Portsmouth, VA, July 1-8, 2011
First, to answer the much asked question from the last missive, how in the world did you get all those ticks? I
would tell you that I got them from a greyhound, but it would be a
story, in the sense of a lie. The truth is when I go home to the Holler,
I have the habit, when it’s not hunting season, of walking our 65 acre
wooded property at dawn. I’d guess that the tick population on a hunk of
land that size would surpass the people population of China. The
chances of coming upon a tick are about that of meeting a Mexican in
Mexico. The day of the bus ride I observed the morning ritual and had I a
grain of sense would have taken a shower after finding the first
coochie moocher hitching a ride on my most private parts. But no,
perhaps unconsciously foreseeing the fate ahead of me, I knew it would
be a waste of water.
While on the topic of ticks, here’s another
interesting aside about Pop, who you have learned from previous
missives, believes in banana peel healings, Slimfast chasers and
measuring time by the rate at which a duck fart bubble will break the
water’s surface. When he was 19-years-old he contracted Rocky Mountain
Spotted Fever, which in 1940, had a high fatality rate, even more so for
a country boy like him. He was born in a cabin in the woods not far
from our home and in those days somebody had to go fetch the doctor. He
came to you, you didn’t go to him. Pop was bedridden with a high fever
and headache for over a week and couldn’t keep down even his momma’s
homemade chicken soup. In his words, “I came within a gnat’s nose of
dying.” According to him, doctors wanted to conduct medical studies to
find out why it didn’t kill him when so many others succumbed. He
attributes his faith in the Lord to his spared life and that can’t be
found in no blood sample. I asked him last time I was home how he’s
lived to age 90. “Just tough, I reckon, and living by what the Good Book
says,” was his reply. Maybe there is more to that simple-minded answer
than I give credit, but I’ll save my reflections on that for a later
date.
At present, my cousins have gone off on a get-away to
celebrate their anniversary, or maybe just to celebrate my departure
next week, but in any case, I have the house to myself. We’ve started
week 5 of cohabitation and joking aside, we’ve very much enjoyed our
togetherness. I’ve grown accustomed to constant company, so much so that
they hadn’t been gone 24 hours when I ventured out in search of
brethren at the Church of the Holy Thrift.
Thrifting, usually, is a
religious experience for me, which is why I thought it would do me
good. I didn’t take into account before going, however, that I can’t buy
a single thing for myself. It’s not that I don’t have the money; I’ll
prostitute to not miss out on a real bargain. It’s that I don’t have
the space. Where in the hell am I going to put a purchase? Not even a
pair of underwear will fit in my bulging backpacks without the
displacement of some other article. I suppose I could wear an extra pair
on my head like a rapper’s stocking cap with holes for bunny ears. It
would just be through the airport and other public transportation
systems until I reach my next destination with a drawer. Or I could
double up and wear two pair at a time like I used to do when I got old
enough to dress myself. I’d come in the kitchen and try to fool Mom.
- “How many pairs of panties do you think I have on?”
- “Let me guess. Two.”
-“How did you know?!?”
-“Oh, a mother just knows… (that you wouldn’t think to ask if you only had on one” went unsaid.)
Yes,
I buy underwear at a thrift store. See just how bad the addiction is?
Aside from clothes, let’s say during my outing I saw a lamp that I
absolutely could not live without. I buy it, and then what? Carry it
proud as punch to the Good Will three blocks down the road for the tax
write-off? I can hear myself bragging to passerby’s, “Hey, take a look
at this lamp I got at the thrift up the street for $5.95. I never got a
chance to plug it in, but isn’t she a beaut? Can you believe it? $5.95
Wasn’t that a steal?”
And then there is the nostalgia issue.
Because I furnished my house with shit I picked up off the side of the
road and refurbished, everything in thrift stores reminds me of a
treasure I sold in that fit of mid-life crisis duress and fulfilling the
South American tour guide dream. Actually, I think it was a touch of
PMS that sent me over the edge and made me stake the “Estate Sale” sign
in the front yard. At any rate, flea markets, bulk trash days and thrift
stores all catch in my throat and I repeat at nausea the mantra that
got me through the sale, “I lovingly release my possessions so that they
may bless others and make room in my life for joyful experiences. P.S.
May the asshole who took them from me be sick of them in two years and
donate them to the Garland Road Thrift so I can buy them back.”
The
upside of my trip to the thrift is I got to spend much more time in the
presence of others than I had expected. People at thrift stores have no
concept of time. Most of the shoppers are unemployed, which is why they
have to shop there in the first place, and the employees wish they were
unemployed, so they blatantly drag ass hoping a supervisor will notice.
Case in point, I get in line with my one measly purchase, a $1.98
picture frame, with which I will make an anniversary gift for my cousins
and thus rid myself of it within 24 hours. There is a woman in her
sixties in front of me with the god-awfulest conglomeration of shit in
her cart you ever saw. Amongst other things, she has a curling iron
(though her hair was already so kinky she had to wear it in corn rows), a
set of those Kool-Aid plastic popsicle trays, a glassless picture
frame, a toy fire truck, a coconut hull from Hawaii carved into a monkey
(are there even monkeys in Hawaii besides at the zoo?) and a big,
mateless salad fork. I’d say that last one is for whoopin’ some grandkid
butt more than tossing greens. Some of the prices on these items were
written by a kindergartner using his nondominate hand and thus their
exactness was up for debate. She was going to use that to her advantage.
The
woman who was in front of the woman in front of me lingered after her
checkout to pose the question to all three of us, “Ya’ll think that
Casey Anthony girl killed her baby?” I haven’t watched the news in over a
month and had no earthly idea what she was talking about. So as to not
seem ignorant, though, I answered, “Well, I just can’t make up my mind.”
Neither could these two women bickering over a 15 cent difference on a
good for nothing coconut monkey she would never be able to give as a
gift without lying unless she buys a $2,000 plane ticket the island
state. And I’ll tell you what, thrifting can drive a person to do crazy
things like that in the name of a bargain. It’s a classifiable mental
illness--the antithesis of a gambling addiction.
A chance to put
their two cents worth in on this apparently highly publicized case
called for a truce, and brought the checkout process to a screeching
halt. The 17-year-old cashier was much more adept at talking than
multitasking. Lucky for her I’m amongst the unemployed, because under
normal circumstances I would have been so impatient with all of this
nonsense that I would have either: 1) dumped my stuff on the counter and
walked out 2) tapped my foot, jangled my keys, put my hands on my hips,
made that “huh” sound loudly and finally said “get the lead out or I’m
going for a manager” 3) told her to stand aside. I used to work for the
Container Store, at the register, and I’d show her how it’s done. When I
was teaching and had papers to grade, parents to call, Chata to walk,
meetings to attend, plants to water, lesson plans to make, clothes to
wash, etc, I didn’t have time for patience and if you did, you needed to
be fired and a less laid-back person take your place. But today was
different. What was the hurry? All I really had to do before
the day’s end was worry over not having a full time job, and I could do
that perfectly fine standing right there in line. And, of course, I
could see the fodder for a story piling up to the ceiling, so I wasn’t
going anywhere.
First-in-line believes the momma was crazy and she
couldn’t help it. Furthermore, the grandma knew the little girl was
dead and is just “snowballing” it. She’s the one who should go to jail.
(I’d never heard the word “snowball” used to mean cover up--see what you
can learn at the thrift store?) Second-in-line contests that there’s
not enough evidence pointing toward the momma or the granny and it was
the Zanny nanny who should be locked up. Cashier blames the daddy and
says he drugged that baby and she fell in the pool and drown. For some
reason they all directed their comments toward me as if I were the jury
they had to convince. I was the perfect juror, as ignorant on the
subject as a squirrel is about douching. (Where did I come up with
that???) I stood by impartially, my head rotating trilaterally like a
referee watching a 3-way ping pong match, marveling at the skill with
which these women defended their arguments. I bet that when they aren’t
thrifting they are at home studying tabloids and watching Jerry
Springer just waiting for a chance to make a case before an imposturous
Judge Judy.
In the end the jury (or should I say juror?) was
undecided, Casey Anthony exonerated, the checkouts completed and
everyone released to go home for lunch, or maybe it was supper. Thrift
shoppers have no concept of time, nor heed hunger pains until the
appetite for bargains is first satiated.
The otherwise update this
time is that there is a job offer is on the table, but I dare not
disclose who, what, when, where, why or how least it be jinxed. Until I
get their bank account number on file and a contract signed in blood
stating that in the event of a breach of the agreement, I will be
reimbursed for all expenses incurred plus receive six months of pay, I
shall make no announcements.
Next Thursday I FLY
to Dallas just long enough to get a haircut, empty a suitcase, go to
the thrift store to buy some clothes dressy enough for the tour
management course and get back on a plane bound for San Francisco. We’ll
see what story-worthy adventures transpire in those travels.
As always much love and many thanks for reading, G
