Being Bubbly Takes a Toll

Every time we get together with Georgia, we just can’t seem to get enough of her kind smile and easy-going demeanor (and self-proclaimed intellect and wit, as she just mentioned on the phone), and there must be something about us that she also enjoys. So, while I was on my trip to the concession stand to get popcorn for the White (-haired) sisters, she and Matea were busy contriving plans for a quick weekend trip to Portland, Maine. We took said trip last weekend, taking a half-day off work to get a jump on the four-hour drive across Vermont and New Hampshire, and up the Maine seacoast. We stopped almost immediately, in Waterbury, to have lunch at the Cider House barbecue restaurant, which began what I would call a weekend of beverages for my two travel companions (just a few hours later I would be making an emergency pit-stop at a service plaza off of Maine’s I-95 to procure $10-worth (i.e., two!) of Starbucks coffee drinks before both girls expired in road-worn exhaustion.) The food was delicious—it’s the only place in Vermont to get a fried okra po’ boy—and Georgia savored the opportunity to drink beer in the middle of a workday. Later that night, after checking into the Portland Harbor Hotel (finding our beds already turned down, complete with chocolate lobsters) we walked down to the Portland Pie Co. for some pizza…and more beer. Matea, of course, ordered a blueberry beer in honor of Maine’s staple fruit.

The next morning we used the gps locator on Georgia’s iPhone to lead us, eventually, to The Standard Baking Company for yet another round of coffee. Then it was non-stop shopping and window browsing around the Old Port and downtown areas. I have never browsed so many boutique shops in my life. We zigzagged the city at least three times, down Fore Street, up Exchange, across Middle, down Silver, back up Union, across Fore, Free, Congress, and Middle (again). We trekked back down to the wharf area to have an experience in bubble tea. This pearl of a drink was invented in Taiwan in the ‘80s and is largely a west-coast phenomenon in the U.S. But, lucky for Matea and Georgia, there is a little shop in the east-coast Portland that devotes itself wholly to this milky, murky concoction. I, as with most of the other beverage runs, did not partake. But I did take a tiny sip of Matea’s almond bubble tea, making sure to suck one of the black tapioca balls through the oversized straw to give it a try. It was virtually tasteless, with a seemingly indestructible, indigestible Dot-like consistency. It was more fun having Matea shoot one at me than having one slip down my throat like a cold, tiny luggie (OMG! that’s gross). After the tea it was the inescapable trip to Three Dollar Dewey’s, more and more shopping and, amazingly, another trip to Starbucks before the day was over. We wearily returned to the hotel with bags filled with stationery, Provence soap, and gourmet popcorn. (Georgia, I was going to write about the cuticle cream you purchased, but I felt it best left omitted.)

The final day of the trip, Sunday, was a test of my abilities as a not-for-profit chauffeur. By Saturday night the wind had begun to pick up due to a low-pressure trough (prob. not the correct term, but I like the way it sounds) that was moving up the eastern seaboard. On Sunday we were met with blowing rain and intermittent flakes of snow. We made our way to the requisite Sunday brunch, this time at Hot Suppa! on Congress Street. It required several U-turns and an aggressive parallel park. Outside the car, it seemed like somewhat of a flash-flood in the streets of Portland, and my socks were quickly soaked through thanks to the many access points in my dark-green Crocs. After brunch we hit the interstate in search of the Mecca for bargain hunters in the Downeast area: the Kittery, Maine outlet malls. By the time we hit Kittery, the wind was wild and unyielding, so I followed in my father’s footsteps and let Georgia and Matea out at the doors of their favorite shops. The back seat and trunk were filled with purchases in no time, and it was on to my second chauffersorial* duty: communing with the I-95 toll-takers. Matea told me once, though I have not been able to confirm, that toll-takers are among the professions with higher rates of suicide, due to the brevity of their interactions with other people over the course of their undoubtedly monotonous workday. The article stated, in a nutshell, that the rate could potentially be decreased by engaging your friendly toll-taker in a mere five-word exchange as you hand over your fistful of quarters. So it has become my mission, my life-saving responsibility, to work in, at minimum, a “Hi, how are you? Thanks very much,” at every booth. I count myself a savior of state toll plaza workers, a “cash only” vehicle amid a current of cold, non-communicative EZ-Pass whizzers-by. At the final booth, near the Hookset exit, I was greeted by surly-looking man in his eighties. As the gale-force winds and rain whirred around the plaza structure, I smiled at the man and said, “You enjoying this weather?” The man’s face turned as pleasant as if I had presented him with a gold bar rather than my measly 75 cents. “Not at all!” he replied emphatically. He chuckled and maintained eye contact for a few seconds before giving me the green light to continue on my way. It was only four words, but they had been effective.

Then, blah, blah, blah, New Hampshire was flooded, yada, yada, yada, we made it home safely, etc. But thinking about this toll-taker flash confabulation in which I have come to find great value, on both sides, reminded me of another solitary figure I encounter along the road.

Every morning on our drive in to work, we pass an open field where a gorgeous red-tailed hawk has made his home; the extensive teal, metal roofs of Paya’s auto dealership; a little dribble of a creek where I have seen several doe stealing a drink of water; the grand lawn of the Trinity Baptist Church compound; and a faithful friend we have come to call Merle Johnson. Around 6:48 am, just as our amazing view of the Adirondacks, cloaked in morning fog, descends below the tree line, Merle emerges in his gray, Carhart-like jacket, jeans, and flannel button-up, taking his morning solo walk down the eastbound lane of Mountainview Road. He is often carrying a plastic grocery bag, probably containing his lunch for the day, and on chilly mornings has his hands tucked deep into his jacket pockets. We have never interacted with Merle, save the occasional eye contact and acknowledging smile, but spotting him is something we have come to count on. On rare mornings when he does not appear, we wonder Where’s Merle Johnson? His presence each day brings the comfort of familiarity and constancy, especially since we have named him and created a sort of mythology of his life and journey. On mornings when we made it out the door a little earlier, we have seen him as he turned right onto Mountainview from Route 2A, and once, when we were running late, Matea believed she saw him reach his destination, Paya’s. Walking every morning with his head down, bathed in the diffused morning light like an apparition, he, too, looks like the kind of guy that could use five words. Perhaps we will drop in to Paya’s one afternoon and ask for the gentleman in the flannel shirt. And we will say, “Nice to meet you, Merle.”


*Again, not a real word, but I like it. :)

P.S.
Thanks to Portland for recharging our batteries, and for reminding us that everyone occasionally requires the gentle caress of kindness to brush away their own perception of invisibility.

Dust to Dust

Matea, Georgia and I took an impromptu trip to the Palace 9 on Oscar Sunday to see one more nominated film prior to the awards show later on that night. Not long after we had settled into our seats, I heard a mildly comical conversation going on behind me. Two elderly women had come in after us and had sat down in the seats directly behind. “You can eat popcorn?” one of them said with alacrity. “Yes,” the other said. “I thought you couldn’t.” “I thought I couldn’t, but I can. It’s fine,” replied her friend. After a few moments’ pause: “Well, we should get some,” the friend said. The woman let out a wistful sigh. “Too much work.” At this, my body must have tensed, or I must have tilted my head towards them, because Matea leaned over slightly and said, “Offer.” After deliberating for a few seconds in my head, and honestly allowing the moment to pass, I finally turned around in my seat and said to the woman over my right shoulder, “Would you ladies like for me to go get you some popcorn?” Her eyes widened. “Well aren’t you kind,” she said. Her age or her poise made her sound nearly British. (I’ve found many older, educated New Englanders tend to have an English quality to their speech.) I could tell their first instinct was to say thanks but no thanks, but as I remained turned around in my seat, I smiled brightly and said, “You should take me up on it,” in a friendly, sing-song kind of way. “Well, ok,” she said with cheerful reluctance, as if deciding something of importance on a whim. I nodded my head and lurched forward in my seat.
“We just want a child’s size,” they said before I stood to face them. I grasped Matea’s small popcorn in my fingers and said, “Would you like this size? This is a small.” I turned to find two white-haired women in their 70s or 80s sunken into two oversized, rocker-back movie theater seats. Their Brett Somers-esque spectacles shone brightly in the dim light, illuminated by the reflection of a pre-movie quiz on the screen behind me. It posed an inane question about Zach Effron to the half-capacity (no pun intended re the average age of viewer for this particular film) theater audience. “They also have the kiddie pack,” I said to the women, “which comes with a drink and candy.” I instantly felt I had thrown a wrench into the works. Georgia held her kiddie pack above her head where the women could see it. Though they both seemed to hold their breath in a moment of hurried deliberation, the diversity of colors and products in the kiddie pack seemed to delight the woman on the right, and she happily said, “We’ll take that one.” “Ok!” I said, leaning my elbow against my seatback. “Now, what kind of candy would you like?” Her accomplishment in making the first decision vanquished by the next, the woman seemed to try visualizing the candy counter in her head. Another smile gradually worked its way across her face. “M&Ms,” she said assuredly. I smiled back. “Plain or peanut?” Her eyes shot upward as if literally looking to her brain for the answer. “Let’s just do plain,” she said with a chuckle. “This is too much work,” I quipped. She and her friend laughed feebly before grabbing their purses and wildly shuffling through the behemoth bags to find exact change. When they had decided on the kiddie pack, the one on the left had asked, “How much is that?” “$6.02,” Georgia had answered. The woman on the right said, “For that?” My first thought was that she was happy with the price of this box of treats: a scoopful of popcorn, a sippy-cup-sized drink, and a compartment filled with a regular-sized bag of candy. But as they exchanged ones and fives with one another, carefully counting out the bills, I realized that these two children of the Depression had rather been shocked at the exorbitance of the price, but were too far into “taking me up on my offer” to back out now. The folding money sorted out and handed over to me, the hunt was on for the last two cents. I drove my hand into my pocket, but, of course, I never have cash or change on hand. Georgia and Matea simultaneously reached for their wallets, too, but the woman on the left, the not-quite-British one, rather gallantly interjected, “No, I have it right here.” She carefully placed the two pennies in my palm. Her skin was soft and thin like buttered filo dough. “And finally,” I said, “what sort of drink would you like?” Audible pondering sounds came from both of their mouths. “Something clear,” one of them mustered. “Is Sprite ok?” I asked. “Yes!” in unison. It had been a roller coaster of confusion and conviction for the two of them. Last decision made, they both receded back into their seats.
“Oh, hurry dear, before it begins,” said the cheerful woman on the right. I skipped off to the concession stand to meet the same teenager who had filled my personal snack order. A little embarrassed, I placed the ladies’ order. As the well-pocked youth filled the box with their selections, I hoped in the back of my mind that Georgia had correctly remembered the price, including tax, as the penny-wise elders had left her no margin for error and, as I knew, I had no other form of payment. Having put the women through what appeared to be an ultimately exhausting barrage of questions, I could not bear to return to them for an extra few cents, should the need arise. As the kid let the fizz rest and topped off their Sprite, a couple of scenarios ran through my head. I could not sneak in and get the change from Matea, as they were sitting directly behind us. I could not call her, as she is ever diligent about turning off her cell phone during any film or performance. I had decided on haggling with the now-idle gang of high schoolers behind the counter (I was the only person still filling a concession order), pleading my case on behalf of my enfeebled geriatric acquaintances back in theater number two. I’ll slip you the change on my way out after the movie, I would tell them. They’ll have no problem with this, I thought, as he punched in the PLU for “Kiddie Pack.” But no need for a convincing plea; Georgia had remembered correctly. I slid the $6.02 across the counter and pulled the box of warm, yellow kernels towards me. I unwrapped a straw and punctured the hard-plastic cup top, and made sure to get extra napkins. Back in the theater in a flash, the house lights still up, I handed over the box of goodies. The woman on the right handed the parcel over to her companion, and I placed the four napkins in her lap. They both offered a gracious “thank you,” still with a hint of pleasant surprise in their voices.
The film, The Last Station, began without delay. It told the story of famed Russian writer Lev Tolstoy in the golden years of his life, as he struggled to decide on the rightful inheritors of his legacy. By the time of his death at Astapovo Station at age 82, he had endured immense pressure from both his wife, Countess Sofya Andreevna Tolstoy, and his protégé, Vladimir Chertkov, who both had a personal stake in securing the copyrights to the author’s written works. In the end, he and the Countess seemed a typical elderly couple preyed upon by more youthful family members (in this case, a Tolstoyan Movement that had taken on a life and mind of its own). Watching the Countess being locked out of doors like a child while her husband lay dying, I felt a slight bit of pride that my own inquest into the business of two elderly folks had been for selfless and benevolent ends. I thought to myself, when I am old and nominally incapacitated, and I find out one day, to my surprise, that I can still eat popcorn, I hope some youngster is willing to fetch me a box of treats covered in teddy bears and trains, too. I will surely be appreciative then. But this day, in the dark flickering of the theater light, like the waxing shadow of the next decade of my life, nothing could be more satisfying than hearing my two new geriatric friends quietly rip open a bag of M&Ms to share.