teachers
11/18/11. selin's grove brewery, 121 n. market st, selinsgrove, PA. the rivertown microbrewery is now a (limited) pennsylvania staple, the emergence of which was inevitable but necessarily limited to one every 5-6 counties in the rural wilderness. that density isn't determined so much by demographics -- I doubt that the blue canoe in titusville is attracting patrons from far and wide to such an inaccessible corner of the keystone -- as it is by the random presence of a local entrepreneur. there's no particular pattern in the few I've stumbled across: titusville's blue canoe in a tidy but small county seat surrounded by a hinterland long past its extractive heyday; williamsport's bullfrog brewery in a mountain-river town with that one big tourist draw; and the selin's grove brewery in a mostly shabby river-but-now-more-highway town dwarfed by a three-mile stretch of big box stores that must draw shoppers from five counties. but here also is susquehanna university, a downmarket version of bucknell just up the road that is likewise a refuge for slacker prep school kids from jersey whose parents are more than willing to shell out for secondary education regardless of junior's well-demonstrated lack of aptitude/concern for matters academic. it's also peppered with a few earnest local strivers, I imagine, but in general this is the sort of school that thrives in the eastern mountains -- cozy and picturesque, a little bit demanding, a couple of standout athletic programs, but otherwise lacking in prestige among any but its alumni. the preserve of the comfortable upper middle class and new entrants to the top tier who have attained about as much as they can stand. small town boomers stepped up to the urban fringe? third generation southern europeans who sense the limits on ethnicity-specific climbing in unions and restaurants and police/politics and imagine branching into poorly understood WASPy idylls?
there's already a joint in selinsgrove for that college-parent set -- BJs, a shiny new hardwood floor and exposed brick sort of place, a manyunkish contrivance and specializing in a well-stocked 'raw bar' (susquehanna river oysters?) presumably trucked up from the chesapeake. expensive menu but lame beer, a lot of heavy-framed booths where college kids can safely hide from others when cornered by mom and dad. but of course the boomers are diversifying these days, at least those with cultural pretensions beyond mcmansions and six-speed 'luxury sedans.' and so as their offspring militantly brandish PBR and yuengling and skinny/tapered jeans, some boomers have reactivated the consumptive cool they think they invented. and selin's grove brewery nails it. slightly better than mediocre by smalltown microbrewery standards -- the porter was interesting, the stout not much more than guinness, and most of the rest was tapped out after a parents' weekend deluge -- you can take away growlers but otherwise no bottling here. the restaurant occupies the hillside basement of what looks like an old hotel -- poorly lit by design, rough hewn floors and low heavy timber beams overhead, rustic furniture. contrived perhaps but an authentically informal cozy. even the layout is haphazard and not nearly as polished as BJs...shallow steps wind down from market street to this lower level, with a sharp turn back to what looks like a back door onto a little brick porch. there's a cramped and crowded waiting area a couple of tables pressed up close to a bar that backs up on the kitchen. stairs to nowhere and opposite the bar a half-timbered (and formerly external?) wall with a doorway (and window) into the main dining room, which is barely bigger than the rest. when a bar spot opened up I sidled over and surveyed the menu -- food isn't the attraction, at least given the lack of fanfare on the menu. there is, however, a long nod to bohemian boomers in a local raw milk cheese plate.
the beers are lovingly described on a separate sheet, but they're marked on the tap wall only with cheaply laminated strips of home-printed labels. no local-carved wooden draft pulls here. the owner/brewmaster would man a scruffy fish market on the outer banks in another life -- he's sporting a windburned-red face and brawny-not-fit torso under the incongruously tie-dyed tshirts he and his staff are wearing, and haphazardly spiky dark brown hair. he spent a couple months in germany learning about brewing and told me later that 'the belgians and the germans make the best beer.' check. he might be married to the primary bartender, who's distracted for a while by a mildly cute-in-a-PA-dutch-way (round face, bobbed hair, upturned nose, rosy cheeks) there only to show her wedding photos to anyone who's interested. no one is, but they feign well in cooing as the banal images scroll by on her laptop. on my other elbow is a guy in his mid- to late-30s with a young enough face but receding hairline, out-of-control waistline and requisite compensatory goatee. from him come snippets of gen-X nostalgia for some archaic gaming system and advice on chocolate chip cheesecake (they won't melt because the cheesecake part doesn't actually get that hot, and chocolate melts at 98.6F, and he immerses the pie in a panful of water).
most compelling, though, is a pair of whitegrey-haired 50something regulars perched on the 'L' of the bar to my left. their beers go straight on their well-worn tabs behind the bar -- though the brewery has one eye on boomer conoisseurs, it's more a local joint on this friday night, complete with a mock dispute that briefly attracts the wary attention of the bar staff. for these two it's friday and the end of the work week at selinsgrove high school. the alpha in this duo is square-jawed and beady-eyed, good-natured mischief constantly sparkling in the corners. his hair is swept up in a tamed-for-the-millennium 60s vamp, buzzed lower. he's wearing a dark wind shirt emblazoned with VT for virginia tech, but the accent is mid-jersey. too ethnic for susquehanna university of the 70s, I'm guessing a product of the sprawling PA 'teachers college' system. he's a jock though (his buddy notes that 'you're headed into the busy season now, right? coaching and reffing?'), so a stint in blacksburg is plausible. has a wrestling look about him rather than basketball, and if he's a winter referee as well perhaps he covers something less demanding in the middle school. there's a jocular soft self-assuredness about him, his chin in the air not arrogantly but as if ready to plow jokingly into any crowd, a visceral 'there's my pal' sort of accessibility on the surface but dark eyes that peer far into the distance and at nothing in particular belie a paradoxical introversion underneath the everyone's favorite coach facade. I've seen this before and wonder if it's an inevitable consequence of 40 years teaching and the hundreds, thousands of acquaintances that come and go...esp for a coach who forges relatively strong bonds with athletes only to see them scamper off every three years.
his sidekick comes off confident enough as he digs into his clam chowder with manly spoonfuls, but there's a little fear in his sleepy eyes, slow scooping nose, and hunched shoulders in a long-sleeved crew-over-tshirt that looks student-influenced. it's entirely possible that he lives with his mom -- he mumbled something about making the obvious selection for the 'unrated' version of a movie on demand only to hesitate when mom hovered. and he's clearly got nowhere to go. while VT man was fielding calls from the wife returning from work in the big city somewhere and shuffling teenager social schedules, the sidekick was failing to negotiate a third round of beers -- he was waved off on that one, not with malice but dismissively enough. he's from further south, probably philly.
the conversation is firmly sunk in their high school world. even when they stray from the going-on in selinsgrove, the talk is on the narrow playoff defeat suffered by the rival lewisburg high green dragons and some predictable bashing of the current union-hostile governor of the commonwealth and his enthusiasm for private charters -- 'and are they going to have to take the PPST?' mostly the focus is on the ever-renewed community that is a smalltown high school. the big story is some girl (sometimes named in the retelling, sometimes not, depending on the audience) who 'blew chunks' in square-jaw's classroom this friday. 'I asked a question and I called on her. she got this funny look and then she's just blowin' chunks all over the desk in front of her.' the story sprouts and loses various embellishments with every iteration, but inevitably 'I asked chuckie smith -- he's a great kid -- to make sure she got to the nurse's office' and 'the kids were going nuts, but I said, it's just puke. thank god the girl who sits in front of her wasn't there -- can you imagine gettin' puke out of a girl's hair?' in this we also learn that this was a teaching moment for the 'one rule' of his classroom: 'don't get sick in my classroom. if you're gonna puke, just take off. don't ask. I tell them this on the first day of class.' and so the story careens down the bar as the most significant happening at selinsgrove high today.
and of course everyone departing the bar has a word for these guys -- a stray graduate but mostly parents dropping by with unsolicited news on the recently matriculated. in every instance I watch the teachers' eyes scan remembered class rosters and seating charts trying to match parents with students, but they fumble only for a moment behind smiling poker faces before coming up with the right name, all while the parents are busy passing on important updates about how much 'she just loves providence' and over-reacting to any reflexively encouraging nod from a pair of men long-steeped in the friendly politics of fielding news from proud parents. and when the parents depart, inevitably an exchange like 'it took me a while to place their daughter, then I remembered. good kid' but of course one of hundreds of 'good kids' that fade into the memories of a long career, not quite the glowing image to which they assented with proud parents. there's some mumbled joking sex talk about nothing in particular that nonetheless from a distance jangles too close to idle discussions about students. nothing inappropriate, but a reminder of the indistinct and crooked line high school teachers walk on that score...expected to counsel and engage students but at the same time suppress any hint of their own sexualities.
what stood out was a fragment from another throwaway conversation, this one in which square-jaw was talking about some sort of field-trip or summer-camp experience that sparked conflict with a fellow teacher, a woman with whom he has nothing in common. but a woman whom he respects, so despite whatever friction there was, 'we hashed it out.' that stuck with me as something that separates public school secondary teachers from lesser mortals, the ability to work in the constant maelstrom of unruly angst-ridden hormone-addled adolescents, micromanaging parents, ill-informed and meddling administrators...and to head back to that chaos day after day, year after year, always with a distant friendly smile and unflappable demeanor. the epitome of a kind of self-discipline that no one who hasn't taught middle/high school can possibly understand.
peoples overheard
surreptitious trust.
10/17/11. press coffee, dayton. not-quite-casual long grey hair tumbles over a narrow face, remnants of a dull sandy blonde in the lower fourteen inches or so. distinct now softened features in a hard-cartilage nose and an upper lip that arcs upwards over prominent but not bucked front teeth. that lip curls and bobs in and out of wry smiles and nose wrinkles. subtle makeup, sculpted but not hacked-off eyebrows, faintest purple eyeshadow. grey-brown sweater from which floral tattoos emerge climbing across her wrists, silver bracelets and rings, a young woman's jeans, soft pea coat sporting a few stray hairs human and feline. in all this a balanced hippie-sophisticate calm, but just under the surface a fluttering anxiety. jumps a bit when she jars the coffee shop table. fingers quivering around her phone as she calls a friend to check in on her daughter's arrival somewhere. [said daughter, observed previously, has taken on the same carefully managed but uber-cool countercultural chic, but with 14-year-old flair...hair bleached blonde and green.] "just calling to see if she made it. but DON'T let on that it's me calling...I want her to think I actually trusted her..."
island-hopping hippies
7/18/08. slow ferry from piraeus to melos. long hours on a blue-painted sheet metal deck, the overpowering smell of oxidizing steel dull in nostrils. strands of thought winding and unwinding, time advancing and retreating through a tangle of dream-crowded fitful bouts of sleep buffeted by dieselly wind under a cold moon as I settled onto a spray-slick railside patch. the upper promenade was inexplicably closed, and deck seating was occupied by the stacked bags of a french school group. unrelenting wind or the diesel stench of the hold. I realized that I needed to choose wisely or be banished to some corner surrounded by bikini-ed schoolgirls, so I followed the pros -- two greek hippies and an anglo-something around-the-worlder. their well-established campsites and routines confirmed that I'd found a serviceable spot.
the hippie woman was compelling, even militant in embracing her greekness. dark olive, nearly gypsy-colored, shortish tangled dark hair trussed in a bandanna, sharp dark eyebrows...the last gorgeously unapologetic in the unkempt and all-real defiant arc traced across her forehead. classic greek profile with deep set eyes, lumpy diving nose, pouted lips with a smile always playing in the corners. so theran. casual skimpy top loosely and so confidently worn, not the stuffed and squeezed look of the modern EU woman. she reminded me of one of the most joyous people I've ever met, a woman worked a couple summers on kythera. couldn't immediately come up with her name, but it had something to do with the sea...Myrto. ever-smiling greek eyes, even when they were angry and fierce and crying, a stubby fireball with a raspy, more-than-infectious laugh, gapped front teeth that spoke to passion and verve. quivering energy and aegean lassitude somehow convergent.
and with this Myrtoan echo, her man: scrawny jesus/rasputin, shaggy thin hair, medium-wild beard, superbly intelligent-tender eyes, ridiculous honking nose, quiet mouth, cut off tshirt that hangs on his truly gaunt frame, scraggly shorts. who were they to so egregiously transgress athenian norms...blonded hair, tight white slacks-and-thong, bangly earrings, cell phone shouting, black clubbing shirts, italian boots? I've encountered this rare breed mostly at skandeia, a now-defunct beach bar at paleopoli on kythera. kythera is what the mid-outer banks used to be for americans...the place that athenians go when they're roughing it on holiday. none of the towns have the polished tourist aspect even of a low-key place like adamas on melos. and skandeia was even further from the norm. paleopoli is just a couple of beach houses north of kastri, almost all of it alpha-zoned because of chamber tombs and therefore off limits to development. skandeia was back from the beach a bit in a cluster of tropical-looking trees, probably almonds, and consisted of a low kitchen building and haphazardly erected bamboo shades, tables scattered on sandy ground. live unselfconsciously traditional music nightly, kahlua-and-raisin ice cream in the outdoor freezer. run by a hippie family that traveled around in a caravan of trailers and assorted volkswagens -- parked out back. simple, beyond cool, quiet, peaceful.
as I dozed on and off across the cyclades the couple they turned into more than just countercultural anomaly. I awoke at one point to a book passed back and forth as they shared passages aloud, her head reclined on his bony shoulder. in byron mode I imagined it was kazantzakis or cavafy (but who knows, perhaps harry potter in translation). I couldn't hear words, though, because everything about these two was tender and quiet. but the image jolted me back to a vision that had to be three years old at that point, the last time I could have seen them on a ferry, the summer of 2005. a timeless immediacy. that she's visually arresting. can't take my eyes off her. not for a physical attraction, really, just the sharpness of her features and how easy she is in her skin. and more than that...how they slide against each other, frictionless without sickly stickiness. looks, caresses, smiles, wordless communication. that I'd glimpsed the same private world before, yet unchanged after three intervening winters. an uncomplicated irrepressible connection, souls immersed in something devoid of self-conscious preening, seamlessly complementary. no flirting, no misdirection, no peeve. and for all that fiercely separate spirits...perhaps even physically apart except for these summer jaunts.
7/18/08. slow ferry from piraeus to melos. long hours on a blue-painted sheet metal deck, the overpowering smell of oxidizing steel dull in nostrils. strands of thought winding and unwinding, time advancing and retreating through a tangle of dream-crowded fitful bouts of sleep buffeted by dieselly wind under a cold moon as I settled onto a spray-slick railside patch. the upper promenade was inexplicably closed, and deck seating was occupied by the stacked bags of a french school group. unrelenting wind or the diesel stench of the hold. I realized that I needed to choose wisely or be banished to some corner surrounded by bikini-ed schoolgirls, so I followed the pros -- two greek hippies and an anglo-something around-the-worlder. their well-established campsites and routines confirmed that I'd found a serviceable spot.
the hippie woman was compelling, even militant in embracing her greekness. dark olive, nearly gypsy-colored, shortish tangled dark hair trussed in a bandanna, sharp dark eyebrows...the last gorgeously unapologetic in the unkempt and all-real defiant arc traced across her forehead. classic greek profile with deep set eyes, lumpy diving nose, pouted lips with a smile always playing in the corners. so theran. casual skimpy top loosely and so confidently worn, not the stuffed and squeezed look of the modern EU woman. she reminded me of one of the most joyous people I've ever met, a woman worked a couple summers on kythera. couldn't immediately come up with her name, but it had something to do with the sea...Myrto. ever-smiling greek eyes, even when they were angry and fierce and crying, a stubby fireball with a raspy, more-than-infectious laugh, gapped front teeth that spoke to passion and verve. quivering energy and aegean lassitude somehow convergent.
and with this Myrtoan echo, her man: scrawny jesus/rasputin, shaggy thin hair, medium-wild beard, superbly intelligent-tender eyes, ridiculous honking nose, quiet mouth, cut off tshirt that hangs on his truly gaunt frame, scraggly shorts. who were they to so egregiously transgress athenian norms...blonded hair, tight white slacks-and-thong, bangly earrings, cell phone shouting, black clubbing shirts, italian boots? I've encountered this rare breed mostly at skandeia, a now-defunct beach bar at paleopoli on kythera. kythera is what the mid-outer banks used to be for americans...the place that athenians go when they're roughing it on holiday. none of the towns have the polished tourist aspect even of a low-key place like adamas on melos. and skandeia was even further from the norm. paleopoli is just a couple of beach houses north of kastri, almost all of it alpha-zoned because of chamber tombs and therefore off limits to development. skandeia was back from the beach a bit in a cluster of tropical-looking trees, probably almonds, and consisted of a low kitchen building and haphazardly erected bamboo shades, tables scattered on sandy ground. live unselfconsciously traditional music nightly, kahlua-and-raisin ice cream in the outdoor freezer. run by a hippie family that traveled around in a caravan of trailers and assorted volkswagens -- parked out back. simple, beyond cool, quiet, peaceful.
as I dozed on and off across the cyclades the couple they turned into more than just countercultural anomaly. I awoke at one point to a book passed back and forth as they shared passages aloud, her head reclined on his bony shoulder. in byron mode I imagined it was kazantzakis or cavafy (but who knows, perhaps harry potter in translation). I couldn't hear words, though, because everything about these two was tender and quiet. but the image jolted me back to a vision that had to be three years old at that point, the last time I could have seen them on a ferry, the summer of 2005. a timeless immediacy. that she's visually arresting. can't take my eyes off her. not for a physical attraction, really, just the sharpness of her features and how easy she is in her skin. and more than that...how they slide against each other, frictionless without sickly stickiness. looks, caresses, smiles, wordless communication. that I'd glimpsed the same private world before, yet unchanged after three intervening winters. an uncomplicated irrepressible connection, souls immersed in something devoid of self-conscious preening, seamlessly complementary. no flirting, no misdirection, no peeve. and for all that fiercely separate spirits...perhaps even physically apart except for these summer jaunts.
bus stop musings
7/17/10. wright stop plaza, downtown dayton. from behind me in the milling crowd dodging inconveniently placed digital screens promising things like the arrival of the 14 bus in 7 minutes in happy teals and rusty oranges: "there's a gap in his teeth you could drive a truck through. he's from chicago."
7/17/10. northwest hub, trotwood. half-slouched in a blue plastic bucket chair mounted in front of a plywood construction wall at the greyhound station, a woman in her early 20s. stringy black hair with a green streak, a handful of piercings, dark denim jacket, knee-length purple skirt and black leggings. sort of a goth look, but not trying all that self-consciously for any particular vibe. unaffected expression, not intricately contrived. tattoos dancing up her arms, one peeking out from above her tank top. big purple suitcase parked in front and mom sitting beside, looking a bit more country...unfashionable silver-rimmed glasses, frizzy blonde hair. they're on the way to visit grandma in kentucky, and the most important question is "I wonder if she'll like my zombie-woman [tattoo]."
7/17/10. wright stop plaza, downtown dayton. from behind me in the milling crowd dodging inconveniently placed digital screens promising things like the arrival of the 14 bus in 7 minutes in happy teals and rusty oranges: "there's a gap in his teeth you could drive a truck through. he's from chicago."
7/17/10. northwest hub, trotwood. half-slouched in a blue plastic bucket chair mounted in front of a plywood construction wall at the greyhound station, a woman in her early 20s. stringy black hair with a green streak, a handful of piercings, dark denim jacket, knee-length purple skirt and black leggings. sort of a goth look, but not trying all that self-consciously for any particular vibe. unaffected expression, not intricately contrived. tattoos dancing up her arms, one peeking out from above her tank top. big purple suitcase parked in front and mom sitting beside, looking a bit more country...unfashionable silver-rimmed glasses, frizzy blonde hair. they're on the way to visit grandma in kentucky, and the most important question is "I wonder if she'll like my zombie-woman [tattoo]."
hipster credo, or joyce for the 2010s
9/28/11. press coffee, wayne ave dayton. the key to his infiniti hangs from a D-ring clipped to a belt loop. not loosely, because his profile is that of a wet summer-swelled pear. black jeans precariously pulled up over his middle, thick-soled soft top sneakers. charcoal light-checked shirt half-buttoned over black t-shirt. black knit cap pulled down over the top fringes of a jaunty unkempt beard that covers most of his face. conspicuous piercings that don't in any way deflate his chubby man jollity -- the outfit is darkdarkdark, but he's still headed for santa claus. snubby porcine nose and beady eyes that sparkle merrily on a face that reddens easily every time he cracks up and slaps his knee in paroxysms of pure joy. nasal speech liberally salted with excited exclamations: 'dude' and 'it was just like' and 'literally' and 'it gives me such amazing satisfaction.' today (as ever?) he's discussing television. he loves television. he 'slept way too long' on arrested development until his 'homegirl' turned him onto it. man he couldn't believe what he'd missed. and there are sooo many shows like that! he was watching HBO at his parents' house and caught a round table that included gervais and rock and seinfeld and louis CK and nearly died. he sooo wanted to be on that show but knew that he'd be reduced to a stammering blubbering adolescent in the glare of all that genius. but the line that distills the meaning of life?
"I mean, this dude [encountered somewhere] blew me away. every single TV and movie reference he made was spot on, man."
9/28/11. press coffee, wayne ave dayton. the key to his infiniti hangs from a D-ring clipped to a belt loop. not loosely, because his profile is that of a wet summer-swelled pear. black jeans precariously pulled up over his middle, thick-soled soft top sneakers. charcoal light-checked shirt half-buttoned over black t-shirt. black knit cap pulled down over the top fringes of a jaunty unkempt beard that covers most of his face. conspicuous piercings that don't in any way deflate his chubby man jollity -- the outfit is darkdarkdark, but he's still headed for santa claus. snubby porcine nose and beady eyes that sparkle merrily on a face that reddens easily every time he cracks up and slaps his knee in paroxysms of pure joy. nasal speech liberally salted with excited exclamations: 'dude' and 'it was just like' and 'literally' and 'it gives me such amazing satisfaction.' today (as ever?) he's discussing television. he loves television. he 'slept way too long' on arrested development until his 'homegirl' turned him onto it. man he couldn't believe what he'd missed. and there are sooo many shows like that! he was watching HBO at his parents' house and caught a round table that included gervais and rock and seinfeld and louis CK and nearly died. he sooo wanted to be on that show but knew that he'd be reduced to a stammering blubbering adolescent in the glare of all that genius. but the line that distills the meaning of life?
"I mean, this dude [encountered somewhere] blew me away. every single TV and movie reference he made was spot on, man."
lovebirds
02/03/11. trolley stop, dayton. sitting at the slightly chilly door-end of the bar, a couple feet away from the ID-checker on his stool. reddish scruff, otherwise nondescript, often up and about tending to other self-appointed duties like reporting on the condition of the fire in the pit on the patio. he faces the door armed only with his cell phone. I'm facing the other way, angled down the bar and slightly away from it toward the stage off to the right. there's often music at the trolley, open mic on a thursday like this. open mic is a brilliant ploy, really, because the tables next to the stage are crowded with friends of the performers -- the otherwise sparse patrons studiously ignore the stage. there's a regular who gets to strum his guitar in exchange for running the sound system...and tonight he commits the unforgiveable (and inexplicable) sin of singing johnny cash with hipster irony. seriously? I could make an argument for warranted snark re: folsom prison -- johnny's brief spell in a cell (for what, painkillers?) took on a stunt-like aspect when he started selling the experience. but not 'walk the line,' complete with a stupid eyebrow pinch for every song he ripped off. alternating with him was a younger kid who sat down to do his acoustic number and who sang everything in a SNL-vintage adam sandler voice. without apparent irony.
two stools down from me: a first date. she epitomizes puerto rican -- mayan-jet hair but more frizzy than silky and skin a sort of tawny ash that trends toward a european shade of mestizo. attitude-jutting jaw, squat upturned nose, deepset blank eyes. sleek grey knit tube over lacy fishnets, and a black puffy jacket with fake mink collar. he looks like a west side story extra. crinkly white shirt billows off his bony frame over more snugly fitting jeans -- dancing clothes. indistinctly jittery, as if he might leap off the stool and break into a finger-pointing getdown at any moment. skinny-hungry lupine face to match. toothy. wide earnest-intense eyes that narrate a completely separate conversation. beard charcoaled on his olive (kalamata undertones) skin, with pencil sharpness but not so narrow. it straps down an impressive forest of hair the stands somewhere between kramer and ghostbusting egon.
what I notice first is the lean. though he's not much taller than she is, his torso is inclined at a good 30 degrees, such that his face looms well into her airspace. she's open-jacknifed away at a corresponding angle, so much so that her purchase on the stool looks tenuous. he's also inched them down the bar in this fashion, so that his budweiser is now an afterthought behind his shoulder and hers is parked next to his elbow. I'm assuming that she's likewise shrinking from his enthusiastic narration of nursing-school struggles, heroically affirmed in motivational posterspeak: "I never give up on my goals, you know?" so when he asks for directions to the restroom (I imagine her eyes are drawn like mine to the constantly flashing scoreboard marquee indicating in rainbow pixels: 'bathrooms upstairs'), I half expect her to bolt. but then a funny thing happens. after securing a cup of water and retrieving her beer, she spends half a minute inspecting her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. primps her lips. smooths her skirt. reactivates the demurring pose when she sees his urban sneakers bouncing down the stairs. and when he climbs back onto the stool, he immediately claps a hand to her thigh and compliments her fishnets. she deflects, but warmly. he tugs at his shirt to prompt a similar 'do you like this? I like it' exchange about his sartorial taste...and the conversation veers sharply into how they dressed for the date, not just a general discussion of style. and while I wandered off to different vistas in the midst of this choreographed-to-steer-the-conversation-ever-toward-me, softer words were apparently exchanged ...when I turned back they were tangled up in an awkward and incongruously fierce make-out session. the ice thus broken, his disregard for personal space is more comfortably accommodated, and smiles all around that his scraggly plume has thus won validation -- he reveals that he considered taking it higher, but is glad to know that it's sufficiently stacked. though it seems time for your-place-or-mine negotiations, they slink off to a darker corner behind the jukebox instead.
02/03/11. trolley stop, dayton. sitting at the slightly chilly door-end of the bar, a couple feet away from the ID-checker on his stool. reddish scruff, otherwise nondescript, often up and about tending to other self-appointed duties like reporting on the condition of the fire in the pit on the patio. he faces the door armed only with his cell phone. I'm facing the other way, angled down the bar and slightly away from it toward the stage off to the right. there's often music at the trolley, open mic on a thursday like this. open mic is a brilliant ploy, really, because the tables next to the stage are crowded with friends of the performers -- the otherwise sparse patrons studiously ignore the stage. there's a regular who gets to strum his guitar in exchange for running the sound system...and tonight he commits the unforgiveable (and inexplicable) sin of singing johnny cash with hipster irony. seriously? I could make an argument for warranted snark re: folsom prison -- johnny's brief spell in a cell (for what, painkillers?) took on a stunt-like aspect when he started selling the experience. but not 'walk the line,' complete with a stupid eyebrow pinch for every song he ripped off. alternating with him was a younger kid who sat down to do his acoustic number and who sang everything in a SNL-vintage adam sandler voice. without apparent irony.
two stools down from me: a first date. she epitomizes puerto rican -- mayan-jet hair but more frizzy than silky and skin a sort of tawny ash that trends toward a european shade of mestizo. attitude-jutting jaw, squat upturned nose, deepset blank eyes. sleek grey knit tube over lacy fishnets, and a black puffy jacket with fake mink collar. he looks like a west side story extra. crinkly white shirt billows off his bony frame over more snugly fitting jeans -- dancing clothes. indistinctly jittery, as if he might leap off the stool and break into a finger-pointing getdown at any moment. skinny-hungry lupine face to match. toothy. wide earnest-intense eyes that narrate a completely separate conversation. beard charcoaled on his olive (kalamata undertones) skin, with pencil sharpness but not so narrow. it straps down an impressive forest of hair the stands somewhere between kramer and ghostbusting egon.
what I notice first is the lean. though he's not much taller than she is, his torso is inclined at a good 30 degrees, such that his face looms well into her airspace. she's open-jacknifed away at a corresponding angle, so much so that her purchase on the stool looks tenuous. he's also inched them down the bar in this fashion, so that his budweiser is now an afterthought behind his shoulder and hers is parked next to his elbow. I'm assuming that she's likewise shrinking from his enthusiastic narration of nursing-school struggles, heroically affirmed in motivational posterspeak: "I never give up on my goals, you know?" so when he asks for directions to the restroom (I imagine her eyes are drawn like mine to the constantly flashing scoreboard marquee indicating in rainbow pixels: 'bathrooms upstairs'), I half expect her to bolt. but then a funny thing happens. after securing a cup of water and retrieving her beer, she spends half a minute inspecting her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. primps her lips. smooths her skirt. reactivates the demurring pose when she sees his urban sneakers bouncing down the stairs. and when he climbs back onto the stool, he immediately claps a hand to her thigh and compliments her fishnets. she deflects, but warmly. he tugs at his shirt to prompt a similar 'do you like this? I like it' exchange about his sartorial taste...and the conversation veers sharply into how they dressed for the date, not just a general discussion of style. and while I wandered off to different vistas in the midst of this choreographed-to-steer-the-conversation-ever-toward-me, softer words were apparently exchanged ...when I turned back they were tangled up in an awkward and incongruously fierce make-out session. the ice thus broken, his disregard for personal space is more comfortably accommodated, and smiles all around that his scraggly plume has thus won validation -- he reveals that he considered taking it higher, but is glad to know that it's sufficiently stacked. though it seems time for your-place-or-mine negotiations, they slink off to a darker corner behind the jukebox instead.
informal economies
02/12/11. cinder-grey-ice-bound western outskirts of dayton, on the gettysburg pike, likely a 1960s effort to mark an edge for urban creep. abandoned manufacturing estates, scruffy shopping centers fronted by sprawling cracked asphalt, side streets and boulevards to nowhere named after working class black heroes (James H McGee Boulevard), working class white heroes (Lori Sue Avenue), and working class aspirations (Cornell Drive). on the north side of a crumbling concrete bridge over the wolf creek, skidded into the snowy west end of a T intersection and facing the intersection at a jaunty angle: tan cadillac missing its driver side front wheel. later model ford pointed straight ahead into the dead end of the intersection, not clearly involved in a collision, but possibly. two men in tshirts and jeans inspecting damage. in the southbound left hand turn lane at the light, another man climbs halfway out of his car and calls out across traffic -- "you need a tow? got a truck around the corner..." mildly annoyed shouted response, accompanied by a hand running over short-cropped hair -- "don't got money for a tow, man!" the lack of other apparent options hangs in the air, so from the left hand turning man: "you wanna sell it, then?"
02/12/11. cinder-grey-ice-bound western outskirts of dayton, on the gettysburg pike, likely a 1960s effort to mark an edge for urban creep. abandoned manufacturing estates, scruffy shopping centers fronted by sprawling cracked asphalt, side streets and boulevards to nowhere named after working class black heroes (James H McGee Boulevard), working class white heroes (Lori Sue Avenue), and working class aspirations (Cornell Drive). on the north side of a crumbling concrete bridge over the wolf creek, skidded into the snowy west end of a T intersection and facing the intersection at a jaunty angle: tan cadillac missing its driver side front wheel. later model ford pointed straight ahead into the dead end of the intersection, not clearly involved in a collision, but possibly. two men in tshirts and jeans inspecting damage. in the southbound left hand turn lane at the light, another man climbs halfway out of his car and calls out across traffic -- "you need a tow? got a truck around the corner..." mildly annoyed shouted response, accompanied by a hand running over short-cropped hair -- "don't got money for a tow, man!" the lack of other apparent options hangs in the air, so from the left hand turning man: "you wanna sell it, then?"
union man
11/26/10. mastracchio's west, millerstown. sitting at the only bar in a nondescript pennsylvania small town. southern margin of ridge and valley territory on the juniata river where it bisects a broad and heavily farmed valley bracketed by low forested ridges. perry county signifies backwoods rural for the suburban tangle to the south. and locals embrace that aesthetic, but it's not nearly as wild as the mountain heart of central pennsylvania, the filled-in V that stretches from corry southeast to mcconnellsburg and back northeast to montrose. for every farmer there are three who commute to harrisburg for jobs in state government. mastracchio's (west) is a surprisingly successful newish surf-and-turf pub on the edge of town, on the main drag that now leads nowhere ever since it was replaced as US322 by four lanes of concrete along the river. weekday nights are quiet except for the pool hustling crowd, but weekends bring all comers. time-warped farming couples in horn-rimmed glasses, wal-mart distribution center roughnecks, high school teachers blinking away memories of college in slightly-more-cosmopolitan locales...and this thanksgiving weekend the expected homecoming throng.
at my left elbow a housewife sharing nachos with her husband. she wants to flirt with someone-anyone, but can't pull the trigger. at my right elbow is a severely listing carhartt jacket clinging hard to the bar and lurching over to the stools occasionally to leer at the wait staff. my eyes are locked straight ahead and upward on oregon-arizona football so as not to disturb any delicate balances. (the constant topic here, perry county bar fights, sounds real enough) but the real show is to my right at the short end of the bar at the front where the pool hustlers are gathered. mostly it's a loudmouth I initially took for the owner of the joint since he's acting as if he, well, owns the place. with flourishes he sidles over to the jukebox, every time shouting some joke to nacho husband about the latter's doo-wop inflected selections. and every time there are many HA-HAs and jocular finger pointing. nacho wife is tiring of it all and shooting glances in my general direction. but all eyes are on the bar owner. now he's running the table against another hapless foe, a serious look for a moment. but then it's back to the frivolity. he doesn't look perry county, and we learn that he's a 'flatlander' from new holland. his face is rounder and softer than the local type -- partly because he's more anglo than pennsylvania dutch, partly because he's lived a life of suburban prosperity. moderately coiffed grey hair, dark eyes, oxford shirt, jeans -- something about him suggests 'small business owner.' possible that I'm conflating him with the 5th street wine&deli owner. in any case, his charisma floods the bar, but I can't remember anything he said. it's as if his non-local stories fall to the ground soundlessly, leaving him only with the occasional shouts across the bar to the handful he actually knows...invariably perry county returnees come back from careers in the big cities south.
so for all his polish, he's easily eclipsed by the union man whom he dispatches with ease at the billiard table. union man: the sort of face that draws your eye, not because it's attractive, but compelling in an angularity that suggests caricature. an overly sharp and plunging widow's peak bracketed by a spiky high-and-tight fortress sitting atop his large head. the lower half of his face pulled down and forward dramatically, nose and chin curving together like a broken crescent. intense eyes that that widen to punctuate his story with 'what, who me?' surprise at appropriate points. a white long-sleeve t-shirt announces some allegiance with OU, 'SOONERS' burgundy-lettered along both sleeves, and it conceals a powerful frame, all long arms and military posture. and indeed he and the trucker posing as a down-and-outer across the angle from him trade military experiences. the connection comes more through their sons, both of whom are in the signal corps somewhere in germany. the down-and-outer has the tattoo to confirm vietnam, but union man is too young for that.
then it's time for the story: this man stands, never sits, and as he talks he sways just a bit as if he's delivering his routine on stage. he's at some other perry county bar (didn't catch it, but I was imagining the 'hard hat' in newport). he's the archetypal 'minding his own business' protagonist, of course. so he's either playing cards in the back or having a beer at the bar (both versions back-to-back) and watching the pool tables. (this is the land of men who travel from bar to bar with cues in matching black bags.) a stranger shambles over and asks what he's looking at / does he have a problem. our hero defuses the situation: "I was just looking over at my union brother and thinking I'd like to buy him a beer." apparently this is enough for the agitator, perhaps because union man has signalled that his 'brothers' have his back. ['brother' has a more casual/general connotation here as well, marking any loose affiliation. but for the union man a 'union brother' is a serious bond.] in any case, the agitator walks over to some other guy at the bar and cold cocks him. there's blood, and the victim is first described as a big man, but he's also an 'older guy' with white hair. the agitator seizes control of the commotion that he'll take anyone there. union man steps in and takes the opponents outside and checks to see if the older guy needs 'medical attention.' as is clear by now there is absolutely nothing remarkable or interesting about union man's story, and it's delivered as a series of cliched situations and analyses, but he makes it compelling somehow. the agitator thread got lost somewhere, but when union man re-enters the bar two women are on the ground fighting it out, one apparently related to the agitator. our man is an island of order in a sea of chaos, of course, but girls on the floor means hands off. another woman comes up, he asks for her identification, and it turns out that she's related to the sucker punch victim and so dives into the fray. and the story trails off there, having reached the limits of what union man can picture.
11/26/10. mastracchio's west, millerstown. sitting at the only bar in a nondescript pennsylvania small town. southern margin of ridge and valley territory on the juniata river where it bisects a broad and heavily farmed valley bracketed by low forested ridges. perry county signifies backwoods rural for the suburban tangle to the south. and locals embrace that aesthetic, but it's not nearly as wild as the mountain heart of central pennsylvania, the filled-in V that stretches from corry southeast to mcconnellsburg and back northeast to montrose. for every farmer there are three who commute to harrisburg for jobs in state government. mastracchio's (west) is a surprisingly successful newish surf-and-turf pub on the edge of town, on the main drag that now leads nowhere ever since it was replaced as US322 by four lanes of concrete along the river. weekday nights are quiet except for the pool hustling crowd, but weekends bring all comers. time-warped farming couples in horn-rimmed glasses, wal-mart distribution center roughnecks, high school teachers blinking away memories of college in slightly-more-cosmopolitan locales...and this thanksgiving weekend the expected homecoming throng.
at my left elbow a housewife sharing nachos with her husband. she wants to flirt with someone-anyone, but can't pull the trigger. at my right elbow is a severely listing carhartt jacket clinging hard to the bar and lurching over to the stools occasionally to leer at the wait staff. my eyes are locked straight ahead and upward on oregon-arizona football so as not to disturb any delicate balances. (the constant topic here, perry county bar fights, sounds real enough) but the real show is to my right at the short end of the bar at the front where the pool hustlers are gathered. mostly it's a loudmouth I initially took for the owner of the joint since he's acting as if he, well, owns the place. with flourishes he sidles over to the jukebox, every time shouting some joke to nacho husband about the latter's doo-wop inflected selections. and every time there are many HA-HAs and jocular finger pointing. nacho wife is tiring of it all and shooting glances in my general direction. but all eyes are on the bar owner. now he's running the table against another hapless foe, a serious look for a moment. but then it's back to the frivolity. he doesn't look perry county, and we learn that he's a 'flatlander' from new holland. his face is rounder and softer than the local type -- partly because he's more anglo than pennsylvania dutch, partly because he's lived a life of suburban prosperity. moderately coiffed grey hair, dark eyes, oxford shirt, jeans -- something about him suggests 'small business owner.' possible that I'm conflating him with the 5th street wine&deli owner. in any case, his charisma floods the bar, but I can't remember anything he said. it's as if his non-local stories fall to the ground soundlessly, leaving him only with the occasional shouts across the bar to the handful he actually knows...invariably perry county returnees come back from careers in the big cities south.
so for all his polish, he's easily eclipsed by the union man whom he dispatches with ease at the billiard table. union man: the sort of face that draws your eye, not because it's attractive, but compelling in an angularity that suggests caricature. an overly sharp and plunging widow's peak bracketed by a spiky high-and-tight fortress sitting atop his large head. the lower half of his face pulled down and forward dramatically, nose and chin curving together like a broken crescent. intense eyes that that widen to punctuate his story with 'what, who me?' surprise at appropriate points. a white long-sleeve t-shirt announces some allegiance with OU, 'SOONERS' burgundy-lettered along both sleeves, and it conceals a powerful frame, all long arms and military posture. and indeed he and the trucker posing as a down-and-outer across the angle from him trade military experiences. the connection comes more through their sons, both of whom are in the signal corps somewhere in germany. the down-and-outer has the tattoo to confirm vietnam, but union man is too young for that.
then it's time for the story: this man stands, never sits, and as he talks he sways just a bit as if he's delivering his routine on stage. he's at some other perry county bar (didn't catch it, but I was imagining the 'hard hat' in newport). he's the archetypal 'minding his own business' protagonist, of course. so he's either playing cards in the back or having a beer at the bar (both versions back-to-back) and watching the pool tables. (this is the land of men who travel from bar to bar with cues in matching black bags.) a stranger shambles over and asks what he's looking at / does he have a problem. our hero defuses the situation: "I was just looking over at my union brother and thinking I'd like to buy him a beer." apparently this is enough for the agitator, perhaps because union man has signalled that his 'brothers' have his back. ['brother' has a more casual/general connotation here as well, marking any loose affiliation. but for the union man a 'union brother' is a serious bond.] in any case, the agitator walks over to some other guy at the bar and cold cocks him. there's blood, and the victim is first described as a big man, but he's also an 'older guy' with white hair. the agitator seizes control of the commotion that he'll take anyone there. union man steps in and takes the opponents outside and checks to see if the older guy needs 'medical attention.' as is clear by now there is absolutely nothing remarkable or interesting about union man's story, and it's delivered as a series of cliched situations and analyses, but he makes it compelling somehow. the agitator thread got lost somewhere, but when union man re-enters the bar two women are on the ground fighting it out, one apparently related to the agitator. our man is an island of order in a sea of chaos, of course, but girls on the floor means hands off. another woman comes up, he asks for her identification, and it turns out that she's related to the sucker punch victim and so dives into the fray. and the story trails off there, having reached the limits of what union man can picture.
shoot him and he'll sue your ass
11/7/10. park chili, northside. two police cruisers parked on a side street. cpd cops patrol alone -- every call draws two cruisers, the first responder often idling in his car waiting for backup. no disturbance here, just brunch. one cop dismounts by himself, the other accompanied by a nervous-looking woman (civilian) with darting eyes. after huddling at the counter for a while they snag a booth across the way. the nervous woman is crowded into the corner by the jagged tangle of her companion's winter uniform jacket, sidearm, taser, walkie-talkie, bat-utility belt, towering-jaunty hat, and long splayed legs under the table. this looks very much like her customary position. when this odd group first met up on the street I assumed she was there in some sort of official capacity -- informant? witness? suspect? instead it looks like she's at least loosely affiliated with the alpha cop, though he doesn't acknowledge her much or ever look in her direction. she's in a medium-puffy quilted brown jacket and jeans. hair pulled back tightly, lightly freckled coffee-with-three-creams skin. has a look that defies snap-judgment -- hollow cheeks and more-than-a-couple missing molars suggest a life on the edge, but respectable clothes and general well-kept appearances say something else. I want to imagine vic mackey's ('the shield') girlfriend on a good day, but that's just misplaced fantasy. dark dark eyes that fix briefly on something before immediately darting down to her busy hands...again and again. laughs but rarely speaks, and then so quietly that I can't hear from ten feet away.
next to her on the booth bench is the alpha cop. both cops are wearing three stripes, but this one is doing all the talking and outranks the other in charisma. lanky tall and takes up as much room as a fat man because his limbs sprawl and his soaring buttresses white hat has a statue of liberty effect. (cpd: white cars, white hats, white shirts, black reputations.) 'the hat stays on,' when his opposite offers to stash it on the bench beside him. resonant voice, casual almost bullying confidence: apparently nonchalant on every score but suddenly flashed confrontation on important matters like when it's okay to shoot a suspect and which midtown frisch's big boy is the best lunch spot. early 50s, eyes that stare intently into insouciance most of the time only to narrow and swivel when the topic engages him. laughing the false laugh of the supervisor sometimes and cackling freely sometimes. alternating studied inscrutability and open sincerity. I couldn't hear much of this conversation without staring, and staring at cops makes me nervous...but I caught bits. at one point the conversation improbably turned to lethal force...the sort of thing you'd love to hear cops talk about but assume they never do, right? the snippets I caught concerned a fellow officer who let two fly at a group of perps but missed all four with both shots, and then a hypothetical about when to fire. man exits a bank with a shotgun under his arm -- do you shoot? beta cop is all for it, but alpha says 'shoot him and he'll sue your ass' since you're not directly threatened. if the shotgun is aimed at you, fire away. but not before. this seems to be the sort of thing that cop training would have covered in detail, esp for the trigger-happy cpd. or a conversation that a cop would have with a civilian buddy at the bar...not something between two sergeants. more pressing, however, was the restaurant review. two frisch's big boys -- one on central parkway, one on spring grove. which is better? 'I used to go to the one on spring grove,' says alpha. 'I hate the one on central,' says beta. 'why?' 'just don't like it.' that answer is suddenly not enough for alpha, who demands more. 'you have to be more specific,' almost menacingly, eyes burning casually. beta retreats and is noncommittal. I'm sensing racial undercurrents...or is that fantasy again? alpha is a black veteran of a force that has a vocal black patrolman's fraternity, the sentinels. a likely browner central parkway diner vs appalachia north on spring grove...plus the perp-shooting discussion (cpd shoots black men almost exclusively, a fact that hasn't escaped the sentinels)? who knows.
beta cop is also in his 50s. irish flushed face, his hat doffed to reveal white grey swept up hair, semi-designer glasses with metallic blue stems and square wire rims jangling against a working class accent. smile dances on and off nervously, flashing jumbled teeth. he's angled away from me far enough that his mumbled responses are almost completely lost. indelibly cincinnati. west hi most likely, though elder is possible. but for all that the alpha cop is busy lecturing him on the ins and outs of northside. northside, you see, is 'ek...klectic,' with that pause for effect. have to be prepared for anything. alpha passing off command to beta on his way up the ladder?
11/7/10. park chili, northside. two police cruisers parked on a side street. cpd cops patrol alone -- every call draws two cruisers, the first responder often idling in his car waiting for backup. no disturbance here, just brunch. one cop dismounts by himself, the other accompanied by a nervous-looking woman (civilian) with darting eyes. after huddling at the counter for a while they snag a booth across the way. the nervous woman is crowded into the corner by the jagged tangle of her companion's winter uniform jacket, sidearm, taser, walkie-talkie, bat-utility belt, towering-jaunty hat, and long splayed legs under the table. this looks very much like her customary position. when this odd group first met up on the street I assumed she was there in some sort of official capacity -- informant? witness? suspect? instead it looks like she's at least loosely affiliated with the alpha cop, though he doesn't acknowledge her much or ever look in her direction. she's in a medium-puffy quilted brown jacket and jeans. hair pulled back tightly, lightly freckled coffee-with-three-creams skin. has a look that defies snap-judgment -- hollow cheeks and more-than-a-couple missing molars suggest a life on the edge, but respectable clothes and general well-kept appearances say something else. I want to imagine vic mackey's ('the shield') girlfriend on a good day, but that's just misplaced fantasy. dark dark eyes that fix briefly on something before immediately darting down to her busy hands...again and again. laughs but rarely speaks, and then so quietly that I can't hear from ten feet away.
next to her on the booth bench is the alpha cop. both cops are wearing three stripes, but this one is doing all the talking and outranks the other in charisma. lanky tall and takes up as much room as a fat man because his limbs sprawl and his soaring buttresses white hat has a statue of liberty effect. (cpd: white cars, white hats, white shirts, black reputations.) 'the hat stays on,' when his opposite offers to stash it on the bench beside him. resonant voice, casual almost bullying confidence: apparently nonchalant on every score but suddenly flashed confrontation on important matters like when it's okay to shoot a suspect and which midtown frisch's big boy is the best lunch spot. early 50s, eyes that stare intently into insouciance most of the time only to narrow and swivel when the topic engages him. laughing the false laugh of the supervisor sometimes and cackling freely sometimes. alternating studied inscrutability and open sincerity. I couldn't hear much of this conversation without staring, and staring at cops makes me nervous...but I caught bits. at one point the conversation improbably turned to lethal force...the sort of thing you'd love to hear cops talk about but assume they never do, right? the snippets I caught concerned a fellow officer who let two fly at a group of perps but missed all four with both shots, and then a hypothetical about when to fire. man exits a bank with a shotgun under his arm -- do you shoot? beta cop is all for it, but alpha says 'shoot him and he'll sue your ass' since you're not directly threatened. if the shotgun is aimed at you, fire away. but not before. this seems to be the sort of thing that cop training would have covered in detail, esp for the trigger-happy cpd. or a conversation that a cop would have with a civilian buddy at the bar...not something between two sergeants. more pressing, however, was the restaurant review. two frisch's big boys -- one on central parkway, one on spring grove. which is better? 'I used to go to the one on spring grove,' says alpha. 'I hate the one on central,' says beta. 'why?' 'just don't like it.' that answer is suddenly not enough for alpha, who demands more. 'you have to be more specific,' almost menacingly, eyes burning casually. beta retreats and is noncommittal. I'm sensing racial undercurrents...or is that fantasy again? alpha is a black veteran of a force that has a vocal black patrolman's fraternity, the sentinels. a likely browner central parkway diner vs appalachia north on spring grove...plus the perp-shooting discussion (cpd shoots black men almost exclusively, a fact that hasn't escaped the sentinels)? who knows.
beta cop is also in his 50s. irish flushed face, his hat doffed to reveal white grey swept up hair, semi-designer glasses with metallic blue stems and square wire rims jangling against a working class accent. smile dances on and off nervously, flashing jumbled teeth. he's angled away from me far enough that his mumbled responses are almost completely lost. indelibly cincinnati. west hi most likely, though elder is possible. but for all that the alpha cop is busy lecturing him on the ins and outs of northside. northside, you see, is 'ek...klectic,' with that pause for effect. have to be prepared for anything. alpha passing off command to beta on his way up the ladder?
best domino's pizza I've ever had
best domino's pizza I've ever had
10/15/10. 5th street wine and deli in the oregon district, dayton. two guys at the next table munching chips and drinking orange soda, waiting for sandwiches. one tall and all bony knuckles and adam's apple, sandy blond hair, a patina of dirt and grease darkening his skin. haphazard scruff around his mouth. piercing dull eyes. sagging jeans, paint-stained; blue-grey zippered sweatshirt. reeks of stale cigarettes. he talks loudly into his cell phone about motorcycles he's working on and empathizes with someone who's cutting down trees -- he knows all about it because he worked that job for asplundh. his pal has a mid-length sandy beard, not ironic. large silver-rimmed square framed glasses, also 80s and decidedly unironic. navy zippered sweatshirt, tousled hair. his feet jackhammer on the floor when he's impatient or about to speak. one of his friend's conversants annoys him especially, and he gets up to inspect the ice cream chest. 'he's an idiot.'
the conversation is almost stylized in its stripped-down bareness. "I think that was the best domino's pizza I've ever had. they've revamped." "anything helps in this economy." "yeah." their speech is flat and their diction awkwardly basic. they both struggle to find words. thoughts claw to the surface but don't come out readily. intense concentration broken by fidgeting. intense working class lifers watching a parade of absurd hipsters pass by. one adjusts his chair to keep the bubbly sandwich-maker in view.
10/15/10. 5th street wine and deli in the oregon district, dayton. two guys at the next table munching chips and drinking orange soda, waiting for sandwiches. one tall and all bony knuckles and adam's apple, sandy blond hair, a patina of dirt and grease darkening his skin. haphazard scruff around his mouth. piercing dull eyes. sagging jeans, paint-stained; blue-grey zippered sweatshirt. reeks of stale cigarettes. he talks loudly into his cell phone about motorcycles he's working on and empathizes with someone who's cutting down trees -- he knows all about it because he worked that job for asplundh. his pal has a mid-length sandy beard, not ironic. large silver-rimmed square framed glasses, also 80s and decidedly unironic. navy zippered sweatshirt, tousled hair. his feet jackhammer on the floor when he's impatient or about to speak. one of his friend's conversants annoys him especially, and he gets up to inspect the ice cream chest. 'he's an idiot.'
the conversation is almost stylized in its stripped-down bareness. "I think that was the best domino's pizza I've ever had. they've revamped." "anything helps in this economy." "yeah." their speech is flat and their diction awkwardly basic. they both struggle to find words. thoughts claw to the surface but don't come out readily. intense concentration broken by fidgeting. intense working class lifers watching a parade of absurd hipsters pass by. one adjusts his chair to keep the bubbly sandwich-maker in view.
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