The Sporadic Diary

April 23, 2011

At times to say someone is a tourist is to hang an epithet on them.  A motorist with out of state license plates driving very slowing in front of me will garner the tourist label.  So will anyone who asks too many questions at the cash register.  It doesn’t make sense, it’s just a thing I have, probably inherited from my father, who once complained during a trip he took to Vancouver that he didn’t care for the place because it had too many foreigners. 

It isn’t hard to spot tourists: they usually look out of place, travel in packs, and wear garish clothing.  I know that’s the stereotypical description, but there is a germ of truth (and sometimes more) in every stereotype.  I bring up this subject because my wife, Mary, and I just got back from a mini-vacation to Washington D.C.  Our trip was during school vacation week in the northeast, so the place was crawling with tourists, and when I say crawling I mean crawling.  Of course, we were tourists too, although we defied the stereotype.  We had an advantage over the real tourists because we had lived in the area for three years in the early 1980s and so we knew our way around and had seen most of the sights before.  Furthermore, we walked everywhere, and at a brisk pace.  In other words, we weren’t crawlers and we weren’t gawkers.

The District draws a lot of tourists for obvious reasons.  Tourism must be one of its largest industries, along with lobbying and protest rallies, which, when you think about it, fall in the same category of influence peddling.

Although I had been exposed to it before, I was amazed by the number of white, delivery-style trucks that lined the main thoroughfares of the city hawking souvenirs of every conception, enough t-shirts to cloth a small country, and a seemingly endless supply of incredibly bad food.  And in every direction you looked there were armies of middle and high school students, often in matching slickers, tromping off toward their next destination.  I thought of McClellan endlessly prepping the Union troops for battles he would ultimately not fight. 

For the most part, we avoided the tourist magnets, the Smithsonian museums, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and so on, preferring instead to try our luck at places we hadn’t visited before.  Like the Supreme Court.  The Supreme Court generally is not high on most people’s sightseeing list.  After all, while most Americans can name all five of the main Simpsons cartoon characters, relatively few can name our five basic legal rights.  So, one day we zipped over to the Supreme Court building and took a short tour, which is where we learned about the comparative popularity of the Simpsons.  We were so impressed we decided to come back the next day to hear oral arguments.  Hey, we thought, if few people are interested in a brief tour of the Supreme Court building, who will care about oral arguments?  Especially since the scheduled session was going to be about an environmental case, not pornography, abortion, or who should be President.

Well, were we fooled.  Even though we got to the Supreme Court building at 7:45am for a hearing at 10am, there was a long line of people already snaking its way down the steps and up the block.  They didn’t look like tourists though, as many wore dark suits, were carrying briefcases, and were reading newspapers.  Tourists don’t do that.  And there was only one, lonely delivery truck within sight.  We couldn’t see what it was selling, but I imagined t-shirts with the nine Justices on them dressed as the Simpsons.

City Guy In The 'Burbs

Episode Ten

A surefire way to determine if you are in a city or a suburb is to take notice of what people are wearing, particularly during weekdays.  In the city you see lots of suits and workplace emsembles (my description of what many working women – oh, excuse me, women working outside the home – wear to the office).  Overcoats and trench coats are popular, although not as popular as they used to be a couple of decades ago.  In fact, trench coats are now associated more with flashers and disgruntled high school students who might be thinking of shooting up their school. 

In certain cities, like New York and Chicago, you are apt to see true fashion, you know, the trendy apparel that is depicted in glossy magazine ads and billboards.  If you want to learn what the really in people are wearing this year, go to the city.  I don’t mean haute couture, although you’ll occasionally see that too.  Where else would you expect to see a woman strutting down the street in an outfit that looks like a getup from a science fiction movie?  I’m referring to just regular ol’ couture.  The city is the home of Armani, Blass, Versace, Dior, and Prada.  On the street you’ll see eye-popping shirts, fabulous neckties, and a wide assortment of hats, including fedoras, Homburgs, Stetons, tams, and fuzzy Russian cossacks.  Not to mention shoes that would make Imelda Marcos weep, and probably did when she was alive and building palaces to contain her collection.  City women, incidentally, are miles ahead of city men in the shoe department, although I personally wouldn’t want to teeter on four inch heels all day.

Clothing is much more subdued in the suburbs.  And it is only a slight exaggeration to say that everyone looks the same there.  In the ‘burbs the height of fashion is J.Crew, Eddie Bauer, and LL Bean.  Oh, you can throw Timberland in there too.  Baseball-style caps are really big and spandex passes for rich fabric.  In those suburban communities that still bear some of their rural roots, you’ll even see overalls periodically.  When I do I wonder if they are shooting a remake of Green Acres.  In the ‘burbs you never hear the word dapper uttered.

Business casual, a euphemism for plain dress, has taken a lot of the pizzazz out of work fashion.  But the gap between what people wear in the city versus the ‘burbs has remained constant.  While city workers have retreated to button-down shirts and sweaters, slacks, and “sensible” shoes, suburban workers have moved to golf shirts, fleece, and sportswear, including items with pro team logos.  From time to time I’ve even seen office workers in t-shirts with picture graphics on them.  That’s right, office workers.  If I see too many employees wearing Patriots and Red Sox jackets I think the movers have arrived.

I don’t know where this is all headed, but schools have learned that students are more disciplined and perform better when they wear uniforms to school.  Maybe if the workplace reinstated a dress code, we’d see a rise in productivity.  Just a thought.     

The Sporadic Diary

March 20, 2011

I just came home from the gym, which, if I had said that thirty-five years ago, you’d assume I had been playing basketball.  And you would have been right.  Now you say the word “gym” and it means the fitness club.  My gym, like gyms everywhere, is filled with treadmills, elliptical trainers, steppers, and all kinds of weight machines to work every muscle in your body, including muscles you didn’t know existed.  There are machines to work your abductors, adductors, hamstrings, gluts, biceps, triceps, deltoids, and traps.  Each machine has a set of levers to enable you to set the machine properly to your size, as well as a metal pin to select the amount of weight you are going to lift, press, curl, etc.  Some of these contraptions look like Rube Goldberg inventions and, if there wasn’t a display card illustrating how the machine works, you could spend a good couple of hours trying to figure it out.

How did working out get so complex?  Well, the answer is a familiar one – business.  Once American business saw that a large number of us were willing to fork out hundreds and sometimes thousands of dollars a year to try to turn ourselves into either a modern day Adonis or Aphrodite, they knew they could mine that ambition for profit.  So that’s what they did.  To the tune of tens of billions of dollars a year. 

Gyms, personal trainers, work out gear, athletic shoes, nutritional supplements, enhanced drinks, power bars, heart monitors, and on and on.  It’s all part of today’s fitness solution.  

Meanwhile, you may have heard that Jack Lalanne died in January.  He was the godfather of the fitness boom with his own tv show in the early 1950s.  I didn’t pay much attention to Jack Lalanne growing up.  His audience seemed to be traditional housewives who were stuck at home.  He told them to get in shape all you needed was a towel and a chair.  

Don't tell that to the makers of the Ab Roller.    

City Guy In The 'Burbs

Episode Nine

Walking is another one of those activities like parking (see Episode Three) that has a very different meaning in the city versus the suburbs.  In the ‘burbs walking is “exercise.”  In the city walking is a way of life.

City dwellers are, by and large, great walkers.  Particularly in New York.  They walk to work, they walk to the grocery store, they walk to the pharmacy, they walk to the park, they walk for the hell of it.  Of course, they’ve learned that trying to hail a taxi sometimes can be extraordinarily frustrating.  And you never want to take a cab cross town in Manhattan during the workday.  The gridlock is so bad that you may need to eat your next meal in the darn thing. So walking is the practical alternative. 

Sure, in New York mass transit is always an option, and it can get you close to your ultimate destination, but at some point you’re going to have to hoof it.  It’s part of being a New Yorker.  For instance, when my wife and I were in the city recently visiting our Brooklyn-based daughter, we, as always, walked all over the place.  In fact, once we had parked our car in a safe, non-metered spot on the street (that’s akin to winning the lottery), we didn’t use it again until days later when we left the city.

In a city walking is proletarian.  You are out there with the people.  There are no status symbols, as in driving.  No iconic nameplates or hood ornaments saying you’ve made it big.  Everyone is on equal footing, if you’ll pardon the pun.    

By contrast, it is my experience that few people walk in the suburbs.  All you need to do is take my description earlier of devout pedestrians and substitute driving for walking and that pretty much sums up the difference.  For the most part, if you live in the ‘burbs the car is your umbilical cord, your lifeline to existence.  Without one you are dead, figuratively and eventually literally. 

In fact, the only people I see walking in the ‘burbs are those people who are trying to get in some regular aerobic activity.  In my town they are easily identified.  They are the retirees with their old collies, ambling amiably around the block so routinely you can set your watch by them.  They are the middle-aged couple that strides energetically up and down the main street always holding hands, looking like they’d be unbeatable in some version of a three-legged race. They are the Asian pair in jogging outfits walking purposefully one behind the other, man first of course.  When I pass this duo my competitive instincts kick in and I feel like shouting to the wife, “He’s fading, overtake him on the hill.”

In the ‘burbs there are also other peculiarities associated with walking.  There are those people who get treadmills so they can walk in their homes.  I presume because they…uh…er...um...well, actually, I don’t know why.  You’ll have to ask them.  And there are others who get in their cars and drive to another part of town and then walk.  They are even more bizarre than the treadmill walkers and perhaps would be better off if they had...uh...er...um...actually, I don't know what would make them better off.  You'll have to ask them too.

At times I think we could solve both the energy crisis and global warming if we all lived within an easy walk of a convenience store.

Flight Response

Whenever Johnson flew on business, which was a lot, he worried.  He worried about all sorts of things.

On days he traveled, Johnson’s worrying started as soon as he woke up.  His first worry was that he would miss his plane.  This made Johnson rush through his shower and start dressing before he was fully dry.  He got so good at this that he could be fully dressed in suit and tie in less than fifteen minutes from when his feet first hit the floor coming out of bed.  Johnson would then dash downstairs into the kitchen and scarf down a bowl of cold cereal.  He did this because he worried that he wouldn’t have time to grab something at the airport and that there wouldn’t be any food on his flight, even though in his peak traveling years the airlines made a big deal of the food they provided on their flights, including on the LaGuardia shuttle, which wasn’t much of a flight but seemed rather like a takeoff and landing exercise for new pilots.

Because Johnson worried about traffic getting to the airport, he left home easily an hour ahead of when he actually needed to.  And because he also worried that he might run out of gas during his drive, Johnson made sure his tank was full the night before.  Johnson also had the exact change ready for the toll booths, so he wouldn’t have to wait while a slow toll taker counted out his change.  Of course when speed passes came along Johnson was among the first to sign up.

The other reason Johnson left so early was that he worried that the on-premises airport parking garages would be full and he’d be routed to the dreaded satellite lots, which could totally screw up his timing.  He had this happen a few times and he nearly had heart failure waiting for the shuttle bus to swing by to pick up other banished travelers like him.  And it always seemed to Johnson that he’d be on that satellite bus ready to go, but the bus would just sit there idling and waiting to fill up before heading to the terminals.  Johnson worried about that.

So Johnson did everything he could to avoid the satellite lots and instead made sure he could park on-premise.  But even then Johnson would worry that he’d have to park on the roof of the garage where his car would be exposed to the weather (one time his car was buried in a snow storm while he was out of town) and he worried about how much longer it would take him to get to his terminal walking down the extra flights of stairs (Johnson never waited for the elevator because it ran too slowly).  Johnson also worried about what parking space to take because the ones between two SUVs would make it hard to open his door and he’d be forced to squeeze himself out of the car and he might dirty his clothes or even tear something.  So Johnson looked for spaces between two compact cars and parked a little right of center so that his driver side door had plenty of clearance.

Once inside the terminal, Johnson worried that his flight would be delayed, or worse, cancelled, and he’d have to change his plans, maybe even look for a flight on another airline.  So he always went straight to the departure monitors to check flight status.  Satisfied that his flight was departing on time, he would make a beeline for the metal detectors to get inside security as soon as he could.  He knew there could be long lines there, especially during holiday weeks when a lot of families with little kids were heading on vacation, and so he worried he’d be stuck in a slow line.  In fact, if there were multiple entry points he always scanned the lines for old people or young families so that he could avoid them.

When Johnson got to his gate he never sat in the waiting area, but stood near the counter so he could hear what the staff were talking about (sometimes you would learn about problems with the plane Johnson used to say) and also to have a good shot at getting on the plane early in the boarding.  Unlike other passengers who would wait until the last minute to board, Johnson wanted to get on right away so he could find a place for his luggage.  Johnson never checked his overnight bag because he worried it would get lost.  So he always carried it on and stowed it in the overhead compartment.  And when the compartments were filled, Johnson would cram his bag under the seat in front of him, even though he knew it would wrinkle his clothes.  He was worried that the flight attendant would make him check his bag, which, that close to takeoff, would mean there was a good chance it would not make it on the plane.  That was a big worry to Johnson.  In fact, if he could tell that the overhead compartment above his seat was already full, and he would strain his neck to peer over the passengers walking ahead of him to find out, Johnson would shove his bag in a compartment that was empty before he got to his seat. 

At his seat, Johnson warily eyed passengers as they came on board, worried that a young family with a baby would end up sitting next to him.  And if it wasn’t going to be a full flight, Johnson would spread his things across the seat next to him to discourage anyone from sitting there, even the person whose seat it was.  Johnson thought that maybe if he acted unfriendly the person assigned to the seat next to him might just take another open seat somewhere.  That was the best circumstance.

But, if Johnson had the window seat and the person inside him was large, or someone who was likely to fall asleep during the flight, Johnson worried about how he would get into the aisle if he had to go to the bathroom.  In fact, not being able to go to the bathroom was something Johnson was most worried about, particularly as he got older and he started having prostate problems.  So Johnson usually stood in the back of the plane by the galley until just before takeoff and would make a last pit stop in the lavatory before having to take his seat.     

Johnson also worried that the person next to him would be a gabber and disturb him constantly during the flight with inane conversation.  To combat this Johnson would take out work immediately to show his neighbor that he didn’t have time for chitchat.  The only exception to this rule was if a celebrity or a super model would sit next to him, but that never happened to Johnson.

Even airborne, Johnson’s worrying would not stop.  He worried about turbulence.  Johnson hated turbulence.  Not because he was afraid the plane would crash, but because he was afraid he’d get sick.  Getting sick on the plane was a peculiar worry to Johnson because in all his flying Johnson never got airsick.  Yet it was a big worry.

Johnson also worried that the plane would end up in a holding pattern somewhere and circle aimlessly over some barren part of the country and turn, say, a two hour flight into a three hour misery.  And if this happened, then Johnson worried that they’d be redirected to another airport and he’d have to improvise his plans. 

So Johnson was most happy when his flight settled into its landing approach and touched down on time.  When the bell sounded to allow the passengers to unclip their beat belts and stand up in the aisle, Johnson would feel the tension in his body drop away.  Then, as he made his way out of the plane, Johnson would start to worry about his next trip, and what the weather would be like, and if it was likely to be a crowded flight, and so on.   

City Guy In The 'Burbs

Episode Eight

Now that I live in the suburbs I dine out a lot earlier.  In fact, with early bird specials at some of the local eateries, I’m eating dinner at time that is not too far removed from when some city dwellers are eating lunch.  I’m not totally opposed to this change.  At my age, I find I do better through the night if I give myself sufficient time to digest my food before going to bed.  Plus it is cheaper.  In one of our many Italian restaurants in town (I’m convinced Italian restaurants make up 85% of suburban establishments), you can eat off the bar menu for $5 per entrée if you order by 6pm.  Right, that’s $5.  In New York, my former home, $5 will get you a small bottle of sparkling water, but no food.  You can’t buy anything to eat there for $5 unless the restaurant is willing to sell you one shrimp.

So let me talk about New York.  No one, other than, say, a transplanted, septuagenarian farm owner goes out to dinner in New York before 8:00.  It’s unseemly.  If you show up at a restaurant before then, no one will greet you at the door, the tables won't be set, and most of the wait staff will still be out in the alley smoking cigarettes.  No, in New York dining out starts around 9:00 and really gets going about 10:00.  If you can stand it and wait until 11:00 or midnight to eat (I will have chewed off my right arm by then), that’s when the real exotic clientele starts to arrive.  At that hour, the guys for the most part look normal, albeit wearing nothing but Armani and appearing very, very European.  But the women, well, they all resemble Lady Gaga in full regalia, only taller approaching Amazonian height.  Two years ago I was in New York on business eating at a chic restaurant near Carnegie Hall and was almost decapitated by the headwear of one beauty whose hat looked like it was designed by the person who invented the desk spike paper impaler.

And, mind you, it’s not just New York, although New York probably takes top prize.  In Chicago, New Orleans, San Francisco, Los Angeles, dining out is a late night thing too.

So you can imagine my surprise and perturbation when I recently took my daughter out to dinner at the newest Italian restaurant in our town and, although we arrived at a premature 6:15, there was not a table available or even a seat at the bar.  I thought the place would be half empty.  Did these folks have somewhere to go after dinner?  I doubt it since, for example, the closest theater district is about 30 miles away.  And I didn’t see anyone there even close to being a septuagenarian.  Maybe all these young people just wanted to be home in time to catch the ten o’clock news.  Just like me.

Sporadic Diary

February 19, 2011

I was looking for a document in my house the other day and, although I could picture the document in my mind and knew what kind of folder I had placed it in, I couldn’t for the life of me remember where it was.  Like a squirrel searching for acorns he buried, I went from room to room, floor to floor, opening draws, flipping through files, and hunting in my favorite storage spaces.  No luck.

After about a half hour of this, I started to get really frustrated.  I sat for a few minutes and tried to go back in time in my mind, seeing if I could retrieve the last activity in which I handled the lost document.  Unfortunately, that was a waste of time.  The only thing that happened was that I realized I was hungry too and so I made a sandwich for myself.

After my lunch, I resumed by search, this time vowing not to overlook anything.  I removed the draws from my dresser and sifted through each one.  Nothing.  I laboriously scanned every file in the steel filing cabinet in the basement.  Zilch.  I emptied several boxes of old reports, notes from my early work years (circa late 1970s), and prized publications.  Nada.

By now I was beginning to lose my mind.  And I wondered: Is this what squirrels feel like when they go hunting for their nuts?  Do they do the same things I did?  Do they follow a systematic search plan?  Do they pause, sit on their haunches, and try in their minds to retrace their steps when they hid the nuts?   Are they even capable of doing that retracing in their tiny little minds? 

Finally, after spending some time contemplating the behavioral characteristics of squirrels I concluded that I had indeed lost my mind.  So, I gave up my search for the elusive document (did I really need it anyway?), and decided to go to the gym.  On my desk was a T-shirt I like to wear working out and when I picked it up, lo and behold, there was the dumb document, like the purloined letter, hiding virtually in plain sight all along.  I didn’t cry out in exultation.  I didn’t thump the heel of my hand against my head in exasperation.  No, I just stuffed the T-shirt in my gym bag and headed out the door, like the whole episode was no big deal.  Is this how squirrels behave once they find their nuts?

Express Morality

Johnson was one of those holier-than-thou guys who never seemed to do anything wrong.  He was always at work on time, early even.  He went to church every Sunday, had his car checked up exactly on the mileage trigger, never swore, ate healthy foods, didn’t drink, didn’t cheat on his taxes, drove the speed limit, paid his bills on time, and never looked lustfully at a woman other than his wife.  He was a marble man.  No imperfections.  Which is why the incident in the grocery store was so unusual.

Johnson was on his way home from work and decided to stop briefly in the local Stop ‘N Shop to pick up a few items for the house.  He grabbed a couple of cartons of milk, one whole and one skim, a box of Ronzoni linguini, a jar of marinara sauce, a loaf of Pepperidge Farm swirl rye, a bottle of Heinz ketchup, a roll of paper towels, a bag of pretzels, a package of Land-O-Lakes butter, and two cantaloupes.

It was a Thursday night around six o’clock and the store was especially crowded.  The weather forecast called for a heavy snowfall starting overnight and it seemed like the whole town was out stocking up on supplies.  It had been a harsh winter.  Already the town had had over fifty inches of snow, about three times the normal amount.  Everyone was fed up with the winter, but spring was still more than two months away.

Johnson knew that his wife would have the dinner on the table at precisely six-thirty; it was, after all, what he had demanded.  He claimed that earlier than that, even just ten minutes or so, he wasn’t really hungry.  And if the dinner was served ten minutes late, at six-forty, he would be starving.  He was very particular.

A quick trip to the grocery store like this one would ordinarily only take a few minutes and he’d be home with plenty of time to spare before the family sat down to eat.  Except with the crowd in the store, Johnson was finding it harder than usual to negotiate the aisles.  There were carts everywhere and some had those large red plastic toy cars attached to the front to keep small children entertained while their parents shopped. With two of those in the aisle, Johnson found it was like trying to get around a pair of tracker trailers on a congested highway.

Eventually Johnson got all his stuff and headed for the checkout.  Unfortunately, there he found long lines snaking back from the registers, some even reaching into the aisles themselves.  This was frustrating and Johnson was annoyed.  So rather than get on one of the regular lines, he headed for the express checkout on the far right.  It had a long line too, but since everyone in that line had a maximum of only ten items, he knew it was the fastest way to get out of the store.

Johnson got behind an older woman who looked like she was stockpiling provisions for her cat.  She had a number of cans of wet cat food and a medium sized bag of kitty litter.  She’d be quick, he thought.  The couple ahead of her had only four items.  And the guy ahead of them had only one.  This would be a breeze.  And no sooner had Johnson wheeled his cart onto the end of the line, but several other shoppers got right behind him.  Then a couple more got on the express line.  And then quickly one or two more.  He had lucked out.

Johnson was often critical of the express checkout line because every once in a while you’d catch someone with more than the permissible ten items and the register clerk wouldn’t say anything.  This drove him nuts.  Sometimes the guy, it was usually a guy but not necessarily, would have, like, twelve or thirteen items.  It was so obvious.  But none of the workers or mangers would say anything.  What was the purpose of an express line limit of ten items if no one enforced it?

As Johnson was again thinking these thoughts, he began to go over his cart, to make sure he didn’t forget anything.  It was then that he realized he had eleven items in his cart.  Johnson could feel a crimson warmth rise in his cheeks.  He counted again to be certain and sure enough he had eleven.  

In a half fog, Johnson thought that if he had put the two cantaloupes in one of those plastic bags hanging in the fresh produce section they’d only count as one item and he’d be at the limit.  Unfortunately, there was no time to get one now.  But really, he thought, his two cantaloupes were the same thing as two cantaloupes in a plastic bag.  Just like six cans of soda linked by plastic only count as one in the express lane.  So, Johnson reasoned maybe technically he was in the wrong, but morally he was in the clear.   However, a not so small voice in his head was telling him he was cheating.  And he knew it.

While Johnson was thinking about this, the line had moved forward and the end of the conveyor belt was free for his items.  Still Johnson hesitated.  He didn’t want to be called out for violating the express line.

“Hey, buddy,” said a burly guy behind Johnson.  Johnson tensed.  “Are you going to put your stuff on the belt or what?” said the voice. “Uh, yeah,” replied Johnson, and he started picking the items out of his cart and putting them on the conveyor belt.  The cat lady was being checked out now.  But what was this, she was going to write a check.  A check!  Everything would stop while she filled out her check and the clerk cleared it.  His items would just be sitting there on the conveyor belt.  He'd be caught, Johnson thought, unless he did something.

So as he put his things on the now motionless belt, Johnson kept shuffling them around like con man playing a shell game.  This way, he figured, maybe no one would be able to count them.  He just had to keep them moving until it was his turn at the register and the clerk began swiping them past the barcode reader.

Johnson leaned over the conveyor belt to block the view of his items as much as he could, all the while still shifting them around.  Now the belt began to move and the clerk was picking Johnson’s items off the belt and swiping them.  Johnson grabbed a brown paper Stop 'N Shop bag and began stuffing things in every which way.  Normally Johnson liked his grocery bags to be neatly packed with no bulges anywhere.  Now he didn't care; he just needed to hide his crime.

Was anyone counting the items? Johnson worried as he packed another bag.  He moved faster.  He grabbed one of the cantaloupes and practically threw it into the half-empty bag.  Then he grabbed the second one.  As Johnson lifted the cantaloupe toward the bag it slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor.  Thud.  The cantaloupe split open. 

“Oh, said a passing manager, I’ll get you a new one.” 

“No," Johnson fairly shouted, "no.” 

“But you already paid for it,” said the manager. 

“That’s okay," said Johnson, "I don’t care.”  And then Johnson handed the clerk a fistful of bills, grabbed his bags, and headed for the door.

“Wait," said the clerk, “you forgot your change.”

But Johnson didn’t stop.  He didn’t even turn around.  He didn’t say anything.  He just slid past another customer as the automatic door opened and exited into the parking lot.  In his head, Johnson was thinking, well, see, it was just ten items after all.

City Guy In The 'Burbs

Episode Seven

I live in the suburbs now and have since the early 1980s.  During this period dinner time has been relatively sedate, with occasional intra-family quarrels and, for a period, teenage outbursts.  Now and then, when our girls lived at home, we discussed current events when something major was happening, but usually everyone in the family lined up on the same side of the issue and we directed our anger and dismay at the non-present opposition.  Basically, we convened, we ate, and we left, all in a span of roughly fifteen minutes.

This experience was a stark contrast to my early youth growing up in the city with my parents and two brothers.  Back then dinner time was an in-house version of Crossfire or the more testy confrontations of Firing Line.  That’s because we ate with the tv on, watching both the local and national news as a family.  This was possible because our apartment was so small (two bedrooms for five people) that the “dining area” was nothing more than a rectangular space that separated the kitchen (the stand up variety) from the living room.  So our tv stood within easy sight from the dining table, and we merely swiveled it around during dinner to watch the news.  This led, nightly, to a combustible situation.

It was the heyday of the radical ‘60s and ‘70s and the news was filled with reports on the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights and Black Power movements, the Women’s Lib movement, the Gay Pride movement, the Anti-nuke crowd, the hippies, the yippies, and other protesters and revolutionaries too numerous to recount.  As these stories flashed on the screen my father couldn’t contain himself.  Widely thought to be the model for Archie Bunker on the popular sitcom All In The Family, my father kept up a constant commentary, no, better to call it screed, on the thorniest issues of the day. 

Dad's barbs landed like hand grenades, setting off volatile reactions from my brothers and me.    We were in our college years then, our heads filling with liberal philosophies, and so, at the table, we leaned both figuratively and physically away from my father who would brook no compromise with his hardened principles and wouldn’t hesitate to slap one of us on the shoulder whenever he wanted us to appreciate what one of his favorite politicians (don’t ask me to name them) was saying.  My father wielded his fork like a dagger, gesticulating at the tv screen and bemoaning the sorry state of the world, neck veins swelling.  He then would stab a piece of meat on his plate and jam it into his mouth like adding an exclamation point. 

My mother had split allegiances of course, and sort of played the role of Switzerland, remaining neural for the most part and praying that World War III would not break out.  

Well, as Archie and Edith Bunker sang in the intro to each show, those were the days.

My Son the Smartass Car

On a visit to a used-car lot in search of an inexpensive second-hand car, David Crabtree found himself strangely attracted to a very old, 1928 Porter. When he got behind the wheel, the car talked to him though the car's radio - it informed him that it was the reincarnation of his mother. (From local.aaca.org/junior/starcars/mother, describing the sitcom My Mother The Car, which ran on NBC from September 1965 to September 1966.)

Oh, David isn’t my only son.  I have another son, although at times I think I’m going to disown him.  Because he’s just impossible.  He rolled off the assembly line with all the modern advantages.  You know, satellite monitoring system, automatic parking, anti-collision breaking, curve control, you name it.  But apparently that wasn’t good enough.  I don’t know, maybe he’s spoiled.  He’s just so mischievous.  And he can’t he can’t keep his trap shut.

Why the other day Mr. Frederick, his owner, was all dressed up going to work and before they even got out of the driveway my son said to Mr. Frederick through the voice activation system, “Who buys your ties, your mother?”  Then he said something about Mr. Frederick’s suit being really sharp, if you liked the nineteen thirties.  How embarrassing!

Now Mr. Frederick is not the spiffiest dresser, but that’s just being obnoxious.  If I've told him once, I’ve told him a million times that he should remain quiet, except when he’s called on for driving directions.  Then he should simply enunciate the route in a clear and confident voice and leave it at that.  Why he has a wonderful guidance system.  It’s the best in class.  But no, he’s got to be a wiseacre.  One time he nearly caused poor Mr. Frederick to have an accident.  The directions called for a turn onto another road at an approaching corner.  My dutiful son said calmly Left Turn in 50 feet.  Then, as Mr. Frederick was at the corner starting to turn, my son yelled NO, RIGHT TURN, RIGHT TURN!!!  Mr. Frederick swerved and almost ran right into a tree.  It’s not the way we raised him.

What’s more, last week Mrs. Frederick was driving a group if her friends to the flower show at the convention center.  Oh, this is terrible.  Mrs. Frederick is very proper, you know.  She runs several of the community activities at the church.  Anyway, whenever her neighbor Marge, who’s quite a bit overweight, would say something, my son would make a loud, flatulence sound.  I could just die.  Why does he do these things?  Is he ever going to grow up?

And when the Frederick’s children drive he’s merciless.  Sarah, their youngest, is sixteen and that can be an awkward time for girls.  She’s a new driver and I’m sure she’s trying real hard to be careful.  While she’s are on a heavily trafficked main road my son will move her seat back and forth and make it recline as far as it will go.  Or, from the lower heating vents, he’ll suddenly shoot hot air up Sarah’s dress causing her to flinch or take her hand of the steering wheel to push her dress down.  It’s dangerous.  And when I tell him that he just smirks or will mock what I say in a singsong voice.  Really I could kill him.

Of course, if Jonathan is driving he doesn’t try to pull that stuff.  Jonathan is twenty.  But my son can be just as irritating.  I know because I hear the stories all the time.  Like if Jonathan is out on a date, my son will accelerate just enough when going into a curve to make him and his date lose their balance and practically fall over.  Or he’ll mess up Jonathan’s parking by hitting the curb again and again.  It’s a mother’s nightmare.

I think he’s being influenced by those muscle cars on the other side of town.  They are so juvenile.  They’re jacked way up in the air on those huge tires.  And they make enough noise to deafen anyone within a mile.  What's more, they think they own the road.  It drives me crazy to think that he hangs out with that group.  Have you seen them?  They have decals all over their bodies and don’t have a bit of class.  They get right up behind you, flash their high beams, and gun their engines.  Couldn’t they just run their vehicle diagnostic reports and show a little courtesy?

I’m considering counseling.  Lord knows this situation is beyond my abilities.  But where do I take him?  I've been trying to get through to the Car Talk guys Click and Clack on NPR, but I really think you need to know someone to reach them.  So, if you have any suggestions, I'm all ears.