Torn
One moment I'm here and glad to be here. The next moment I'm somewhere else.
Let me just say, I love Charlottesville. I didn't always. I spent many years here wondering when I was going to get off my ass and move back to Philadelphia or even farther up north. (Believe it or not, Syracuse and Buffalo were popular considerations for a time, back when I still had my snow feet.) But here was comfortable and convenient and giving me just enough money to keep me thinking about getting from day to day and from here to there rather than from here to way over there. And somewhere along the way, I just settled in.
The other day, I was at Spudnuts, a Charlottesville-thing, (For those who don't know, Spudnuts is a doughnut shop that uses potato flour instead of wheat flour. The resulting "spudnuts" are lighter and tastier than donoughts will ever be. It is also conveniently situated some 30 meters from my first lodging in town.) and after I ordered, I reached in my pocket to find that I didn't have enough dough. (No pun intended.) In fact, I was $1.50 short on a $3.00+ order. The woman behind the counter (whom I've always assumed to be one of the owners. I mean, she's been there for the 14 years that I've been going there.) said to not worry about it and to pay the balance when I came in next time. She added my name and $1.50 to a list on a little scrap of paper in the register that seemed to have been specifically scrapped for that purpose, and made sure that I understood that I was to wait until the next time I was in and to not make a special trip. I walked out feeling good about that. There are benefits to having been in a small town for awhile.
(Now, to be honest, you can probably have the same experience in middle of Manhattan with the bodega that you've frequented for the last 20 years. Wait, who am I kidding? Manhattan ... the owner would probably shoot you the moment after you came up short on change. But you get my point. - "Yes, Clinton. Your point is you're an irrational NYC-o-phobe." No ... that may be true, but it's not my point.)
And yet, once in my car, my thoughts longingly wandered to my cross country trip and that dinky little nothing, nowhere exit in Iowa? Wyoming? that had a gas station, a railroad track, and a Subway and teenage girl who made my sandwhich, who said that she knew very little about this town because she was from the next town over, and she was working here making my sandwhich because in the next town over there weren't many places to work except at the bar, and her parents owned that, and she didn't want to work for her parents. And there was just the joy and thrill of being the anonymous little ... okay, the anonymous fat drifter who just gets to drop into a place, look around, ask some questions, and get out before the locals start pooling into angry mobs just itching to invite you to model at a necktie party. You see my point. ("Yes, Clinton. Your point is that you're never away from the negative side of any situation." Again ... while that may be true, it's not my point.)
And that's been happening to me a lot recently. One moment, I'm so glad to be in my little town (Hmm, usually in moments involving food), the next I'm experiencing a wanderlust that I'd thought I'd long since lost. (Usually in moments when I'm thinking of being pinched in an ABC sting operation.)
(Although, to be honest, it's been very useful to have worked in the law here at one time and to know all the players involved. For instance, I've casually known both the attorneys I talked to for over a decade, so their attitude was, "You got nabbed for what? Oh, what a pain!" And, who's the judge these days? "Oh, it's Bob Downer. You remember Bob." Yeah, I remember Bob. I sold him a baguette and some hummus just the other day at the wineshop. Thought about carding him ... but controlled myself.)
(And to be perfectly, perfectly honest, the gaggle of 60-70 year old Good Ole' Boys that regularly congregate at Spudnuts (along with Sgt. Upton of the city police force) always make me wonder if I've dropped into the local Klan meeting. So it's not like every trip to Spudnuts is a down-home, knee-slapping good time. It's more like a slightly apprehensive, toughen up, keep a watch out, but just gotta get some of those blueberry cakes type of time.)
(So, I think we all see what my point is now ... my point is I think I'm inside my own head a little too much.)
Let me just say, I love Charlottesville. I didn't always. I spent many years here wondering when I was going to get off my ass and move back to Philadelphia or even farther up north. (Believe it or not, Syracuse and Buffalo were popular considerations for a time, back when I still had my snow feet.) But here was comfortable and convenient and giving me just enough money to keep me thinking about getting from day to day and from here to there rather than from here to way over there. And somewhere along the way, I just settled in.
The other day, I was at Spudnuts, a Charlottesville-thing, (For those who don't know, Spudnuts is a doughnut shop that uses potato flour instead of wheat flour. The resulting "spudnuts" are lighter and tastier than donoughts will ever be. It is also conveniently situated some 30 meters from my first lodging in town.) and after I ordered, I reached in my pocket to find that I didn't have enough dough. (No pun intended.) In fact, I was $1.50 short on a $3.00+ order. The woman behind the counter (whom I've always assumed to be one of the owners. I mean, she's been there for the 14 years that I've been going there.) said to not worry about it and to pay the balance when I came in next time. She added my name and $1.50 to a list on a little scrap of paper in the register that seemed to have been specifically scrapped for that purpose, and made sure that I understood that I was to wait until the next time I was in and to not make a special trip. I walked out feeling good about that. There are benefits to having been in a small town for awhile.
(Now, to be honest, you can probably have the same experience in middle of Manhattan with the bodega that you've frequented for the last 20 years. Wait, who am I kidding? Manhattan ... the owner would probably shoot you the moment after you came up short on change. But you get my point. - "Yes, Clinton. Your point is you're an irrational NYC-o-phobe." No ... that may be true, but it's not my point.)
And yet, once in my car, my thoughts longingly wandered to my cross country trip and that dinky little nothing, nowhere exit in Iowa? Wyoming? that had a gas station, a railroad track, and a Subway and teenage girl who made my sandwhich, who said that she knew very little about this town because she was from the next town over, and she was working here making my sandwhich because in the next town over there weren't many places to work except at the bar, and her parents owned that, and she didn't want to work for her parents. And there was just the joy and thrill of being the anonymous little ... okay, the anonymous fat drifter who just gets to drop into a place, look around, ask some questions, and get out before the locals start pooling into angry mobs just itching to invite you to model at a necktie party. You see my point. ("Yes, Clinton. Your point is that you're never away from the negative side of any situation." Again ... while that may be true, it's not my point.)
And that's been happening to me a lot recently. One moment, I'm so glad to be in my little town (Hmm, usually in moments involving food), the next I'm experiencing a wanderlust that I'd thought I'd long since lost. (Usually in moments when I'm thinking of being pinched in an ABC sting operation.)
(Although, to be honest, it's been very useful to have worked in the law here at one time and to know all the players involved. For instance, I've casually known both the attorneys I talked to for over a decade, so their attitude was, "You got nabbed for what? Oh, what a pain!" And, who's the judge these days? "Oh, it's Bob Downer. You remember Bob." Yeah, I remember Bob. I sold him a baguette and some hummus just the other day at the wineshop. Thought about carding him ... but controlled myself.)
(And to be perfectly, perfectly honest, the gaggle of 60-70 year old Good Ole' Boys that regularly congregate at Spudnuts (along with Sgt. Upton of the city police force) always make me wonder if I've dropped into the local Klan meeting. So it's not like every trip to Spudnuts is a down-home, knee-slapping good time. It's more like a slightly apprehensive, toughen up, keep a watch out, but just gotta get some of those blueberry cakes type of time.)
(So, I think we all see what my point is now ... my point is I think I'm inside my own head a little too much.)
posted by - caj at 10:20 PM
4 Comments:
I told you before,
you didn't listen,
ABC up your ass.
I'll tell you again,
open deaf ears,
YOU'RE TO GOOD FOR THIS TOWN!
Not that you have to come down here, BUT..... sounds like you need a vacation! (& don't want to pop your bubble, but spudnuts did the same for me, & I only went there 4x in 5 years - they're just compulsively "small towners", which is great, but also has drawbacks w/it, blech once you've heard everyone's stories).
Waaaaaay to good fer 'em. Waaaay too good.
I tells you and I tells you...
I hope your strep abates for good and that you GET OUT! You don't have to move here, or New Orleans though if you did, I'm sure they'd love to have SOME black man back in town. Our housemate Jason sure as hell isn't gonna be returning...
But GET OUT!
Love,
~Lee
Humph!
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