on the hel-L train

Over the last eight months, I have learned many “not to” lessons. I’ve learned not to engage hyper-conservative relatives on topics like “gun control” and “what happened in Georgia.” I’ve learned not to stay out until 6 a.m. at bumping Italian discotheques (unless you’re hankering for a 103° fever and a week of bed rest). I’ve even learned not to date people who don’t speak your language but do despise your culture with a passion far exceeding your own. Two trimesters chockful of newly acquired international knowledge, and my head is spinning from intellectual jetlag. It’s like my own personal Enlightenment...minus the syphilis.

But by far the most important lesson happened right here in the grand ol’ U.S. of A. This lesson revealed itself over the past weekend in New York City, Hipster Capital of the World. It’s really quite simple.

Don’t travel with bags.

Let me revise that. Don’t travel in New York with bags.

Wait -- one more revision. Don’t travel in New York with bags if it requires taking the Manhattan-bound L train at rush hour with a towering hiking backpack strapped to your back and two oversized purses clutched desperately between your sweaty and rubbed-raw palms.


The story begins like any other story. After a sojourn in Italy, I was making my way back to the Lone Star State by way of the Big Apple. I spent several jubilant days in the city with friends, sipping sangria, wallowing in wine, boozing on beers...and sipping more sangria.

Early Tuesday morning, the time had come to bid my adieus. So I strapped my 40-lb hiking backpack to my back (which seriously impedes one’s vertical versatility), swung a mom-sized purse over each arm (which seriously impedes one’s horizontal mobility), and made my way to the subway stop. By “made my way to the subway stop,” I mean that I waddled to the subway stop, wavering from left to right in tiny, constipated steps and making a kind of zigzag pattern, which is really the only way to simultaneously carry three large bags that are all working in direct opposition to one another and to you, the bag carrier, as you attempt to balance all concurrent vectors of swinging motion while also losing blood flow to at least four different places in your legs.

To my chagrin, the battle had only just begun.

At first, things seemed to be going smoothly. The L train arrived and, though crowded, I managed to maneuver myself into a spot. The spot was directly in front of the door, which meant I didn’t have anything to hold onto...but because we were jammed so tightly together, I fervently prayed that the other passengers would act as a sort of buoying force. Nervous beads of sweat formed on my brow as I focused all of my energies on staying upright so that I wouldn’t plunge into other passengers with my off-center load. So far, so good, I told myself. Maybe I can do this.

The problems began when we arrived at the 1st Avenue stop. Now, I wasn’t getting off at 1st Avenue, mind you...but everyone else was. At least, everyone else wanted to get off at 1st Avenue, but found themselves faced with an unexpected obstacle: the person-sized backpack plastered to my back.

At first, I tried to hold my ground...directly in front of the door. This resulted in people stumbling around me, banging into me with their baby strollers and briefcases and a hostile force that only native New Yorkers can conjure up. It wasn’t long before the verbal assaults began.

“Move!”

“Get off!”

“GET OUT OF THE FUCKING CAR!!!”

...and other such colorful commands. The problem was, I would have stepped out of the car to allow them to pass through, but as my back was facing the door, I couldn’t reconcile the thought of stepping blindly backwards into the abyss with forty pounds of extra weight on my back. The abyss included not only a throng of equally pissed-off New Yorkers trying to get on the L train, but a foot-sized black hole of space between the car and the platform...and I couldn’t see a thing behind me. As I was literally wrestled out of the car against my will, I managed to halfway voice this complaint.

“You know,” I said pointedly to no one in particular, “it’s kind of hard to go backwards since I have a large backpack on my back...”

“I know,” spat a sixty-something woman in disgust, glaring at me like a silver-haired tigress before pushing me out of the way.

As the hoard shoved past, I managed to reclaim a spot in the now-empty car just before the doors closed. I felt absurdly guilty. Just imagine: the audacity of wearing a backpack on the L train! You can wear Buddy Holly glasses, a thrift-store John Deere tee, and skinny jeans so hip-less they redefine the meaning of “hipster”... but a backpack? It’s anathema to even think it!

The transfer to the N was far more successful. Since Queens isn’t jostling for recognition as a popular rush-hour destination, I even had breathing room. I made it to the Astoria stop without further event, except for when the Peruvian guy sitting next to me asked for my number. I did not oblige.

At Astoria, it was time to embark on the next part of my journey: get cash for the airport bus. I waddled out into the morning sunshine to find the streets in an uproar. Two policemen were directing traffic around a regular ruckus -- a legion of construction workers was literally ripping up the streets. Amidst the chorus of jackhammers, I could barely hear myself think. Then I spotted an ATM outside of a small convenience store. I trudged across the street. Because someone had made the decision to place this ATM about a foot above eye level, I had to stand on my very tiptoes to barely see the screen. Considering my three bags and their combined weight of over fifty-five pounds, this was not an easy thing to do. Somehow, I swiped my card.

Nothing happened.

I swiped my card again, and still nothing happened. Then I realized that the screen didn’t look like a normal screen at all; in fact it only had two options, neither of which said “withdraw.” The jackhammers crescendoed as if to honor my plight. I pressed one of the ATM options. It asked me how much money I wanted to put into the machine.

Money's supposed to come OUT of you! I thought in annoyance. Apparently, this machine was in need of bank notes. As was I. I was also at risk of going deaf.

I poked my head inside the store as the cacophonous construction roared behind me.

“I think your ATM’s out of cash,” I said to the employee, trying hard to make myself heard over the unceasing jackhammers. The man was at least ten feet away and glaring at me from behind a very high counter (I couldn’t help but deduce that this store was made explicitly for tall people).

“I have been telling you,” he said, shaking his head at me as if I were the biggest idiot south of the Bronx. “It does not work. I have been saying to you, ‘You go to Sunoco.’” He waved his hands in utter frustration. “I have been telling you, but you do not listen.”

You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought, the jackhammers cracking into my consciousness. I do not listen? How the hell am I supposed to HEAR?

“Well, there’s a lot of construction going on out here...” I started to say, before he cut me off with a wave of his hand.

“Sunoco.” He was literally shooing me out of the store. “Over there.”

The obliging Sunoco ATM coughed up twenty bucks -- and wasn’t even flippant about it.

Finally, I made it onto the M60 bus to La Guardia. I handed my twenty dollars to the bus driver. He didn’t take it. Instead he looked at me grumpily. Then he started the bus with a grunt.

So this was a free transfer. Great. What was not great was that I went keeling sideways the moment he hit the accelerator, just managing to catch myself before tumbling into the lap of a lady who had just unscrewed her jar of homemade tea and was preparing to take her virgin sip.

For a few minutes, I stood in stoic resolve, backpack straps slicing into my shoulders and bags biting into both arms. I valiantly refused to take the only open seat: a seat emblazoned with a venerable white wheelchair and its requisite stick figure, looking generically humbled. I was not disabled. Nay. I was strong; I was mighty; and I would stand.

After nearly plopping directly into the lady’s tea jar about four times, I decided to screw my stoic resolve and plop down in the handicap seat instead. My back and shoulders breathed their gratitude. The woman drank her tea. For a moment, we were all happy, passengers bound together in the camaraderie of a common destination, united in the solidarity of a shared purpose.

It didn’t last long. As we neared the airport, a girl next to me was asking if anyone knew which terminal for AirTran. Ever the good Samaritan -- and because I, too, needed to figure out where AirTran was -- I decided to query the driver.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said politely, ambling toward the front of the bus. “Do you know what terminal AirTran is in?”

“Yep.”

I waited for the follow-up. He said nothing. I said nothing. Aaaaand...silence.

“Uhh...which terminal is it?” I said finally.

“I’m trying to drive here, miss!” the driver snapped at me, raising his voice as he violently gripped the wheel. Helplessly, I shrank back to my handicapped seat. The AirTran girl looked at me, her eyes gleaming with fresh hope.

“He’ll tell us when we get there,” I lied, hoping this was actually true. If not…well, shit.

A few minutes later, we pulled up in front of Terminal C. The driver rattled through the list of airlines -- American Eagle, United, US Airways. AirTran was not among them.

“Hey,” bellowed the bus driver, yelling over his shoulder. “Didn’t you just ask me about US Airways?”

“I asked about AirTran, sir,” I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

“I’m not talking to you,” he growled, and repeated his question to the bus at large.

He must not have been talking to anyone else, either, as evidently NO ONE had asked about US Airways. The bus driver’s question hung in the air angrily until, upon receiving no response, he stepped on the gas as we sped off to Terminal B...my terminal, thank god. I managed to knock into two grown men while swinging my backpack on (the secret is centrifugal force) before scurrying out the back of the bus.

Inside the airport, the man checking boarding passes gave me a big grin.

“How are you this morning, Miss Barton?” he asked with a genuine smile.

I couldn’t believe it. He was actually being nice to me? A person I didn’t know? And a New Yorker? It didn’t make any sense.

“You know,” I said, “you are by far the most pleasant person I’ve run into today.” I mentally replayed the events of the morning and felt added emphasis was necessary. “By far.”

“Glad to hear it!” he said, before ushering me into the bowels of La Guardia.

Maybe no one else will be pissed off today, I reasoned, as I began taking off my jacket and shoes. Maybe it’s all uphill from here. I felt a slight smile creep across my lips.

Already feeling cheered, I noticed the woman in front of me in the security line. She was sitting in a wheelchair. I felt a pang, thinking of the bus seat I had theoretically stolen from this poor, gentle soul. The woman was speaking to the airport employee charged with steering her two-wheeled craft.

“You know,” the woman was saying in a low whisper, “I can file a complaint and report your god damn ass…”

Good bye, New York City. Never has Southern hospitality looked so good.

Red, White and Blue Moon

Two nights ago, I did the impossible. The unthinkable. The potentially hazardous to my health.

I infiltrated enemy ranks. That’s right: I entered…the red zone.

As the first Presidential Debate loomed on the evening timetable, I bridged the partisan divide and attended two debate-watching events: one Republican, and one Democratic.

As you might imagine, I didn’t have a thing to wear.

The Republican get-together was first. After thoroughly browsing JohnMccain.com (not the easiest site to navigate, in my opinion), I found the closest debate-watching event in a small town located 15 miles from my house, a town that, as I would discover later that evening, also happens to be the county seat for the local chapter of the KKK. After one wrong turn that landed me in the middle of a state park, I wound my way through the tortuous dark roads until I finally arrived, 45 minutes before the debate began.

The address led me to a two-story shingled home belonging to a Mr. F, located off the main street of a small town. As I lifted my fist to knock, I noticed an array of five stickers on the front door:

National Rifle Association.

North American Hunting Club.

U.S. Marine Corps.

U.S. Military: Proud to Serve.

American and Proud.

I couldn’t help but smile. It’s like this man’s door was stumping for stereotypes.

“Come in,” a faceless voice said from inside. So I did.

To my surprise, I was the only one there.

A man with a crew cut and a walking cane stood to greet me. He sized me up as I extended my hand. “I’m Bree,” I said quickly, wondering if I was crossing some invisible line. I wasn’t really a Republican. Was I supposed to fake it?

Slightly nervous, I babbled on. “I hate to stop and run, but I can’t stay very long…” I trailed off. “There’s another event I’m trying to catch tonight.”

“That’s fine,” he said, nodding agreeably. “That’s what most people have been doing—they just stop in to get their stuff and leave.” He motioned to a table in the center of the room where a veritable pile of McCain paraphernalia lay. Pages, pamphlets, brochures, bumper stickers, round stickers, notepads—and of course, massive McCain yard signs. “Here,” Mr. F said, hobbling to
the table and collecting a hefty pile. “Take some.”

I took them in my hand, feeling slightly fraud-like. “Be right back,” he said, “and don’t mind the dog.”

“Dog?” I hadn’t seen a dog.

“Name’s Cupcake,” he said over his shoulder before disappearing into the bowels of his house.

I took the opportunity to analyze his living room. There were two bowls of potato chips on two wooden tables. Two televisions were nestled into the bookshelves, both set to CNN . There were even two fish tanks, identical in size and color, facing each other from opposite walls. It was like everything in the room had its duplicate. The effect was somewhat eerie.

Cupcake materialized from the kitchen. He wandered into the living room, a Beagle mutt with sad and baleful eyes. When I reached down to pet him, he winced and moved away.

“He was abused,” said Mr. F, ambling slowly and carefully into the room. “Want to give me your email?”

We chatted for a few more minutes, Mr. F talking about some of the local Republican politicians and, when I commented on the medals in his glass case, his thirteen years of service as a Marine. He wrote out some information on a notepad.

Standing in his living room, hand poised over the chip bowl, I felt obliged to ask a question like a real Republican would do. “So. We gonna win?” I asked, my heart wiggling like Eggs Benedict.

“McCain’ll take it,” he said, without even looking up. “Some of the local guys might be closer, though.”

In that moment, it occurred to me that half a country of McCain supporters are utterly confident that McCain will win. The other half are utterly certain it will go the other way. Obviously, one of the two groups is utterly wrong.

I helped myself to some candy before I made my way out. I’m pretty sure it was left over from Halloween.

As I closed his front door behind me, I noticed seven hot dogs roasting on the grill. Had Mr. F expected more guests? Maybe he’d envisioned watching the debate with others, reminiscing over his days in the first Gulf War and discussing our country’s glorious future. I felt a twinge of sadness.

But I hurried on my way. Besides—the Democrats had free beer and chicken wings.

When I got to the inn where the Democrats were preparing to watch the debate, it was a lively crew. No liberal vegans here—on the contrary, there were several pitchers of beer and a heaping pile of spicy chicken wings. Very left wing.

“This is gonna be good,” said a man as he stumbled toward a table, extending a shaky hand to touch the chandelier overhead. “Obama’s ideas are just so…they’re so perfect!”

I settled myself into a corner and turned on my laptop, preparing to take notes.

The moment the debate began, someone hit the lights and all 21 people crammed into the room fell silent. A mystical darkness fell over us as all eyes looked up at the television screen. You could have heard a bone crunch.

But it didn’t take long for the whispers to begin. Midway through the first ten minutes, as both candidates struggled to answer Jim Lehrer’s questions on the economy, a rippling groan of dissent went through the room.

“He’s not answering the question,” said a woman beside me, shaking her head in disgust at John McCain.

“And not only that, but the Republicans are refusing to sign!” another woman said, referring to the latest failed bailout deal.

The debate continued, and every once in a while, someone would pipe up, “Are you out of your god damn mind?” when McCain said something particularly ludicrous.

I typed away furiously, trying to capture everything I could. “The war has cost us 600 billion dollars and more than 4,000 lives,” intoned Obama, “and yet Al Qaeda is stronger now than ever before.” I couldn’t help but marvel over the fact that, when I erred in my spelling of “Al Qaeda,” Microsoft Word spell check was quick to offer me the correct alternative. What a testament to how much times have changed since 2001.

Around the time the phrase “fundamental difference” had been used for about the ninth time, I noticed my laptop was running out of juice. I took a furtive glance around the dark room and located the only open outlet—directly under the television.

There was only one thing to do: I got on my hands and knees, desperately trying not to attract attention to myself, and crawled toward the outlet with computer cord in hand, ever reverent to the almighty god of electrical current.

When I got there, I noticed one of the two sockets in the outlet was occupied by a black cord. I didn’t think much of it as I thrust my laptop cord into the remaining socket.

Then suddenly, silence.

The room was strangely quiet and dark. I looked up. The television was off, completely powered down. 20 people emitted simultaneous groans and objections as my heartbeat ground to a screeching halt.

“Oh my god,” I said, “did I do that?”

And sure enough, I had. I had unplugged the first Presidential Debate. I hadn’t even unplugged it—I'd simply plugged my laptop in, and in so doing, disrupted the electrical current and turned off the Presidential Debate while 20 impassioned Democrats were watching with bated breath. And to make matters worse, it wouldn’t go back on.

The next thirty seconds were the longest thirty seconds of my life. I jimmied, I unplugged, and I replugged, all the while offering profuse apologies to the rest of the room. I blew on the socket. I shook it. I pounded it furiously with my fist. Silently, I cursed it. I also noticed the sooty burn marks around each of the sockets. Oh, god.

Somehow, it came back on. I was so very thankful, so very thankful that I crawled out of the room with my laptop in hand.

Obama and McCain talked about Iraq next, or so I heard. By that point, I was at the bar, cowering in shame over a Blue Moon and actively avoiding a roomful of perturbed Democrats. I even made a new friend, a guy who’d completed two tours in Iraq. It cost him 60 percent of his hearing in his right ear and most of the ligament in his shoulder. It cost him his faith in our President, too.

Obviously, I didn’t exactly succeed at watching the debates. And quite frankly, I’m not sure the debates succeeded, either.

I still haven't unloaded my car. For two days, I’ve been driving around with a McCain yard sign in my back seat. Right next to it, an Obama sign rests contentedly on the plush burgundy fabric.

I wonder what the neighbors think.

Work Out with your Jerk Out

Last night at the gym, I was thwarted in my attempts at calisthenics by a woman wearing bright red lipstick and too-tight shorts. She wasn’t hogging the ellipticals, didn’t chat my ear off while I was trying for a treadmill-induced trance, and chose not to scowl at my frenetic workout pace like other patrons do. Oh, no. Much worse: she commandeered the remote control.

At my small and unassuming gym, there are only two televisions, and a scant one of these faces the general direction of the cardio machines. This TV has typically achieved some sort of stasis by the time I arrive around 7 pm. But last night, one woman embarked on an epic journey to find just the right channel to float her boat. The problem for the rest of us was: she couldn’t find it.

This was no ordinary channel surf. Just when I thought she had settled comfortably into an episode of Scrubs or Hannah Montana, she began her maniacal flipping yet again. For 17 minutes—timed by my elliptical’s ever-handy dashboard—this woman continued to surf through channels like she was on the Association of Surfing Professionals World Tour.

Unfortunately for me, my only hope of sustaining an extended workout session is to bombard myself with every possible kind of mental distraction. An hour at the gym means going on sensory overload. Ideally, I have rap music blasting through my iPod speakers, a superficial magazine in front of me, and a fast-paced program on the TV set (with captions, of course). Only then can I engage in a 600-calorie burn—although it remains to be seen if obsequious Precor and its sycophantic calorie display can really be trusted.

When channels are flashing by at the speed of light, however, achieving the necessary level of distraction is utterly impossible. Luckily, after 17 minutes of a grueling, unmitigated session on my machine, the woman made her final decision. What did she choose? The SciFi Channel.


Now, it’s not that I have anything against the SciFi Channel per se. As a child, I was an unabashed Trekkie, basking in the glories of TNG and secretly crushing on Wesley Crusher. But as an adult sweating my ass off on an unforgiving elliptical, watching grown men marvel over a yeti’s foot just isn’t going to cut it.

It’s not like it’s my first frustration at the gym. Usually when I arrive, the TV is set to Fox News, and inevitably, Sarah Palin is featured prominently in at least one story every 25 minutes. Sarah Palin has an interview! Sarah Palin has a pregnant daughter! Sarah Palin has trendy glasses! Through the din of Jamie Foxx and Kanye crooning “She a golddigga,” I can sometimes hear the women on adjacent ellipticals cooing, “Isn’t she great?”

The result is that I find myself getting viscerally angry as I pump my arms and legs faster and faster and my heart rate spikes to the 194-203 range. At least one thing can be said for Sarah Palin: she’s making me lose weight.

So it was only natural that yesterday evening, I was faced with a life-altering decision. It struck me at the very core of my being, dredged up from years of pandering to two very disparate sides of myself. It could be summed up in one simple question: Sarah Palin, or yeti’s feet?

Trembling slightly, dizzied by the knowledge of what I had to do, I made my choice.

I chose neither.

Instead, I leapt from my machine and made a mad dash for the remote as soon as the offending woman released it from her clutches. I flipped to CNN. I watched a silent John McCain’s captions talk about service.

By the time I returned to my elliptical all of six seconds later, it had reset to “zero.”

Remarkable, isn’t it? How easy it is to halt progress.

Transient Travesties

Today, upon driving out of our nation’s capital, I was privy to a series of bizarre and unnatural events. These events took the form of sightings, the kind of inexplicable roadside wonders that make my many hours in the car worthwhile. It’s the cow-shaped shoe store in Texas; the “Greenway Creek RV Park” listed as Exit 32’s sole attraction in West Virginia; the collection of carved wooden beavers in Ontario. This evening, it all began at the Food Mart on Wisconsin Avenue.

Enervated after four days of minimal sleep on a series of couches (some more receptive than others), I was pondering my current emotional state at every red light when I noticed my gas light was on. So I swung into a dingy station with “Food Mart” barely perceptible on its façade. There was nothing remarkable about the building—in fact it was rather tired and worn looking—but the $3.53/gallon gas caught my eye. So I filled my tank and proceeded inside to pay.

The Food Mart was remarkably devoid of food. It was pretty much devoid of everything. It was one room, approximately ten by fifteen feet, occupied by one man behind a makeshift counter. A dilapidated cash register rested disconsolately on the side, and buckets of paint lay askew amidst piles of junk on the floor. Three of the four walls were painted, each a different color—one was tangerine, another cobalt blue, and the last was a dazzling shade of lavender. The final wall, a dingy and uninspiring white, was home to three large black doors, all knob-less, and all closed.


As the man took my money, I began to wonder if this were the site of a future game show, or possibly a brothel owned by a madam who understood the innate appeal of warm paint tones. I asked if there were a bathroom.

“Yes,” the man said, and pointed to the door on the far left. Then he nodded to the second door. “That is man’s,” he said, in well-intentioned but broken English.

I couldn’t contain my curiosity. “And that one?” I asked, pointing to the mysterious third door.

He shook his head and smiled. “That’s for other,” he said. Though I was tempted to ask if he meant other things or other sexes, I decided to let it lie. Instead, I pushed open my own designated door, expecting the worse.

The door swung open to reveal a spacious room bathed in bright white light. The tiles were spotless, a dazzling shade of ivory. A burnished bronze mirror adorned the far wall, ornately carved and larger than my entire body. The counter was spotless, with flecks of chocolate, beige, and cream blended seamlessly into the smooth marble. From the ceiling hung a two-tier chandelier, with dangling crystals of amber and amethyst and quartz. Tendrils of cast iron leaves wound their way around each of the glass candles, and a matching light cast a pale pink glow onto the adjacent wall.

Surrounded by such opulence, I felt suddenly uncomfortable. Was it okay to pee here?

I made a stalwart attempt. Though the commode, gleaming proudly in untarnished porcelain, seemed rather out of place, all was in good working order. It helped that the toilet paper holder had a bright green tag that read, “Try my silent mechanism.” I did. And I heard nothing. So I suppose it worked.

In a state of stupefied bemusement, I continued my journey home, ruminating over how the hell the clearly economically depressed Food Mart had a bathroom straight out of Fannie Mae’s corporate headquarters. I was beleaguered by questions. How did it get there? Was it some kind of fluke? Or did the owners of Food Mart decide that, if they couldn’t have real food and consistent wall colors, they should at least let their customers pee in luxury?

As dusk fell, I continued driving, immersed in deep and troubled thought. That is, until I saw a massive red billboard that jolted me out of my stupor.

BE SURE YOUR SIN

—the sign said, in bold block letters—

WILL FIND YOU OUT.

Oh, shit, I thought. They know.

Suddenly, Food Mart’s incongruous bathroom was totally inconsequential. For the next hour, all I could do was mentally catalogue my recent sins to try and figure out which sin would find me out. And how would it do so? Considering the USPS can’t even find where I live, it didn’t seem likely that my sin was going to succeed in tracking me down—unless that certain sin had GPS. Of course this necessitated an additional catalogue of all the sins that might have GPS capacity. Which sins were mobile? Which were adept with new technology? And which were more like invalids who eat pot roast and watch Matlock reruns?

My mind was still spinning in potentially techno-savvy sins when I saw yet another mind-blowing sign. By this point I was in Pennsylvania, and the billboard was advertising a new waterpark up ahead. An image of an Egyptian bedecked in thick black kohl smiled down at me, inviting me to take the next exit and head on down to “Pharoah’s Phortress.”

Like a flash, my bounty hunter sins didn’t matter anymore. My mind was immediately filled with savory images of extirpation. My mission was now simple: destroy Pharoah’s Phortress by whatever means possible. Or at very least, destroy that sign. As an English major and lover of language, I am ashamed. Ashamed of the people responsible for naming the waterpark. Ashamed of I-476 North for allowing that billboard to tarnish its innocent shoulder. Ashamed of America for producing people who turn to their kids in the backseat after mile number 890 of their cross-country road trip and say, “Hey, doesn’t Pharoah’s Phortress sound like fun?” To which their kids reply, “Yeah, Dad!”—and then go back to drawing crayon pictures of pharoah’s phortresses and king’s kastles and celtic cubmarines.

Now, lest I be misunderstood: it’s not that I don’t approve of alliteration. I can’t get enough of the stuff—hell, as Bree Barton, it’s practically my birthright. But “Pharoah’s Phortress” is a blight on the face of the earth. It is the Eleventh Plague. It makes me want to crawl holeheartedly into a whole. I wish more business owners in charge of creating clever names for their organizations would try their own silent mechanisms, instead of polluting the world with their linguistic abominations.

It also reminds me of the time in college when I titled one of my philosophy papers “Phallacious Freud.”

Dear god. My sin has found me out.

Stop, Shop, Surrender

We live in an age of crumbling faiths. Everywhere I look, beliefs are battered and belittled – belief in God, belief in human goodness, belief in public transportation. Even faith in our presidential candidates is wavering – just today I received an email informing me that my beloved Barack Obama (and I quote), “IS a muslim and IS a racist and this is a fulfillment of the 911 threat that was just the beginning.” My God, why hast thou forsaken me (and my preferred political candidate)?

Amidst these trying times, I am happy to say that this evening, I experienced a restoration of faith in one of the most fundamental institutions of modern society: the grocery store.

First of all, in an era when the echoes of far-off bombs and gunfire resonate through my withered conscience, I long for the sweet, serene sounds of simpler times. Tonight, while shopping for shallots, I find myself inexplicably drawn to the vegetable and fruit section. There, enraptured in an alternate universe, I nuzzle the organic carrots as a mechanized Mother Nature sprays a soft mist of hygienic H20 and serenades her vegetative wards with midi thunder sounds. That’s right – in today’s supermarkets, tumultuous audio storms are invoked for the benefit of the zucchini and beets. Oh ye, bard of broccoli, let thine sweet symphony seduce my singed senses!

After I satiate my tastes in fresh produce, I move on to the rest of my grocery list. Alas, there is no crème fraîche. But I eschew bitterness in lieu of tolerant understanding. Let the plebeians devour their Half and Half; I will not lose heart! (There is no lemon thyme, either, and no halibut. Even the “Ethnic Foods” aisle is a bust. Grocerial segregation? Nay – not at Stop & Shop, surely. But I digress.)

At long last, I clothe myself in pretenses of economic security and prepare to pay for my indulgences. Because of my deep-seated inability to relinquish control, I select the self check-out line. As it turns out, my choice is richly rewarded.

There is a brilliant feature on the “do it yourself” checkout lines involving an automated voice. If you have, say, neglected to weigh and catalog your fruits in the produce section, you are given a second chance at checkout. The automated voice extends an olive branch of mercy and understanding. First you must enter the product number, and then, as if by magic, the oracle speaks. Ever the stereotypical woman, she wants to communicate with you.

“Please place your muffins on the belt,” the voice chides in monotone, like a knowing lover. “Place your muffins on the belt.”

So I place my muffins on the belt. Then the mysterious voice gets even more familiar.

“How many bananas do you have?” Um, one. One banana. “Please place your banana on the belt.”

Okay. As I nervously place my banana on the belt, I can’t help but eavesdrop on the chorus of neighboring commands.

“Please place your avocado on the belt.”

“Please place your melons on the belt.”

“How many kiwis do you have? Please place your kiwis on the belt.”

Suddenly, I am seized by an uncontrollable fit of laughter. I cannot contain myself – I am possessed by the thought of countless adjacent customers placing their bananas, muffins, melons, and god knows what else on the belt. It’s ridiculous. This virtual woman has no shame.

As I roll my cart out into the parking lot, I am still chuckling. I hardly notice the kiwi man’s truck as it pulls up beside me.

“Hey, muffin girl,” he calls. I look up mid-chortle. “Can I have your number?” he drawls out his window.

I think he’s drunk, but I’m in too good a mood to care. I cheerily explain that I don’t do dates, but thanks anyway.

He responds in a tangled mass of supplication, but I only catch the words “nicest,” “sex,” and “construction.” God only knows what that means.

I wave, and he drives away. I unload my groceries – now broadcast to the world – and keep giggling as I shift into first gear.

Thank you, Stop & Shop, for renewing my faith in humanity. And if the offer still stands…my muffins are yours for the taking.

Dental Degradation on Dante, Degreed

Need a humility check? A trip to the dentist ought to do the trick.

This week at the dentist's office, I had one cavity filled. I also had my self-confidence gutted. And my insurance paid for both!

As if it isn't embarrassing enough just sitting in a chair with your mouth pried open, staring up at painfully bright fluorescent lighting with a bib over your chest, they actually try to talk to you, as if they care about your emotional comfort level in addition to your tooth decay. Naturally, when the friendly dental hygienist attempts to make small talk, you're left with very limited response options. As a result, the conversation goes something like this:

"Kind of warm out today, huh?"

"AAAAAAAH."

"With the sun coming in through those windows, it's actually hot in here!"

"AAAA-AAHHHH."

"Can't believe I'm wearing a sweater."

"AAAAA AAAAA-AAHHHH."

"What do you think of the war?"

"AAAAAAAAH-AAAAAAAAH AAAAAH AH AH AAAAAH!"

"I'm gay."

"AAAAAHHH?"

"Mind if I fondle your canines?"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH."

It doesn't really matter what she says -- you'd still be left with one vowel sound to cover a necessarily wide range of emotion.

There's also a coded system of language, created by dentists and dental hygienists as a way of communicating with one another while their patients remain prostrate and mystified. This time, I listened extra carefully, trying to decode it. At a few points, I succeeded, and I can now offer these insights into the highly technical language of the elite dentistati clan.

When the dentist says, "I don't want to argue with you, but we normally do amalgam metal and typically advise against resin fillings," what he is trying to say is, "You shallow, frivolous idiot. Buck up, and get some friggin' silver in your mouth."

When the dentist says "Need a little more retraction" to the hygienist, what he is really saying is, "The patient is tonguing my hand again. It's disgusting. Please intervene."

When the dentist says, "Your cheek and tongue should feel very numb. Do you feel like you have a fat lip?" your answer should be, "Yeth." If you answer with a prim and proper "Yes, sir," congratulations: you can still pronounce your S's! This is going to hurt like hell.

And when the dentist begins to drill into your tooth but stops when you arch your back and dig your nails into the plastic seat covering, at which point he says, "Let's numb you up a little more," what he means is, "I understand you just experienced a sensation something like hot lava beset with prickly pears being poured into your gums. Please don't sue me. Why don't we pump some more Novocain into your face?"

Eventually they'd injected so much Novocain into my general facial region that my right eye was drooping. I came into that office a proud, sentient member of society. I left a semi-Quasimodo with one lazy eye, trying not to drool on myself as I sputtered out travesties of language like "Thankth tho muth. I really apprethiate it. Thee you thith Thurthday?"

On the way out, I noticed a fairly good-looking boy (in my general age range! in Wellfleet! in WINTER!) in the waiting room. Hoping that some semblance of inner beauty would shine through the completely numb right half of my face, I attempted a flirtatious (albeit cockeyed) grin. Then, as I left, I proceeded to close the office door with my bootlace still inside it, pulling me back with a jolt before catapulting my body off the front steps.

And... there went the remaining sliver of my pride.

Never mind that I have eight more cavities in my mouth. I don't think I can suffer another dentist appointment -- mind, body, or soul -- for a long time.

Cupid Gone Awry

In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, and inspired by a recent trend, I am pleased to present:


WAYS NOT TO HIT ON SOMEONE
by Bree Barton


Exhibit A
“Ike”

I met "Ike" at a benefit where a local artist was raising money for her work in Haiti. As I perused exquisite silk scarves and photographs of beautiful big-eyed Haitians, big-eyed Ike perused my ass. I could feel his gaze boring into me like a magnifying glass poised over a voluptuous ant. When I looked up, we made awkward eye contact from across the room. This was all Ike needed: like a flash of lightning he was off, past the silent auction sheets and Diri ak Pwa and immediately by my side. He struck up a conversation, and I idly chatted back, unaware that I had just tacitly agreed to relinquish the next two hours of my life.

At one point during our two-hour conversation – not sure if it was before or after he astutely pointed out the pink lace on my bra – Ike fed me what seemed to be a genuine compliment.

“You know what? You’re funny.”

He said this as if it were shocking that a woman might actually be, you know, funny. As in, humorous. As in, a sayer of witty things.

“Well you know, I was a standup comic,” I said jokingly.

“Yeah, right,” Ike leered. “You’re not that funny.”

Thank you, Assface.

Ike didn’t seem to think this was at all insulting, and I was amused enough to keep the conversation going. Over the course of the next hour, Ike kept insisting we had a future together. “I really think we could have a relationship,” he said, and I kept trying to explain that I had no interest in having a relationship with him, now or ever. But because I could see where the conversation was going and I’m not very good at saying no, I decided to preempt the inevitable digit-request by offering them up myself.

“I know you’re going to ask for my number,” I said, “so here it is. You can call, but I’m telling you right now, I’m not going to answer. If you leave a message, it’s highly unlikely that I’ll return it. But don’t worry: I’ll probably feel guilty about not getting back to you. Just so you know.”

Ike smirked. I could tell from his expression that he was convinced I was only playing hard to get. After all, I’d just given him my number; that must mean I wanted him to call. Most important, he liked my ass and my hair! Obviously, we had an inevitable future together.

Yeah, right. I’m not that stupid.

As promised, when Ike called, I didn’t answer. When I picked up his voicemail, I didn’t feel that guilty, either. I didn’t return the call.

But Ike wasn’t giving up so easily. A few days later, he sent me a text message.

“Would love to see ur smile again” the text said. How sweet, I thought, and went about smiling in the privacy and sanctity of my own home.

A few days later, I received another text.

“Wanna make out later?”

Ike was obviously changing tactics, probably in an attempt to be playful. Still, a little creepy. I didn’t respond.

The third and final text came a few days after that.

“Maybe this will work. Lets have sex tnite. Is 11 good?”

JESUS CHRIST.

Suffice it to say, I didn’t respond. I haven’t heard from him since. What an alarming progression of intent: smiles, then French kissing, then sex, all in a one-sided textual conversation. And this from a self-proclaimed “hopeless romantic.” I shudder to think what the unromantics are like.


Exhibit B
The Deputy Shellfish Constable

This Monday I made the trek to Provincetown to attend the weekly Open Mic Night at Mew’s Cafe. The temperature was around 16 and the wind chill made it feel like 9 degrees, possibly the coldest weather I’ve ever experienced. Mapquest told me that the bar was located at 329 Commercial St.; I parked my car around the 180 block, thinking that it would be an easy minute’s walk. After two blocks, I had just made it to the 200’s and had lost feeling in three toes. Realizing I wasn’t going to make it, I abandoned the plan, sheepishly fled back to my car, and drove to 329 Commercial like the thin-skinned Texan I am.

When I got to Mew’s, the bar was hopping. I sat down at the table closest to the stage with an excellent Kenyan beer and, through avid toe-tapping, slowly regained feeling in my toes. After about half an hour I got up to go the bathroom where I stood for several minutes in glorious sun worship, face uplifted, basking in the thrilling warmth of the heater affixed to the ceiling.

On my way back to the table, I stopped by the bar to get another drink.

A man in a poncho swung out in front of me. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, and suddenly a Tusker beer with a fresh glass magically appeared from within the folds of his poncho.

“I didn’t order another beer,” I answered, wondering why he was dressed differently than the other servers.

“I know, I said I’m sorry I’m late.”

Clearly we weren’t understanding each other. He wasn’t late; he was early. I hadn’t ordered another beer at all. And how’d he know I was going to get another Tusker?

“How’d you know I wasn’t going to order something different?” I asked.

He looked confused. “You over there?” He pointed at my table.

I nodded.

“Let’s go,” he said, and began walking. Only then did I realize that he wasn’t actually a server at all; he was a bar patron who had generously offered me a drink and whom I had proceeded to interrogate. I am an awkward human being, I thought to myself. Is it obvious I don’t often go to bars?

At my table we screamed our introductions, trying to make ourselves heard over the guitar blaring twelve inches away. “I’m BREE!” I said. “Thank YOU for the DRINK!”

“I’m the DEPUTY SHELLFISH CONSTABLE of WELLFLEET!” he said. “It’s the COOLEST JOB EVER!”

I didn’t press.

Right about then, the band took a breather between songs. In the ensuing quiet, I took the opportunity to tell my new companion that I, too, lived in Wellfleet.

“Another Wellfleetian!” he exclaimed. “Whereabouts?”

“Near the library,” I said.

“Chequessett Neck Road,” he said softly. And then, leaning forward, he whispered my exact street address.

You could have heard my heart stop.

“Ummm…yes, that’s my address. How do you…??”

At that moment, several thoughts were racing through my head. The Deputy Shellfish Constable is going to kill me, I thought. He’s been stalking me for weeks. He sits in front of my window at all hours of the night while I sit, vulnerable and illuminated, Googling “Heath Ledger Mary Kate scandal!” at 1:30 am. He’s planned the whole thing out: he followed me here tonight and is going to get me drunk on Tuskers, then rape and murder me in some kinky fashion using crab claws and melted butter. Afterwards he’ll chop me up and toss me into an abandoned boat with the shellfish —not the law-abiding ones, but those little shelled bastards that make it damn near impossible for the Constable to keep the peace.

As it turns out, my fears were unwarranted. The Deputy Shellfish Constable had simply guessed my correct address because he had once lived in the adjacent studio apartment himself. That explained his uncanny prescience. Still, it’s a little unnerving to sit down with a total stranger and have him tell you precisely where you live.


Exhibit C

Forget Exhibit C. I can’t take any more. Romance is overrated. After all, the original St. Valentine was imprisoned, tortured, and beheaded. Modern dating seems equally perilous. I think I’ll pass, thanks.

Me + a bottle of wine = a good Valentine’s Day.