing a far-flung Chinese diaspora to our location. More arrived every few minutes, appearing as though they had just crossed a desert. Culture shock was combined with shell-shock and provoked the inevitable question of whether we could/should provide the students something stronger than soft drinks and water. The answer was “no.”

The company van contained coolers of soda and ice water and several interns unveiled the feast that doubtless made our tailgate unique among its surroundings and, possibly, the history of tailgating – dumplings. Students and several employees had spent the morning shaping, filling and boiling vast quantities of pork, chicken and beef dumplings. A sign was unfurled to advise our neighbors, who were already amazed at the sight of fifty or so Chinese students in their midst, that we had dumplings to spare. When several sidled over to sample our dumplings and share their spicy boiled peanuts (definitely an acquired taste), our tailgating experience was underway.

Categories Adult Education, Coming of Age, Modern Society, Sports

An Insecure Don Juan

October 18, 2012 //

The story below is entirely fictional. However, I cannot deny its plausibility at certain phases of life. Does everyone have these sorts of internal debates?

AN INSECURE DON JUAN

We said we would meet in the morning and walk around the lake. It was my suggestion, and she readily agreed, much to my surprise. I left the party feeling like I knew what I was doing. I was a player. I had obtained her name and phone number and e-mail address and an actual DATE.

“No way she’ll show up,” I told myself, upon waking up the next morning. “I must be delusional. It’s probably not even her real number or e-mail address. What was I thinking?”

I dragged myself out of bed feeling like a loser. A debate preoccupied my mind: “Do I go to the lake or do I skip it? How much humiliation can I endure? Well, that’s ridiculous. No one will know but me if she doesn’t show up. But that’s bad enough. I would know.”

“But what if she DOES show up, and I’m not there? What a jerk!”

I shaved and dressed and drove to the park. I arrived fifteen minutes early and waited. And waited. And waited. As the minutes passed, I tried to convince myself that I would prefer if she did NOT show up. “I didn’t even think she was interesting. And she’s definitely not my style. I’m not attracted in the least. I shouldn’t suggest getting together with just anyone I meet. What’s wrong with me? I don’t want to get involved; that would disrupt my entire life.”

I observed several other visitors enjoying the park. Some were walking dogs. There were couples holding hands and others that appeared aloof. One couple caught my attention because they appeared to be arguing. Looking at them from a distance rekindled my internal debate: “She’ll probably bore me to death. Or maybe I’ll bore her to death. Who wants a ‘relationship?’ They always end badly. Independence is what I want. I’d be happier alone. What was I thinking?”

I resolved to leave right away, stop for some coffee, and head home. It felt great to be clear again in my mind. Certainly, I would not put myself in this position again. I retrieved my key from my pocket and looked up. There she was, smiling, walking right towards me. My heart skipped with a burst of adrenaline.

“She looks great!” I enthused to myself, reliving my first impression from the previous evening. “This could really be something.” I jammed the key back into my pocket, and tried to look as though I had never harbored any doubts.

Categories Coming of Age, Modern Society

SPIN CLASS

October 11, 2012 //

SPIN CLASS

A recent phenomenon since the new millennium is “spin class.” When the term first appeared, I thought it had to do with dancing or fast-paced calisthenics. Not being particularly interested in either activity, it took me several years to learn that “spin” is actually performed on a bicycle in a health club. Despite having several friends and a spouse who are spin enthusiasts, I spent several more years picturing spin as akin to riding a bucking bronco. John Travolta came to mind when I learned there is a musical component. I maintained that image in my mind until today, when I made my spin debut.

“Spin” was not on my agenda for this morning. Instead, I awoke anticipating my usual weekend tennis game, while my wife headed off to her spin class at “the gym.” However, the weather dawned wet and wild, so there would be no tennis. Always practical, my wife suggested I accompany her so that a subsequent trip to the hardware store could be accomplished together without the need for an extra car ride. “You can hang out in the weight room for an hour,” she suggested. However, in my new occasional openness to new things, I volunteered to finally experience “spin.”

The first revelation was that we had to arrive early to stake out bikes. Even though it was barely past dawn on Sunday morning, “spin” is somehow popular. People pay to pedal! Skeptical, but compliant, I joined the rush into the room at 7:40 for an 8:00 class. Remarkably, the room was nearly full as we staked out two of the last available bikes. I examined mine to see if there was any special feature that transformed this humdrum piece of hardware into a calorie-collapsing powerhouse. Nope. The bike looked notably pedestrian. In fact, it was less elaborate than most bicycles I’ve encountered since there are no gears and no brakes, just a round control in the middle which adjusts the resistance. “So far, so good,” I said to myself. “This looks easy.”

While my wife chatted with several friends, I tried to wrap my mind around the popularity of spin, which I understood from our ride over, would involve being led through a regimen of sweat-inducing pedaling challenges by a loud-music-inspired taskmaster. The “spin” aspect refers to the wheels, I suppose, indicative of slick marketing, since it sounds significantly more satisfying than “stationary bike class.” The class component means that, instead of just taking a difficult bike ride, if one is so inclined, one pedals, sweats and grunts in close quarters with twenty or thirty fellow non-travelers.

The class was comprised of a mixture of participants ranging in age from the mid-twenties to the outer limits of what can still be called middle-aged. There were about twenty women and three or four men. Though the population of any such exercise class is self-selected to be fairly fit, this spandex and tee-shirted crowd was not notably attractive. In suburban North Carolina, perhaps, unlike in Hollywood, glamour is left at home on rainy Sunday mornings.

At the appointed hour, the instructor, Charles, swept in amidst our bikes and took his place on a platform in front of a mirrored wall. He gazed out at us and shouted with unnerving cheerfulness: “Is everybody ready to sweat?” He then turned on some throbbing rap music and led us into a “warm-up.” “Wow,” I thought. “I am subjecting myself to this noise when I could be at home listening to Vivaldi.”

I tuned out the sound as much as I could and focused on the physical activity. We pedaled slowly, mostly, and stretched our arms to the sides and above our heads. It felt good. From my spot in the middle of three rows I felt good-natured solidarity with those around me as we cheerfully set off on our ride to nowhere.

Directly in front of me, however, I noticed a young man pedaling furiously, as though he were racing up a mountain in the last stage of the Tour de France. He was the student from central-casting who embodies the expression: “there is one in every crowd.” You know who I mean. It is the guy who always sits front and center in class; the guy who always raises his hand to answer questions; the guy who dominates the instructor’s time. This was a young man in an unnervingly bright orange cycling outfit who felt a need, during a short lull in the music, to announce to the instructor and everyone else: “This is my first class! Make it a good one!”

I rolled my eyes and attempted to focus on my own activity. My wife warned me to react to Charles’s frequent exhortations to “turn it up” by moving my resistance dial in tiny increments. Otherwise, I would find myself working harder than my legs could manage. It was not clear, however, what she meant by “tiny.” Is that an eighth of an inch, a quarter of an inch, or what? I realized that there would be an unexpected moral element to this activity. How hard one works is entirely up to oneself.

At first, as we progressed from warming-up to climbing an imaginary mountain, the activity was easy. I moved my dial a modest quarter-inch and still did not feel much resistance. Charles then instructed us to alternately stand and sit while pedaling. This required a fair amount of concentration, particularly given that male anatomy is not ideal for rapid placement on a bicycle seat. My haunches began to feel challenged. A bead of sweat emerged on my brow. Still, the exertion was manageable.

Misty memories of soccer practices emerged in my mind that I had not pondered for decades. My college team had “brutality day” once a week, a practice that consisted almost entirely of conditioning. We ran, then we did exercises, then we ran again, then we went en masse to the weight room that the football team grudgingly vacated for thirty minutes. On those days, in the flush of youth, my teammates and I obsessed with avoiding exertion. Each person dogged it as much as possible, oblivious to the counter-productiveness of our lassitude. We all knew that better conditioning would help us win our games. It was definitely a case of youth being wasted on the young.

I pondered the irony of how much more my youthful body could have endured while the college facility was free. Now, I found myself paying to participate in a fitness activity; yet, once again, I was not working to full capacity, though I completely understood the importance of promoting good health. The philosophical implications of effort and reward and the passage of time weighed on my mind. These profound ruminations helped me ignore the loud and ostentatious exertions of the fellow in front of me. I ultimately rationalized my sloth with the conclusion that I wanted to be able to walk the next day.

Another of the random thoughts that floated through my mind during spin, like flotsam and jetsam, is that one cannot know how much resistance one’s neighbors are imposing upon themselves. The only objective marker of a spinner’s work habits is the puddle of sweat accumulating on the floor around their bikes. In this category, I was failing. I noticed that the guy in front was sweating so profusely that I was certain he had spilled his water bottle. Not to be outdone, I turned my dial a half inch, with a flourish! After all, I figured, we must be nearly done, and I needed to appear fully perspired when the class ended.

At that moment, Charles announced that we were halfway through. “Halfway?” I gasped. The guy in front of me shouted to Charles to “make it more challenging!” Feeling my knees begin to wobble, I pondered if Alleve and Preparation H can be combined. I relished a minute devoted to stretching.

The second half of the class proceeded like the first. I found it harder because my legs were undeniably fatigued. Yet, I was also more comfortable handling the frequent ups and downs, and I was now thoroughly “warmed up.” I glanced at the earnest participants around me, including my wife, and admired their dedication. Thus inspired, I turned the dial another quarter inch and tried to appreciate some aspect of the rap music that was reverberating in my skull. I could not find any, but at least the misery in my ears helped me to absorb some of the misery in my thighs.

Sunshine emerged through the windows and brightened the room and the mood. “Isn’t that nice!” shouted Charles, over the music. “It’s going to be a beautiful day!” Several classmates whooped and cheered. I was still pedaling slowly, feeling as though my kneecaps were turning to jelly. I leaned forward over the handlebars to relieve the tension in my back. This enabled several drops of sweat to fall from my forehead to the floor and added to my sub-par collection. When I sat back again I saw that Lance Armstrong in front of me was now swinging his arms to accompany his furious pace.

“Last mountain!” shouted Charles, as he adjusted the music even louder. “Turn it up!”

I took a deep breath and contemplated my choices. I could turn the dial just a little; I could turn the dial a lot and go out (or down) in a blaze of glory; or, as a devil-like figure seemingly whispered into my ear, I could act as though I were turning the dial without actually turning it. No one would know the difference! This was entirely my own choice and my own consequence.

Except me. I would know the difference! And that would not be good. I have, at least, made some progress since I was twenty. I adjusted the dial a moderate amount and pedaled through some moderate discomfort. When the music finally ended, and Charles declared: “See you all next week!” I made sure I kept pedaling until after the guy in front of me came to a halt.

Categories Adult Education, Modern Society, Sports

GOODBYE, NIKE

September 20, 2012 //

GOODBYE, NIKE

We sold Nike today, after twenty years. Not the stock, but the grand piano, purchased impulsively twenty years ago, with the winnings of a stock investment. We probably should have kept the stock. Live and learn.

We were confident that, with three young children, at least one would be a spectacular musician or, at least, a continuing musician. Nothing could be further from the truth. Each of them trudged through an obligatory year or two of lessons and each failed so spectacularly that we were not a bit reluctant to let them quit. Just to be sure, the eldest and youngest also failed at the oboe, and the middle one failed at the flute, though she did attain a level of semi-competence that inspired us to purchase another expensive instrument for her. Several months after that acquisition, she quit that, too. At least a flute fits inconspicuously in a closet.

The piano served as an imposing and enormous piece of furniture in our living room – too pretty in its rich walnut suit to serve as a shelf, and too large to see around. In the early years, I was an occasional tinkler at the keyboard. I dusted off memory cells first developed when I was eight and was gratified to still play several pieces from that era by memory. Yet, I was not able to commit any NEW pieces to memory. I peck laboriously through simplified versions of famous melodies from sheet music.

Why did we decide to sell the piano? While I derive occasional satisfaction from my playing, the piano more often serves as a reminder of our family’s futility. My particular problem is an inability to practice. I know that I am not alone in that problem; for me, it is not a lack of desire to play well. My problem is that, by the time I practice a piece enough to perform it with a not-embarrassing level of mediocrity, I am too sick of the piece to perform it at all. Meanwhile, we continue to expend several hundred dollars each year on tuning. As the piano increasingly represents frustration, it is increasingly neglected.

Our first marketing effort took place several years ago via Craigslist. Nearly a dozen people responded over a period of a month or two, and several were serious enough to come see and play it. Each one enjoyed the sound and the appearance, but they rejected it as too large and/or too expensive. Finally, one young man appeared infatuated. He came three times. He played as though he already owned it. He described the space it would occupy. He said he would buy it. He did not even bargain on the price and he scheduled its pick-up. Just one formality, he said, before the mover arrived; he was an accomplished musician, and he felt the piano should be checked by a “technician.” This, he told me, is a professional several steps above a mere tuner on the qualification ladder. He assured me that it was like having a master mechanic check a used car. Since the piano had been professionally maintained throughout its life, there was no basis for concern.

Wrong again. The “technician” arrived with the attitude and charm of a hit-man. He did not shake hands. He did not establish eye contact. He brushed past me at the door and regarded the piano behind me like a food inspector discovering a nest of cockroaches.

“Wow,” he said, indicating the location of the piano. “Has it always been there?”

“Yes,” I replied, unsure of what he was intimating. There was no other logical place in the house for a grand piano than the living room.

“You have a vent there,” he said, indicating the air conditioning and heating vent that was on the floor adjacent to the piano. Such vents, of course, were located throughout the house.

“And that window,” he grumbled, indicating a window ten feet from the keyboard.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

He rolled his eyes. He shook his head. I thought he might not respond. Finally, he summarized his disgust, still without having touched a key: “You got heat, you got cold, and you got sunshine.”

I made a motion that he correctly interpreted to mean that I did not understand why these unavoidable household accoutrements presented a problem. Most people, after all, do not have houses without heat, cooling or windows.

“You can’t have an instrument in such conditions.”

I did not respond, and tried to picture Carnegie Hall without heat or air conditioning. He finally approached the piano and opened up the top.

“Oh!” he groaned. “You got a real problem here.”

“What?” I asked.

“The whole sound board is cracked. It can’t be fixed. Oh, it’s in terrible shape.”

“How can that be?” I asked. “It was tuned a week ago and the tuner said it was in great shape. It sounds beautiful.”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “I’m not even going to waste more time. Look at that mess!” He pointed to a line along the main block attached to the strings inside. I stared hard where he pointed. It looked to me like normal grain in the wood.

“That’s a problem?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “It’s all about to pull apart. I’m afraid I have to kill this deal.”

He turned towards the front door without even striking a key.

“I’ll call my tuner,” I said. “Can he speak with you about this?”

“Won’t do any good,” said the technician. He scurried out past me.

I was stunned. How was this possible? I immediately called my tuner and described what had happened.

“I’ll come out tomorrow,” he said, “but I think I know what’s going on.”

“What?” I asked.

“This is not uncommon,” he said. “Some technicians have a different agenda.”

“Piano technicians have agendas?” I asked.

“You’d be amazed,” he said.

Meanwhile, an e-mail arrived from my buyer advising that he would not be purchasing the piano. I was stunned. I wrote back: “I’m willing to pay to have another technician come and provide a second opinion.”

The buyer responded: “I’ve decided to buy a piano that my technician is selling. Thanks anyway.”

The “agenda” was clear.

Our tuner arrived the next day and agreed that the alleged “crack” was merely grain in the wood. Though he is only twenty-five-years-old he looked at me with pity, like I was a child who had just learned there is, indeed, evil in the world.

The Craigslist trail turned cold and, after several months without interested buyers, we considered consigning the piano to a wholesaler. Their representative came to the house and fawned over the instrument.

“This will sell instantly,” he declared. He felt he could sell the piano at so high a price with his marketing muscle that, even after paying his commission, we would clear more money than if we sold it ourselves. He even said: “They don’t make them like this anymore.” I knew it was trite when he said it, but it had enough truth in it to convince me. As a Baldwin, our piano is one of the last to have been made in America before the entire industry decamped for China. In 2001, Baldwin declared bankruptcy.

Six months after the wholesaler transported our piano to a warehouse two hours away, I was contemplating the meaning of the word “instantly.” I was able to see our piano on his website, so I knew it still existed, but seeing it looking forlorn along with hundreds of others made me doubt both its unique quality and his marketing acumen. He urged us to lower the price, twice. Finally, when he called to suggest a third price reduction, to a level significantly below where we had it on our own, we opted instead to retrieve the piano. We put sale plans on hold.

After two more years of its benignly dominating our living room, our tuner suggested that a client of his might be interested in the piano. That evening, I heard from a man who asked me to send a picture of Nike from my phone. After a trying technological tutorial, I managed to comply with his request. He called immediately upon receipt to say that the instrument was “beautiful” but would never fit in his apartment. “But my daughter’s instructor might be interested,” he said. “Would you mind if I forwarded her the picture?”

“That would be great,” I said, though I really did not feel anything would come of it. For years, every lead ended with “it’s too big,” or “it’s too expensive,” or “it’s too brown.” I pictured moving into a nursing home at 100 lugging a grand piano behind me.

Yet, within a week, I heard from a woman named Hiromi Yamanashi. She was the instructor that the man had mentioned, and she told me that her childhood piano was a Baldwin grand. She had left it in Japan when she came to this country but was anxious to replace it. She scheduled a visit for the next day. I called our tuner with the good news.

“Oh,” he said, when I told him about Hiromi. “She will never buy it.”

“Why?” I asked.

“First of all, it’s brown, and Asians only want black pianos.”

“What?” I said, appalled by his stereotyping.

“It’s just a fact. Black pianos look better with their hair. Second,” he continued, “Asians do not buy twenty-year-old pianos. They only like new ones. Piano companies in Asia do not even sell parts since no one there ever repairs a piano.”

I was wondering how it was that my piano tuner was explaining the ways of the world to me — again. How could the world of pianos be corrupt and immoral? This was not a used car that I was trying to sell. It was an embodiment of beauty and culture. In any event, my enthusiasm for Hiromi’s visit was diminished.

Hiromi arrived exactly when she promised. She was a tiny woman, seemingly thin enough to be blown over by a breeze. However, despite her stature, Hiromi projected an imposing, no-nonsense style; she strode from the door to the piano with purpose, barely pausing to say “hello.” She sat down and played with powerful beauty and confidence that had rarely been heard in our house. In fact, such competence had NEVER been heard in our house except from the stereo system. I enjoyed the sound washing over me like a wave and wished one of my children were playing.

Unfortunately, after several minutes of impressive beauty, she paused over a key in the lower register that was slightly discordant to my untrained ear. Apparently, it was vastly discordant to her highly trained ear. Over and over she hit the key, louder and louder. It was like fate knocking catastrophically in my ears. Each hammer blow made the sale of the piano more remote.

After a moment, Hiromi stood up and indicated she would be leaving. “I will have to shop around some more,” she said. “Thank you for showing me the piano.”

“I could get that key fixed,” I said.

“Not important,” she said. My hopes died completely. I remembered what the tuner said about Asians and the repair of pianos.

I was stunned a month later to receive an e-mail from Hiromi asking if the piano was still available. I replied that it was, and she asked if she could check it again. When she arrived the second time, she was accompanied by a quiet young man. He sat beside me to listen to her impromptu concert. After thirty wonderful minutes she turned to us, and said: “I’ll buy it.”

“Really?” I said, shocked.

“Yes,” she said. “We are getting married next month, and this is our wedding gift from my parents.”

I was delighted with this turn of events. At least four things were wonderful: the piano was finally sold; the piano was sold to someone who would play it beautifully; the piano was purchased for a joyous occasion; and, though not as important in the cosmic sense, I was going to be able to tell my tuner that his cynical stereotyping was wrong. My faith in humanity was, at least, partially restored!

Tags Baldwin, pianos, stereotyping

Categories Modern Society, stereotyping

A DIRE DATE

September 7, 2012 //

A DIRE DATE

After twenty-five years of marriage we were recently reduced to a date at the doctor’s office to obtain medicine for our respective illnesses. This unprecedented display of efficiency, with back-to-back appointments and only one car ride, was somehow less satisfying due to the dismal nature of our mission.

It was not always thus. Our first dinner date was thrilling. We talked for hours and lingered over drinks to prolong the evening. We moved in together in a matter of weeks with engagement and marriage soon following. We have had a terrific quarter-century by most measures and foresee continuing in that vein for a like period.

Illness has not been a major factor in our lives. That is a good thing, or the longevity noted above would have been threatened. There is no use in equivocating; I am not good at illness. I am an impatient and exasperated nurse and an angry and disconsolate patient. I rage against sickness. I hate it. I despise it, even when I know I have no one, and no place, to blame. Is it just my impression, or are women usually better at dealing with illness?

My Achilles Heel, figuratively-speaking, are my sinuses. I cannot recall an illness since childhood that did not involve the proverbial elephant on the bridge of the nose. The inevitable course is, as follows: a chill, then a sore throat, then a stuffed nose, then a clogged head that Roto-Rooter could not penetrate. The resulting sleeplessness, peculiarly baritone voice echoing in my head, and runny nose render my life miserable.

As anyone who has been ill lately is aware, the present preference among doctors is to avoid prescribing antibiotics. Many illnesses appear to run their course regardless. Therefore, one spends several days using a dizzying array of over-the-counter sprays, washes, and emollients.

In New Jersey, pharmacists had distinct favorites. The patient would describe their symptoms and the pharmacist would imperiously dispense several boxes without hesitation. It was as though they embodied the authority of God and Nature. In North Carolina, the pharmacists are friendly and approachable but less confident. They come out from behind the counter to read the backs of packages aloud to the patient until, with eyes glazed over, the patient finally says: “That one sounds good.” A patient will do anything to escape hearing another list of ingredients.

Sickness in our household is primarily an issue of territory. The sick spouse claims a bed or a couch and effectively bars the other from being there with an array of sniffs, snorts, wheezes, coughs, etc. When both of us are sick at the same time, by virtue of there being only so many negative emotions that a person can harbor, my impatience, anger and disgust are diluted. We move around the house like two planets in opposing orbits with powerful magnetic shields preventing proximity. The only drama concerns which spouse can outlast the other during the night-time struggle to fall asleep and stay asleep. Eventually, the less determined of us grabs a pillow and a sheet and heads for the living room couch or spare bedroom. The evicted person always makes certain to create enough of a disturbance so that the spouse remaining in bed is aware of their victory but, unfortunately, gains that knowledge by being awakened.

When one is sick, it seems that illness is “the new normal,” to borrow a recently popular phrase. Eventually, however, whether due to medicine or the mere passage of time, the symptoms slip away and health reappears. At that point, one can hardly remember what the sickness was like, unless a sympathetic listener makes a catastrophic error, and asks. At that point, the former patient can recount the struggle in miraculous detail. The now formerly sympathetic listener looks longingly for an exit.

Tags medicine, vacation

Categories Modern Society, Reflections

TRAJECTORY

July 23, 2012 //

TRAJECTORY

Never had a commercial event in our small town generated more anticipation than the opening of an ice cream shop known as Scoupe de Ville.

For months, after the “Coming Soon” sign was posted, the former nail salon at the corner of Central and Main was under renovation. First, the nondescript exterior gave way to vivid streamers of pink and blue bunting. Next, the parking lot was repaved from pitted concrete to smooth asphalt with stripes painted like candy canes. Excitement reached a fever pitch when a half-sized replica of an electric blue Cadillac appeared. It hung from a crane in the parking lot for two days awaiting installation, long enough for everyone in town to see it. Finally, after we tired of telling the children: “Soon, soon, it will be open soon,” balloons and banners announcing “Grand Opening” were hung around the building.
Children were not the only ones who were excited. Adults viewed the store as a sign of class, of local distinction.

     “Who needs Baskin-Robbins or Haagen Dazs?” we asked each other. We will have an authentic ice cream parlor. We speculated that it would not be long before a cheese shop and an art gallery would open.
     Needless to say, the first week of business was spectacular. The parking lot was full. People waited in line around the block. Families strategized that it was necessary to have ice cream at four in the afternoon, before dinner, just so that they could sit at a table. Following the decorating theme, sundaes were served in cardboard containers shaped like Cadillac convertibles.
     It was a week or two before the first hints of disappointment seeped out.
     “The service was slow,” said some.
     “My ice cream was melted,” said others.
     “Mine was lumpy,” said one.
      “The prices, my God, can you believe the prices?” commiserated several adults.
       At the end of the first month, there were spaces available in the parking lot and several empty tables in the parlor. The jovial owner, a jowly Floridian, who had beamed in the first week, now appeared sullen. He raised himself slowly from a corner stool to supervise the teen-aged employees.
T     he model Cadillac still gleamed in the center of the dining room but the juke box now had an “out of order” sign. The tables were sometimes dirty. When a dish dropped, the now-quiet room heard it break, clatter several feet, and finally spin into agonizing silence.
     After two months, there appeared a sign in the window: “Check out our new, lower-priced menu.” However, the children had moved on – prices were not their issue.
     “Let’s go to Baskin-Robbins,” they begged. “It’s faster.”
     “Let’s go to Haagen-Dazs, their cones are bigger.”
     After three months, Scoupe de Ville was a ghostly scene. The owner served the few customers himself, since business was so slow. No one was fired, he assured a concerned customer, since most of the teen-aged staff, dependent upon tips, simply quit showing up.
     A “Business for Sale” sign marked the fourth-month anniversary. Hardly anyone noticed when an “Out of Business” sign appeared several months later. By the sixth month, weeds grew in the parking lot; the brilliant colors were faded. Someone said the owner had skipped out on his lease and gone back to Florida.
     “What do you think will go in there?” people asked, eventually.
     “We need a bagel shop,” said one.
     “How ‘bout a Thai restaurant?” asked another.
     “Maybe a nail salon,” one woman said. “We could really use one.”
     “Yes,” nodded the others.

Tags Human Nature, Ice Cream

Categories Modern Society, Parenting, Reflections, Uncategorized