She staggered through the door of the bar, weighed down with packages and brown paper bags and towing a shopping basket filled with bruised, grimy vegetables. She wore a ragged bandana across her forehead but stray strands of hair fell over her eyes and she swiped at them impatiently with dirt streaked hands. Her shoes didn't quite match and she wore only one torn sock. A backpack hung over one shoulder and as she made her way toward the restrooms it snagged on a chair and jerked her back. She cursed and slapped at the offending piece of furniture as if it had intentionally tripped her then scanned the room for other obstacles, her eyes wild and slightly mad. The regulars didn't pay much attention.
The bar was lined with a row of graveyard shift workers - some in scrubs from the local hospital, some in black tie from the casino. They drank steadily and silently and the young bartender refilled their glasses with bored indifference and no effort to begin a conversation. These were tired men and women, wanting an hour or so in a dim bar before heading home to try and sleep while the rest of the city was rising and starting another day. They did not swap stories or tell jokes or compare notes or even flirt - in the daylight, a bar is just a bar, not a gathering place or a lively club. These people did not want to laugh or dance or listen to music - the sun was coming up and they would be going home to drawn shades and blacked out windows. The worlds of day and night people are vastly different and they seldom cross paths.
The woman with the backpack fell somewhere in between. She emerged from the restroom and as she passed me I realized that she was far younger than I had first thought, in her 40's at the most. Soap and water had helped but she still reeked of the street and the customers at the bar did not make room for her although there were empty stools. She shuffled to a table for two and the bartender brought her coffee with a small mug of milk and several packets of sugar. She drank quickly and left a crumpled dollar bill on the table before leaving, jamming the extra sugar packets into one of the paper bags. She didn't speak and no one at the bar looked up as she left although she struggled with the heavy door and gave it a good cursing as it closed behind her. I paid for my morning Coke and left for the motel, worn out after a night of blues and not enough sleep. The streets of the small and very poor Arkansas town were deserted but there still seemed to be music in the air, leftover echoes of guitars and the voices of legendary bluesmen. The backpack woman was in the doorway of one of the music stores, propped up against the splintery wooden door and singing to herself, an old Buddy Guy song that I recognized from the night before. She had emptied a sugar packet into one hand and with the other was pinching little bits of it and dropping them on her tongue. She seemed content among the litter and shadows and when a dozen or so pigeons joined her, she produced a cellophane bag of sunflower seeds from another pocket and threw them on the sidewalk. More pigeons arrived almost immediately and soon there so many that she seemed lost among them, a huddled figure in a doorway eating sugar and feeding birds. She cackled at them and they cooed back like old friends meeting after a long parting.
Contentment in life is often a matter of expectations.
The pastel calico cat calmly sitting on the hood of my car glared at me when I suggested she move. She flicked her tail and began to wash one paw in defiance, pretending to ignore me and when I moved closer she stood with her back arched, hissing softly and daring me to reach for her. I suspect she is related to one of my own on account of her distinctive coloring and heart shaped face, and it's clear she sees the car as her territory - her paw prints are on it each morning - nonetheless, one of us had to give in and establish some ground rules. Reasoning with her wasn't working so I got in and turned the key and she promptly turned her back. This, I decided, was no common cat.
Slipping the car into reverse, I began to slowly back out of the driveway, certain that the motion would force her off but instead she crouched down and began swiping at the windshield. I stopped and started suddenly and she yowled but refused to move. Having no intention of losing a battle to a neighborhood cat, I got out and approached her, warning her off and threatening her with severe consequences. She stood her ground with a menacing growl. You're leaving me no choice, I told her with reluctance, Get off the damn car! She sat back down and commenced to licking another paw, unconcerned and indifferent but watching me all the while. Hearing my voice, the black dog suddenly appeared at the window and went into a spasm of barking and the cat whirled at the sound - seizing the moment, I snatched her up and tossed her unceremoniously to the ground where she landed with a satisfying thump and an ear splitting cat scream of indignity. And stay off! I told her triumphantly. Victorious and more than a little smug, feelings I would have cause to regret later in the day, I drove off.
She was back at lunch, curled up and asleep on the front steps, between me and the front door. She opened her eyes as I came up the walk but made no move to leave. Her tail switched and I could hear the low hum of a growl. I decided to change tactics and spoke to her in a reassuring voice, as you would to a stubborn and fearful child. The low hum went up an octave but still she made no move. I knelt on the walk in front of her and explained the situation but she was unimpressed and continued to watch me with her narrowed green eyes, an expression of hostility clear all the way to her whiskers. I could go in the back door, I reckoned, or try and step over and around her, but I had a suspicion that giving in to this cat would establish a poor precedent in our relationship - if I allowed her to gain the upper hand, I sensed she would keep it. I nudged her with my foot and she swatted at me, the growl now louder and more definite. I reached a hand out and she hissed without giving an inch.
To be clear, I will not even pretend (even though it would be my word against their's) that I have never been outwitted by a cat, however, to be outwitted by a cat who shares my bed and board is one thing - to be outwitted by a trespassing cat with an attitude is quite another. I broke off a branch of the crepe mrytle and ran the leaves across the steps and the she immediately gave chase. As she passed me I gave her a quick flick on her hindquarters and mounted the steps - she gave me an injured look with a hint of malice and then plunked herself down on the concrete walk and attacked the branch mercilessly. I slipped inside when she wasn't looking.
Twenty minutes later, I left again and I admit, thought about using the back door and decided against it. It is, after all, my house and the cat was the intruder. The steps and the yard appeared to be all clear so I gathered my keys and purse and headed for the car, daring to hope that she had moved on to the next neighbor and might not return. I soon discovered that this was not to be - for on her back on the passenger seat, enthusiastically shredding the day's mail, was the cat. Speechless with surprise, I pulled open the car door and grabbed her by the scuff of her neck and hauled her out - too stunned to struggle for an all too brief moment she hung there, suspended in mid air, then regained her composure and began to defend herself, claws flying, her entire body flexing and writhing at impossible angles, flailing at me and making sounds that would've awakened the dead. Using the only weapon I had, I said a short prayer that she wouldn't leap back into the car, and dropped her. She turned in mid air and landed on all four feet, undamaged but enraged and - I suspected and hoped - a little humiliated. She shook off grass and dirt and with a look that clearly suggested she had not yet begun to fight, stalked off across the street and disappeared over a fence. Feeling foolish but vindicated, I watched her go, knowing that I would encounter her again and wondering which one of us would win the next time.
For reasons I've forgotten, my grandfather was buried in a cemetery far out of town. Each Memorial Day, my grandmother made the trip to put flowers on his grave and would often take me for company.
It was a long trip for a child, 30 or 40 miles west of Boston and Nana was usually silent. She would take extra care with her makeup and change clothes several times before we left and always insisted that I dress up. We drove through the Massachusetts countryside, west of the city, on the backroads, never using the turnpike. By that time of year the grass was green, the trees were in bloom, and there was the smell of flowers in the air. The radio in the old Lincoln played softly, some classical station that she found soothing, but still she drove tensely, as if she were late and trying to make up time. When I pointed out that the cemetery people weren't likely to be going anywhere or notice if we were late, she snapped at me and warned me to watch my mouth or she'd wash it out with soap. Knowing this to be no idle threat, I stayed quiet for the rest of the drive, concentrating on the scenery and the passing cars, making up games in my head to occupy myself.
The cemetery itself was spread over several acres, all well tended and maintained. High iron gates and contant security kept out the teenagers and vandals and grave desecraters and a handful of bent and old men in khaki uniforms patrolled the land, watering, weeding, spending their time among the uncomplaining dead. They were all gentle spoken and kind, as if accustomed to the grief and heartache of the mourners and the newly dead. They dug graves respectfully and carefully and stood a far distance off to allow families privacy and a time to say goodbye. Nana knew them all by name as she had been making this annual pilgrimage for years. They tipped their caps as she manoeuvered the Lincoln threw the narrow, winding pathways to the gravesite. Watch where you walk, she reminded me twice although I knew to do that and she knew I knew. She made her way up a slight incline, carrying a pot of flowers, garden gloves and a small handheld rake and knelt at the grave. She didn't cry or speak, just brushed away the old flowers and dirt, replaced them, manicured around the stone and then sat there for several minutes, head down and eyes closed. Are you praying, Nana? I asked hesitantly and she shook her head, No, hon, she answered patiently, Just thinking and remembering.
The way home always included lunch at Longfellow's Wayside Inn, where in later years I was to be married in the small chapel on a bright April day, but that was for much later. Nana just liked the old fashioned furniture and the colonial feel to the place and we always stopped to look at the grist mill before leaving. We drove home leisurely and another year's obligation had been fulfilled.
If life were fair, I thought to myself as I looked through the camera lens, this chair would not be empty. There would be a very tall man, with straight blonde hair and a mustache, sitting and relaxing with a glass of wine in his hand, smiling at his daughter on this the night of her college graduation celebration. He would be too proud to be contained and would be loud and vocal and possibly get a little tipsy. And he would be entitled.
Friends and family were gathered on this warm May night to give gifts and praise and share in the beautiful young woman's accomplishments - summa cum laude, to no one's surprise - and her first real steps into the world after college. The house was alive with bright conversations, hugs as people came and went, congratulations and laughter. Old stories were repeated and old jokes retold, glasses of wine were poured and the table was piled with food and flowers. Her sisters and mother looked on, proud and easily willing to concede her center stage. Just before the gifts were opened, I found myself alone on the back deck, looking through the lens of my camera at an empty chair amid a colorful array of plants and flowers silhouetted against the night sky. Though the night was a happy one, I found myself thinking back to a time when the girls were just children, a time when their lives were unchanged by loss, a time when their daddy was alive and well, vital and strong, a force to be reckoned with if ever there was one. I thought of how much of him was in each of them, especially the youngest with her fiery, quick temper and independent streak. She had been a strong willed child, defiant at times and stubborn, loyal to a fault,
and bright as a new penny. She looks the least like him with her dark hair but her smile reminds me of him, her dry humor could be his, and his determination and curiosity are clearly in her genes. She is already a force to be reckoned with.
The image of the empty chair stayed with me, I felt a familiar ache in my heart, then I let it go and rejoined the party inside. There are nights for sadness and nights for celebration and this night was for a daughter making her way in the world. Her daddy might not have been at her side, but I could feel his presence all around me and I knew he was watching.
My optimism was put to the test when our new nurse assistant arrived for her second interview in painted on black denim jeans and a too small for her white fitted tee shirt. I immediately gave myself a mental slap on the wrist for judging her by her appearance. She's young with a nice smile and a lot of positive energy and those are the things that matter.
Appearances, as we all know, can be deceiving and I have a regretful tendency to make snap decisions on first impressions and instincts. I'm inclined to like or dislike people instantly and whole heartedly and rarely find cause to reverse a first decision. I suspect it may be some kind of emotional chemistry at work, churning and mixing and coming to a conclusion based on feelings rather than facts. I trust my instincts almost without reservation - gut feelings seem to be the truest and most trustworthy - my senses tell me things about my surroundings that I can't quite articulate but I do put faith in. Our new nurse assistant may be exactly what we've been searching for and I truly hope she is, but I can't help but being wary.
The new bus boy started at 4 and was fired at 7 with a police escort out of the restaurant. He had found an opportunity when the bartender's back was turned to help himself to a Crown and Coke and not only were there eye witnesses, there was video. His response to questioning was a simple "Yeah, whatever..." and his newfound career was over. I couldn't make any sense of this - he was a good looking, clean cut young man with a ready smile and a willingness to work. Again, so much for judging by appearances.
You just never can tell when calm water hides a storm. Unlike stories with two sides, people are multisided and you have to look closely to see what is true and what lies beneath.
He scurries and scuttles like a pretentious, overweight gerbil propelled by his own sense of self importance. The dinner guests are taken aback by his arrogance and manner, put off by the very knowledge that got him his job and they retreat, almost into hostility and dismissiveness. He senses this in a vague, distracted way but doesn't understand it. None of the servers live up to his expectations and he continually bitches at and about them, unable to see his part in these small dramas, feeling put upon and unappreciated, laughed at and martyred.
He knows more about wine - it's history and heritage, every detail of every vineyard and every varietal, all the sources and growing conditions - than anyone I've ever known and he speaks it's language vividly and with a sort of reverence for it's very existence yet he puts people off and he is sent away like a nuisance. His eager help and advice are scorned and he is treated with impatience, as an interruption or a little child dying to join the adult conversation but destined to remain on the outside edge. His feelings are hurt by this rejection and he gives in to sullen and sarcastic remarks about the guests and moans of "poor me". No one tries to help or encourage him, his prior put downs are remembered and still fresh. He sulks alone and ignored, his melodrama playing out to an annoyed and indifferent audience. He speaks the language of wine fluently but is unable to connect to the language of people and oversteps the line without even seeing it. When the guests turn their backs to him he persists until finally forced to quickstep away with military precision and an insincere smile.
The language of wine is joyous, pretentious, overdone and sometimes just plain silly. Wines are described in terms of emotions and images of " a muscular acrobat in a tuxedo, gliding across the dance floor" or "a tart wake up palette call" or " reminiscent of being young and climbing your first apple tree". Wine labels speak of the bouquet, the finish, the velvety texture, the buttery qualities, the gentle spicy whisper of tannins and old oak barrels and just the barest suggestion of flowers. This is not the language of everyday life or run of the mill folks, this is elegant and elevating, this is black tie and tails in a world of denim and cotton. If you do not belong, you will be identified and shunned, labeled and exposed.
Perhaps this is what he fears. Serving the wealthy is not always enough if what you really want is a place at their table.
Dread can be a powerful enemy but it's been my experience that most things are not half as bad - or as good - as I anticipate. Worry is interest paid on a debt that isn't due, my daddy liked to say.
Most of us spend far too much time worrying the sore teeth in our daily lives. We dwell and linger, force feeding anxiety until it takes over and losing sleep over things we can't change or predict and outcomes we can't alter. We live in a world where it's far easier to dread than have faith, far easier to worry than trust. We get gray before our time and then look back in confusion, hard pressed to see what all the fuss was about. And we laugh at ourselves, with relief and a feeling of having come through intact once again, but we seldom remember for the next time.
No matter how many doors I go through, I always hesitate at a new one, as if not knowing what's on the other side puts me in some kind of foolish peril. I rarely see the potential adventure, only the improbable danger - no matter how often I'm proven wrong, the feelings re-surface and I'm forced to start all over again. It's wearying and silly, this fear of the unknown, and I can't help but think I'm old enough to know better and have lived long enough to not have to whistle in the dark to keep imaginary demons away. My imagination, while usually an ally, can also be a force for evil, undermining my confidence and keeping me a step behind. Cafeteria lines make me quake with fear that I'll trip and drop a tray. Not knowing the answer is more than enough to keep me from asking the question. I stay when I should go because it's the easier thing. When in doubt, I wear navy blue and I try never to make waves. I try to become one with the wallpaper in hopes of not being noticed, avoid scenes like the plague, and rarely say no. Should I even suspect a confrontation, I run in the oppposite direction. I favor old and comfortable in place of new and exciting and
I hardly ever return things that don't fit. I don't like to cause trouble. I rarely drink but when I do I stick to white wine and like it to be sweet, served with water crackers and mild cheeses, nothing with a tendency to bite back. Our latest shipment included a cheese called St. Pat, a semi sweet, organic, nettle wrapped cheese from California. I tasted it with a glass of Chardonnay in hand in the event that I needed to wash it down hastily and the creamy texture melted nicely leaving a salty and slightly sweet aftertaste on my tongue.
Go where you have not gone before. Try even if you think you can't. Step through the door as if you own the place. Finish the race whether you win or lose. Do not fear the nettles.
The Swift Boys - Jonah, Noah, and Ned - were each born precisely one year apart but looked alike enough to be identical twins plus one. They shared the same temperment, all fire and competitiveness, a willingness to stand for what they believed, and a stubborn streak that at least in the early years, made their daddy despair and their mother give up hope. Nell often told people that they were bound to put her into an early grave with their obstinance and Marshall wore out more switches than there were trees on his farm with his efforts at discipline. The boys paid little mind, took their switchings and went on to the next disaster. They disrupted daily life, made mischief by setting the stock loose, laying waste to Nell's carefully put up preserves, tormenting the little girls at lessons, smoking behind the barn and cutting the lines to Marshall's lobster traps. They became a trio of terror in the town square - at their approach, villagers darted away and the one or two stores closed their doors. The boys hooted and hollered their way through childhood and in their teens discovered whiskey, fast cars and faster girls. This is not how I wanted to be a grandmother! Nell wailed to Nana over afternoon coffee and raspberry tarts, I should've drowned them at birth! Nana tsk'd sympathetically and added a little more brandy to the coffee. Now, now, she told Nell encouragingly, they're just young and high spirited, they'll soon get over it.
Shotgun weddings were not unheard of and Noah's was planned for one July weekend. The unwilling groom and the reluctant bride were wed quietly by the pastor of the Baptist church and moved into an extra room at the farm until a suitable place could be found. Nell recovered from her minor breakdown and took to her new daughter in law with little or no effort - the girl was naturally outgoing and willing to make the best of a bad situation, she helped with chores and turned out to be a passable cook - and after some time passed, even Noah began to appreciate her presence. The baby, a little girl, was born some months later by which time Marshall had finished and furnished a small cottage in back of the farmhouse and the couple moved in over one summer weekend. Jonah and Ned both helped in the process, more than a little bewildered by their brother's unexpected change of heart and their new status as uncles. Maggie was what Nana called a fetching child, full of smiles and giggles, well behaved from the first, and easily capturing the hearts of her parents and grandparents. Noah took to parenting and responsibility with an ease that his family found stunning - he joined his daddy's lobster crew and worked long, hard hours to learn and provide for his wife and daughter. He came home each night, lean and tall and tanned, and there he stayed while Jonah and Ned drank and caroused their way from island to mainland and back again, seldom spending the night at the farm and becoming more and more distant from their family.
The day that the hay wagon overturned and crushed Marshall's spine beyond repair, Nell was feeding the chickens and watching Maggie play in the yard. She heard nothing and Marshall lay in the field under a wagon wheel for several hours. When it was near dark and he hadn't returned, Nell went in search of him, not suspecting that anything might be wrong until she saw the team of half harnessed horses grazing around the wagon. Her husband lay unconscious at their feet, pinned beneath the wheel, his hands outstretched and bloody. Her screams were heard clear to the village and spooked the horses, alerting Noah who was cutting wood just beyond the pasture and came running but too late. Marshall died before they could pull him free.
Tragedy brings people together and grief can often bind them and so it was with the Swift boys. Their shared loss healed old wounds and divisions, gave them a new outlook on what mattered and how to spend a life without waste. They buried their daddy and comforted their mother, accepting the new burdens with determination and pride. They became the sons their daddy had always hoped for and their mother had mourned. They became men.
How is work?
Friends routinely ask this and I'm never quite sure how to answer. It's frantic, demanding, unrelentingly stressful and always in crisis mode. Do they want to know this? I doubt it, so I generally just reply that it's busy and let it go at that. I'm reminded of our restaurant kitchen which I fear - a dozen or so people running about like headless chickens, yelling and singing and cursing while they balance plates of food and sling pots and pans in a rushed metallic clatter. I enter at my own peril, dodging servers and delivery people, ducking under an outstretched arm or a butcher knife. It's like a firedrill of perpetual, panicky motion with the clock ticking away and counting down, the pressure is intense and though I'm positive there's some underlying organization, I can't see it. I search for and find my cheese knives or ramikins or garlic bread and then make a dash for the swinging door, hoping not to encounter a speeding dishwasher or busboy with an armload of glassware. It's a minefield, our kitchen, and I'm lucky to escape with my life. This is how work is - a four hour fire drill with no respite or down time and a clock ticking away with unnerving precision and a deadly time limit. We break for lunch and then do it all over again.
At the end of the day, I'm physically used up and exhausted and emotionally stretched to my very last nerve. I leave with insurance codes ricocheting through my head, breathing hard and worrying that I've forgotten something while trying to make the transition from medical practice to restaurant with care and feeding of animals in between. A few aspirin and hours later, I finally finish for the day and collapse in my own living room, mentally taking inventory of the things that need to be done at home, trying to re-organize and plan my time out, still hearing a clock ticking away the seconds and minutes and hours, unforgiving and dictating with an iron will.
I'm not sure when life turned into a race or when I realized that time is the most precious gift we receive. Despite my best efforts, the clock never stops, never runs down, never gives up. Sixty seconds can be a lifetime or a fraction of an instant depending on what we're waiting for but the one sure thing is that we never get back a single minute so it's best to use what we have wisely. I'm reminded of this daily by the elderly patients I see - these are people born in the 1920's and 1930's - they come on walkers and in wheelchairs, frail and ill, suffering the effects of cancer and heart disease, chronic and painful illnesses that sap their strength and steal their minds and memories. Some are dependent on family for transport and they have not reconciled the loss of their independence. They hear the clock too but many are waiting impatiently for their time to end. They move slowly, shuffling in bed slippers and they have weathered, parchment faces and sad eyes. Those that still speak often wonder outloud why God has not taken them or eased their pain and we have no answers. Their lives are more effort than they have left and their will to live has become too much to maintain. For them, the clock can't tick fast enough.
Be kind, it is said, Everyone you meet is fighting their own battles. I believe in this and I try to live it but some of us are fighting battles of our own making and they're only in our minds. The unsettling people we live and work with can make us crazy and bring homicidal urges to the surface - it's a good time to remember that we can have the same effect on others.
Everyone has their own personal comfort zone and certain things that are necessary to be effective. One of mine is space - I don't like it invaded or altered. My desk is my area and I don't welcome intruders no matter how helpful they may be trying to be - it makes me feel out of control and chaotic, feelings I fight against on a daily basis, probably to an unhealthy level. To be effective, I have to have things arranged and in order and constant. I compartmentalize, keeping what I need readily accessible and storing what I don't need in a separate place. Such things must not overlap or interfere with one another or I lose my grip and become scattered, random, haphazard
and unraveled. Not everyone shares my feelings - some of us are at our personal best amid litter and piles of paper, disorganization and clutter, untroubled by disorder or disarray, they see any flat surface as a horizontal filing cabinet. My dear friend Henry keeps his office this way and once out of sheer frustration and to make a point, we roped it off with yellow crime scene tape - he simply stepped over it.
I now work with someone who is loud, twangy, walks like Chester in "Gunsmoke" and sounds like Goofy but she is well meaning and basically sweet natured although a trifle dim. My patience with her is tested with every conversation we have, she wearies me with insignificant ramblings and sets my nerves on edge with interruptions and trivial chattering. I want to shake her and scream Can you not see I'm busy?, instead my voice becomes brittle and abrupt, ripe with impatience and frustration. I speak slowly to her as if to a child and I'm ashamed of my tone but too stressed to change it. Her battles are being fought on a different plane of reality and like a poorly hung picture, no matter how often it's straightened, it will stay off center until it's hung properly.
Be kind, it is said, everyone you meet is fighting their own battles.
Some of us are sadly unarmed.
Aaron and Eugene's antique shop was tucked away in a corner on a cobblestone side street in the newly renovated and trendy Portsmouth Harbor Marketplace. There was no sign as the two owners had never been able to agree on a name - Aaron wanted to call it "Antiquities and Elegance" while Eugene stubbornly insisted on "Ethereal Antiques". Neither was willing to budge on the matter so it remained a nameless little shop and since neither believed in the value of advertising, it depended on word of mouth and random chance for its business, which Aaron referred to as "clients" and Eugene would only call "carriage trade".
The two little old men had been partnered - in life and in business - for over 40 years and they were as different as night and day. They had met in an English boarding school, both products of wealth and distinguished families, one from California and one from Connecticut and they were as unlikely soulmates as you would ever find. They shared a common background and both were ill at ease and confused about their sexual identities but apart from that, they quarreled incessantly about everything from the very beginning. Aaron wanted curtains in their tiny dorm room, Eugene refused with a vengeance. Eugene studied business and Aaron, committed to his studies of art, called him a vile capitalist. Aaron favored the grace and privilege of water polo while Eugene ridiculed the sport and devoted himself to the success of the rugby team. Aaron was revolted by red meat and Eugene scorned what he referred to as rabbit food. And so it went all through school and the years that followed. Both graduated with high honors and returned to the States, drawn together and pushed apart. They met again, quite by chance, in New York City - Aaron attending an art auction and Eugene in town for an investment seminar - had drinks at the Oak Room and dinner at "21" and managed to agree on the fact that they ought to be together despite their differences. Both were summarily disowned by their respective families but they united and stood together against the odds, disagreeing only about whether they should stay at the Sherry Netherland or the Waldorf Astoria.
In due time, they discovered a mutual love of travel (Aaron dreamed of returning to the Continent while Eugene wanted to explore all the states), of cats ( they fought fiercely over whether long haired or short haired was preferable ), of music ( Eugene was pro-jazz while Aaron proclaimed that no music worth listening to had been written since the 18th
century), of wine ( Eugene preferred domestic from California and Aaron dismissed anything not made in Europe as flatly plebian) and of children ( in the words of W.C. Fields, "As long as they were properly cooked."). They shared a dislike of politicians, organized religion, the collected works of Shakespeare, recreational drug use, sales taxes, the French Revolution, the practice of slavery, bar codes, sailing ships of any kind, promiscuity at any age, poetry and those who wrote it, and the invention of shrink wrap plastic.
And so they spent their lives together until they decided to retire. After much hot debate, they sold the nameless little antique shop to a couple from Vermont who added wind chimes and Danish modern and proudly christened the shop "Tres Chic". It was, both Aaron and Eugene agreed at once and in unison, an unforgivably trite and clownish name for the shop, an insult to their years of hard work, and they were so astonished by their mutual attitude that they were both speechless for a time. Then they walked off, arm in arm, bickering about where to have lunch and whose turn it was to treat.
We love who we love despite our differences.
