With a whoosh, my watermelon rind makes a nice high arc over the railing and hits the ground, stirring up a few pebbles and tumbling a few feet down the steep hill until it stops.
No Points.
With a whiz, my brother’s shoots through the air: over the low branches, between the high ones, perfectly aimed so as to splash into the shallow water neatly.
One Point.
With a slurp, Mom sheepishly takes another bite. “I’m not done yet!”
No Points.
With a roar, Dad rears back and flings his rind with all his might.
I!
AM!
MAN!
But with a surprisingly loud thwomp, it immediately hits the nearest tree trunk with incredible force and explodes, showering us with wet, pink, cold confetti.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Lake Stories
Once upon a time in the seventies, my dad was a crazy young thing with long hair and short shorts. He bought a big plot of land at the lake and made big plans to build a big old lakehouse where his soon-to-be-big family could spend lazy weekends fishing, swimming, boating, roasting marshmallows.
Big lakehouses are, of course, easier drawn than built, and the land stayed bare for quite some time. But everything changed one warm spring day during what should have been a routine trip to the local sporting goods store.
As the legend goes, Dad spent quite some time admiring the camping backpack display, a three-sided log cabin in the middle of the store. “Can I help you?” a friendly salesperson asked. “How much for the cabin?” Dad replied. “That’s a backpack display, sir.” “Okay. I’ll take it.”
An hour later, Dad and three long-haired friends stood sweaty in the parking lot. They dusted off their hands on their short shorts and looked contentedly at the new cabin, now dismantled and loaded into the bed of a borrowed pickup truck.
The cabin eventually made its way up to the lake and was reassembled, bit by bit gaining a fourth wall, a roof, and even real windows. Dad was bestowed with decorating privileges for the cabin, and its walls were soon flanked with stuffed buffalo heads, goat heads, deer heads, deer butts.
The close quarters of the cabin were quaint—pull out the sofa bed, and more than half of the cabin was filled up. No running water? No oven? No toilet? No big deal. It was an adventure! Plus, it was only temporary. “This’ll be the fishing cabin, for poles and lifejackets and bait, once I build the big house,” Dad speculated.
***
A quarter century later, the big house remains a reality only in drawings, and the whole family still squeezes into the “fishing cabin” during weekend trips up to the lake. The buffalo head maintains its eternally creepy stare, and the sink is still filled with maps and bug spray and flashlights instead of dishwater. Countless visitors have braved carsickness and unmarked dirt roads to spend a weekend at the Lechner lakehouse (okay, lakeroom).
Sometimes when there’s bad weather or it’s late at night, we all cram into the cabin to play cards. We circle around the table in an assortment of sticky orange nylon chairs, pleather barstools that are spilling their stuffing, lawn chairs, upside-down five-gallon buckets. With the sounds of lapping water and of moths flinging themselves at the porch light in the background, someone shuffles the cards and deals them out.
The conversation sometimes turns to the rules of the game; sometimes to the next morning’s breakfast menu; sometimes to chores that need to be done the next day. But, especially when we have visitors, we eventually start telling the lake stories.
There’s the time when Mom’s visor flew off while she was driving the boat, and Dad, waterskiing, reached out a hand and caught it.
There’s the time when the raccoons jumped off the roof so they could knock over the trash cans.
There’s the time when we had a real-life armadillo invasion: so many armadillos you could hardly move a foot without being in danger of stepping on a nasty little gray waddler.
The lake stories that follow are stories that everyone knows by heart and has heard a million times. Around the table, we all trip over each other to try to tell these stories the best. We flap our hands and contort our faces into ridiculous expressions, trying to recreate the scene. We argue about what really happened; we dissolve into laughter; we count backwards to try to figure out what year it was when the bumblebee fireworks turned mutinous and flew straight for Dad, chasing him up one side of the dock and down the other, until he finally had to jump into the lake to escape them.
Big lakehouses are, of course, easier drawn than built, and the land stayed bare for quite some time. But everything changed one warm spring day during what should have been a routine trip to the local sporting goods store.
As the legend goes, Dad spent quite some time admiring the camping backpack display, a three-sided log cabin in the middle of the store. “Can I help you?” a friendly salesperson asked. “How much for the cabin?” Dad replied. “That’s a backpack display, sir.” “Okay. I’ll take it.”
An hour later, Dad and three long-haired friends stood sweaty in the parking lot. They dusted off their hands on their short shorts and looked contentedly at the new cabin, now dismantled and loaded into the bed of a borrowed pickup truck.
The cabin eventually made its way up to the lake and was reassembled, bit by bit gaining a fourth wall, a roof, and even real windows. Dad was bestowed with decorating privileges for the cabin, and its walls were soon flanked with stuffed buffalo heads, goat heads, deer heads, deer butts.
The close quarters of the cabin were quaint—pull out the sofa bed, and more than half of the cabin was filled up. No running water? No oven? No toilet? No big deal. It was an adventure! Plus, it was only temporary. “This’ll be the fishing cabin, for poles and lifejackets and bait, once I build the big house,” Dad speculated.
***
A quarter century later, the big house remains a reality only in drawings, and the whole family still squeezes into the “fishing cabin” during weekend trips up to the lake. The buffalo head maintains its eternally creepy stare, and the sink is still filled with maps and bug spray and flashlights instead of dishwater. Countless visitors have braved carsickness and unmarked dirt roads to spend a weekend at the Lechner lakehouse (okay, lakeroom).
Sometimes when there’s bad weather or it’s late at night, we all cram into the cabin to play cards. We circle around the table in an assortment of sticky orange nylon chairs, pleather barstools that are spilling their stuffing, lawn chairs, upside-down five-gallon buckets. With the sounds of lapping water and of moths flinging themselves at the porch light in the background, someone shuffles the cards and deals them out.
The conversation sometimes turns to the rules of the game; sometimes to the next morning’s breakfast menu; sometimes to chores that need to be done the next day. But, especially when we have visitors, we eventually start telling the lake stories.
There’s the time when Mom’s visor flew off while she was driving the boat, and Dad, waterskiing, reached out a hand and caught it.
There’s the time when the raccoons jumped off the roof so they could knock over the trash cans.
There’s the time when we had a real-life armadillo invasion: so many armadillos you could hardly move a foot without being in danger of stepping on a nasty little gray waddler.
The lake stories that follow are stories that everyone knows by heart and has heard a million times. Around the table, we all trip over each other to try to tell these stories the best. We flap our hands and contort our faces into ridiculous expressions, trying to recreate the scene. We argue about what really happened; we dissolve into laughter; we count backwards to try to figure out what year it was when the bumblebee fireworks turned mutinous and flew straight for Dad, chasing him up one side of the dock and down the other, until he finally had to jump into the lake to escape them.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Hammerhead's Code
In sixth grade we are learning about the Code of Hammurabi, more commonly known as "Hammerhead" on pop quizzes.
The students were given the beginning of an ancient Babylonian law and asked to fill in the anticipated punishment.
Results = hilarity.
If a person commits a robbery and is caught, you shall be in jail, and be a slave for the king.
If a person commits a robbery and is caught, cut your head off.
If a person adopts a child and raises him, the biological parent must leave the city forever.
If a son shall strike his father, he is hanged.
If a son shall strike his father, sit in the ditch.
If a person steals another person's child, the child is theirs to keep.
If someone opens his ditches to water his crops, but accidentally lets the water flood his neighbors' crop, say sorry.
The students were given the beginning of an ancient Babylonian law and asked to fill in the anticipated punishment.
Results = hilarity.
If a person commits a robbery and is caught, you shall be in jail, and be a slave for the king.
If a person commits a robbery and is caught, cut your head off.
If a person adopts a child and raises him, the biological parent must leave the city forever.
If a son shall strike his father, he is hanged.
If a son shall strike his father, sit in the ditch.
If a person steals another person's child, the child is theirs to keep.
If someone opens his ditches to water his crops, but accidentally lets the water flood his neighbors' crop, say sorry.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Scene from an Interview
Whitney, an excited prospective employee, waits in the office for her interviewer, Ms. Principal, to arrive. Due to construction, summertime projects, and many transitions, the office is in a state of disarray. Boxes and books and computers are piled up around her. She smiles at the promising clutter and breathes in the delicious school-y smell.
Ms. Principal enters the scene. Whitney rises to shake her hand and offer a winning smile. They both seat themselves.
Whitney's foot rests atop an unknown object. She is, however, busy chatting and does not bother to look down until five minutes into the interview.
She looks down. Her foot is resting upon not a book, nor a stuffed bear, nor an empty Sonic cup, but...
...a mouse.
A dead mouse. But definitely a mouse.
Whitney's eyes open wide. She does not scream. Perhaps this is a stress-test that all potential teachers go through? She smiles her winning smile again.
Whitney: Um, excuse me? There is a mouse on your floor?
Ms. Principal (shocked): WHAT?! Did it get you?
Whitney: No, I think it's dead.
Ms. Principal: Oh, my.
Ms. Principal exits the room, then returns donning rubber gloves and holding a wad of paper towels. She disposes of the mouse.
Ms. Principal: Well, that was embarrassing.
EPILOGUE
Whitney goes home and googles "Is a dead mouse an omen?"
Results are inconclusive.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Nancy
Nancy stands up from the table to get the sugar from the kitchen. The chair scrapes across the floor as a giant hiney rises in the east. Her gray sweatpants are hiked, ambitiously, halfway up her spine -- but never higher than the waistband of the Depends that peek out on top.
My coworker, the staff member in charge of neighborhood associations, has banned Nancy from running for office. “She can come to all the meetings she wants,” she told me once in private, “but I refuse to have a president who tucks her shirt into her Depends.”
Nancy is an ungainly, looming woman with short, slicked-back gray hair, flattened ears, and googly eyes made googlier by thick glasses. She steadfastly pairs her gray sweatpants with a rotation of XXXL tee-shirts featuring cartoon animals, crude phrases, or both. Nancy has a sputtering Sylvester-the-cat lisp and the loudest damn voice I have ever heard in my life.
Someone once told me that Nancy had had a stroke somewhere along the line, contributing to her bizarre speech patterns. Sometimes her pregnant pauses are so long and so painful that you can almost hear the words building up inside of her, finally escaping in an impossibly loud grunt of a word. “UM!” she will shout, finally, breaking the silence. “WELL!”
Nancy arrives at 9:30 every Wednesday morning to make coffee for the 10:00 counseling session. “Good morning!” she squawks, making her way toward the kitchen. Once the coffee is brewing, she sits down at the table to chat with her best friend and neighbor, Donna.
Donna’s low, androgynous voice and Nancy’s screech clatter about like a Jerry Springer soundtrack. They talk about Nancy’s cats, about other neighbors, about the pile of leaves amassing in Donna’s yard that Maintenance refuses to take care of. They talk about former lovers, estranged children, and wild days of yore. Donna does not mind much when Nancy gets stuck on a word. She usually just finishes the sentence for her.
It is almost four months before I notice Nancy’s hands. The discussion topic for the day is the importance of having a support system—family, friends, neighbors, someone, anyone. As sometimes happens, however, conversation has gotten off track. One resident is in tears in the corner. Donna, already on pancakes number five and six, is eating her feelings. And Nancy, having momentarily overcome her speech impediment, is delivering a hair-raising diatribe about her traumatic childhood. She cannot seem to stop. Her wild-eyed description of her negligent mother is equal parts horrifying and histrionic. But somehow, it is her hands that catch my attention as she waves her fork about, spraying half-chewed pancake into the air, and condemns her mother’s soul to hell.
The rest of Nancy’s body shows seven decades of poverty and misuse: slabs of extra flesh and fat, missing and gray teeth, sunken eyes, a stiff shuffle. But the backs of her hands are as smooth as wax. She has long, tapered fingers with delicate fingernails; every morning she slips on a still-shiny gold band. Even though she is nearing seventy, there are no liver spots, no swollen veins, no yellowed nails or bony knuckles.
Towards the end of the meal, Nancy has made real progress with the counselor. Things have quieted down significantly. I take the quiet moment to compliment her on her hands. She blinks her googly eyes open and shut rapidly as her mouth tries to catch up to her brain. Seconds pass; Donna drowns her seventh and eighth pancakes in syrup. Finally Nancy’s words come to a head. “WELL!” she hollers, scooting back her chair to put the coffeepot in the sink. “Thank you! My mother did always have nice hands.”
My coworker, the staff member in charge of neighborhood associations, has banned Nancy from running for office. “She can come to all the meetings she wants,” she told me once in private, “but I refuse to have a president who tucks her shirt into her Depends.”
Nancy is an ungainly, looming woman with short, slicked-back gray hair, flattened ears, and googly eyes made googlier by thick glasses. She steadfastly pairs her gray sweatpants with a rotation of XXXL tee-shirts featuring cartoon animals, crude phrases, or both. Nancy has a sputtering Sylvester-the-cat lisp and the loudest damn voice I have ever heard in my life.
Someone once told me that Nancy had had a stroke somewhere along the line, contributing to her bizarre speech patterns. Sometimes her pregnant pauses are so long and so painful that you can almost hear the words building up inside of her, finally escaping in an impossibly loud grunt of a word. “UM!” she will shout, finally, breaking the silence. “WELL!”
Nancy arrives at 9:30 every Wednesday morning to make coffee for the 10:00 counseling session. “Good morning!” she squawks, making her way toward the kitchen. Once the coffee is brewing, she sits down at the table to chat with her best friend and neighbor, Donna.
Donna’s low, androgynous voice and Nancy’s screech clatter about like a Jerry Springer soundtrack. They talk about Nancy’s cats, about other neighbors, about the pile of leaves amassing in Donna’s yard that Maintenance refuses to take care of. They talk about former lovers, estranged children, and wild days of yore. Donna does not mind much when Nancy gets stuck on a word. She usually just finishes the sentence for her.
It is almost four months before I notice Nancy’s hands. The discussion topic for the day is the importance of having a support system—family, friends, neighbors, someone, anyone. As sometimes happens, however, conversation has gotten off track. One resident is in tears in the corner. Donna, already on pancakes number five and six, is eating her feelings. And Nancy, having momentarily overcome her speech impediment, is delivering a hair-raising diatribe about her traumatic childhood. She cannot seem to stop. Her wild-eyed description of her negligent mother is equal parts horrifying and histrionic. But somehow, it is her hands that catch my attention as she waves her fork about, spraying half-chewed pancake into the air, and condemns her mother’s soul to hell.
The rest of Nancy’s body shows seven decades of poverty and misuse: slabs of extra flesh and fat, missing and gray teeth, sunken eyes, a stiff shuffle. But the backs of her hands are as smooth as wax. She has long, tapered fingers with delicate fingernails; every morning she slips on a still-shiny gold band. Even though she is nearing seventy, there are no liver spots, no swollen veins, no yellowed nails or bony knuckles.
Towards the end of the meal, Nancy has made real progress with the counselor. Things have quieted down significantly. I take the quiet moment to compliment her on her hands. She blinks her googly eyes open and shut rapidly as her mouth tries to catch up to her brain. Seconds pass; Donna drowns her seventh and eighth pancakes in syrup. Finally Nancy’s words come to a head. “WELL!” she hollers, scooting back her chair to put the coffeepot in the sink. “Thank you! My mother did always have nice hands.”
Monday, January 16, 2012
Hang On To Your Hat
As long as there is one upright man, as long as there is one compassionate woman, the contagion may spread and the scene is not desolate. Hope is the thing that is left to us, in a bad time. I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness.
Sailors have an expression about the weather: they say, the weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of our human society—things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed, sometimes rather suddenly. It is quite obvious that the human race has made a queer mess of life on this planet. But as a people we probably harbor seeds of goodness that have lain for a long time waiting to sprout when the conditions are right. Man's curiosity, his relentlessness, his inventiveness, his ingenuity have led him into deep trouble. We can only hope that these same traits will enable him to claw his way out.
Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.
(E.B. White-- in a letter, via Letters of Note)
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Stories from the Census: Southern Hospitality
I hope my mother does not read this blog.
That is to say: I have to admit that sometimes, during the Summer of the Census, the heat just did me in. It addled my brains. It made me make decisions that I would now classify as "poor."
But it was 102 degrees outside all summer, and I was carrying that stupid polyester messenger bag the whole time, and no one ever answered their door, and I was just so damn hot I could have cried.
I knocked on door after door after door. Night came, and morning followed. The fortieth day of enumerating. With a slight delirium settling upon me one afternoon, I banged on one more apartment door and pressed my forehead against a nearby post.
The door swung open, and my eyes met a navel. I gazed upward: a swath of dark skin stretched over a protruding ribcage. Upward again, to crying eagles and Gothic lettering and barbed wire tattooed across a skinny chest and collarbone. Upwards further, to a toothless grin.
"Hey, lady!" said a mildly creepy and very tall man.
I smiled. I showed my badge.
"Census lady!" he said. "Come on in."
Here are things I did not do:
I blinked my eyes, adjusting to the dim room. I took in my surroundings, both admiring the decor and formulating an exit strategy should things turn out poorly. Having staked out a secondary exit, I then made a comprehensive mental list of items in the apartment (you know, in case I needed a weapon).
Zebra print rug. Check. Inflatable mattress. Check. Five-foot-tall pyramid built entirely from Red Stripe bottles. Check.
Aaaaand... we're done. That was pretty much it. My new friend, the minimalist, lived a life few could imagine. He also, judging from the delicious smell wafting from the kitchen, was a hell of a cook.
"It smells amazing in here!" I said, peeking over the island into the kitchen. "What are you making?"
"I'm making jambalaya, Miss Lady!" he said. "You want some?" My stomach rumbled.
"There is no way she's saying yes," you may be saying to yourself.
"Yes," I said.
I know! I know. I don't know what I was thinking. I almost never do something my mother would disapprove of. I have watched plenty of terrifying, children-snatching episodes of 20/20 and 48 Hours. I have completed all of the Stranger Danger puzzles in the McGruff workbooks. I have no excuse!
There is no moral to this story except that, when heat-addled and hungry, I make questionable decisions. "Yes, I will take a bite of your potentially-poisoned, delicious-smelling jambalaya, O Half-Naked Red-Stripe-Drinking Stranger," I said. And then I took a bite. Heck, I ate an entire bowlful. It was delicious.
That is to say: I have to admit that sometimes, during the Summer of the Census, the heat just did me in. It addled my brains. It made me make decisions that I would now classify as "poor."
But it was 102 degrees outside all summer, and I was carrying that stupid polyester messenger bag the whole time, and no one ever answered their door, and I was just so damn hot I could have cried.
I knocked on door after door after door. Night came, and morning followed. The fortieth day of enumerating. With a slight delirium settling upon me one afternoon, I banged on one more apartment door and pressed my forehead against a nearby post.
The door swung open, and my eyes met a navel. I gazed upward: a swath of dark skin stretched over a protruding ribcage. Upward again, to crying eagles and Gothic lettering and barbed wire tattooed across a skinny chest and collarbone. Upwards further, to a toothless grin.
"Hey, lady!" said a mildly creepy and very tall man.
I smiled. I showed my badge.
"Census lady!" he said. "Come on in."
Here are things I did not do:
- Peek my head inside with trepidation
- Smile and decline sweetly
- Accept, but then remain safely just inside the doorway
- Pass GO
- Collect $200
I blinked my eyes, adjusting to the dim room. I took in my surroundings, both admiring the decor and formulating an exit strategy should things turn out poorly. Having staked out a secondary exit, I then made a comprehensive mental list of items in the apartment (you know, in case I needed a weapon).
Zebra print rug. Check. Inflatable mattress. Check. Five-foot-tall pyramid built entirely from Red Stripe bottles. Check.
Aaaaand... we're done. That was pretty much it. My new friend, the minimalist, lived a life few could imagine. He also, judging from the delicious smell wafting from the kitchen, was a hell of a cook.
"It smells amazing in here!" I said, peeking over the island into the kitchen. "What are you making?"
"I'm making jambalaya, Miss Lady!" he said. "You want some?" My stomach rumbled.
"There is no way she's saying yes," you may be saying to yourself.
"Yes," I said.
I know! I know. I don't know what I was thinking. I almost never do something my mother would disapprove of. I have watched plenty of terrifying, children-snatching episodes of 20/20 and 48 Hours. I have completed all of the Stranger Danger puzzles in the McGruff workbooks. I have no excuse!
There is no moral to this story except that, when heat-addled and hungry, I make questionable decisions. "Yes, I will take a bite of your potentially-poisoned, delicious-smelling jambalaya, O Half-Naked Red-Stripe-Drinking Stranger," I said. And then I took a bite. Heck, I ate an entire bowlful. It was delicious.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Stories from the Census: Knocking on Heaven's Door
Despite my official U.S. Census Bureau messenger bag and awesome clipboard, not everyone knew exactly what I was doing walking their neighborhoods and knocking on their doors. The following is a list of people that folks mistook me for during my time as an enumerator:
1. Police Officer
2. Apartment Staff Member
3. IRS Agent
4. Washing Machine Mechanic
5. Jehovah’s Witness
6. Resident’s Girlfriend
7. Resident’s Baby Mama
8. FBI Agent
9. Plumber
10. Girl Scout
11. Doctor
12. Salesperson
13. Pool Repair
14. Mormon
Can’t make this stuff up, folks.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Stories from the Census: Orange You Glad You Came In?
I had only been enumerating for a couple of days when I had to make my first Maybe-I’ll-Die, Maybe-I-Won’t judgment call.
I had been assigned to the Yacht Club, an apartment complex I can assure you is (nearly as) sophisticated and swanky as it sounds. The clubhouse is cleverly decorated with buoys and portholes; the sign on the property manager’s office reads “Captain’s Quarters.” In the hundred-degree June heat, I crossed bridges over frothy green ponds and festering streams. I broke through clouds of gnats and mosquitoes. This place was the real deal.
I reached an apartment and took a moment to compose myself. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead and humidity was trickling down my back. The nylon strap of my stupid itchy official messenger bag dug into my shoulder. I sighed and swatted the air. It was barely noon and already miserable. I rapped smartly on the door. “U.S. Census Bureau!” A few moments, and it opened.
“Helloooo,” chirped a little woman with Richard Simmons hair. Her big brown eyes—one looking straight at me, the other resting vaguely on something in the distance—peered out at me from the cool dark of the apartment. “It ees so hot. Will you like to come inside?”
I paused. This is how government workers die, right? One second, an innocent lady is smiling and nodding her curly head at you; the next, her paranoid anarchist brother is leaping out from behind the couch with an ice pick and a psychotic grudge against his former mailman.
Another bead of sweat slid into my eye and blurred my field of vision. I still did not move, but my good eye met hers. Humankind is good, right, at the core? “Sure,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
The apartment was cool, dark, and damp. “Will you like to sit down, please?” she said, gesturing towards the couch. A mustached man nodded toward me and muted the television.
She scurried to the kitchen and pried the lid off of a shiny blue tin. Tissue papers rustled as she fished out tiny tea cookies and put them on a plate. Ice clinked in a glass. A can of orange soda cracked open and fizzled. She scurried back with a little feast and set it on the coffee table. “For you,” she said.
Going through the interview questions as usual, I nibbled on cookies and learned that her accent was Salvadorian. That she lived in the apartment with her father. That she was thirty-five. Finally, I turned to the back page and asked the standard wrap-up questions. “Can you verify your name? Is this the address at which you were living as of April 1, 2010? Is there anyone else who lives here who has not been counted on this survey?”
She stopped. She looked from her mustached father to me to the muted television to the orange soda, back to me. She smiled sheepishly.
“Well, yes.” She blushed. “My boyfriend, he lives here too, usually.”
My business pants were on, of course, and cohabitation is not exactly shocking (thanks, MTV/Friends/sexual revolution/Census questionnaire that offers “Unmarried Partner” as an option). “Okay, we’ll put him on the survey, too.” We started to go through the questions again.
Then, Question 2b. “What is his date of birth?” She giggled. “Well, he’s… 21.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I like younger men,” she said.
“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”
I asked the wrap-up questions again. Yes, her name was right. Yes, she was living here on April 1. No, no one else besides the three of them lived here. “Okay, thank you so much for your time,” I said, “and for the cookies!”
She jumped up again, scurrying into the kitchen one more. I heard drawers opening and tissue papers rustling. As I stood to leave, she came back around the bar into the living room. We walked to the door and I turned to say goodbye.
“Here,” she said, pressing a plastic baggie full of tea cookies into my hands. She smiled and nodded enthusiastically, her Richard Simmons curls shaking like little fronds as I walked out of the dark of the apartment and into the blinding, gnatty heat of the afternoon.
I had been assigned to the Yacht Club, an apartment complex I can assure you is (nearly as) sophisticated and swanky as it sounds. The clubhouse is cleverly decorated with buoys and portholes; the sign on the property manager’s office reads “Captain’s Quarters.” In the hundred-degree June heat, I crossed bridges over frothy green ponds and festering streams. I broke through clouds of gnats and mosquitoes. This place was the real deal.
I reached an apartment and took a moment to compose myself. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead and humidity was trickling down my back. The nylon strap of my stupid itchy official messenger bag dug into my shoulder. I sighed and swatted the air. It was barely noon and already miserable. I rapped smartly on the door. “U.S. Census Bureau!” A few moments, and it opened.
“Helloooo,” chirped a little woman with Richard Simmons hair. Her big brown eyes—one looking straight at me, the other resting vaguely on something in the distance—peered out at me from the cool dark of the apartment. “It ees so hot. Will you like to come inside?”
I paused. This is how government workers die, right? One second, an innocent lady is smiling and nodding her curly head at you; the next, her paranoid anarchist brother is leaping out from behind the couch with an ice pick and a psychotic grudge against his former mailman.
Another bead of sweat slid into my eye and blurred my field of vision. I still did not move, but my good eye met hers. Humankind is good, right, at the core? “Sure,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
The apartment was cool, dark, and damp. “Will you like to sit down, please?” she said, gesturing towards the couch. A mustached man nodded toward me and muted the television.
She scurried to the kitchen and pried the lid off of a shiny blue tin. Tissue papers rustled as she fished out tiny tea cookies and put them on a plate. Ice clinked in a glass. A can of orange soda cracked open and fizzled. She scurried back with a little feast and set it on the coffee table. “For you,” she said.
Going through the interview questions as usual, I nibbled on cookies and learned that her accent was Salvadorian. That she lived in the apartment with her father. That she was thirty-five. Finally, I turned to the back page and asked the standard wrap-up questions. “Can you verify your name? Is this the address at which you were living as of April 1, 2010? Is there anyone else who lives here who has not been counted on this survey?”
She stopped. She looked from her mustached father to me to the muted television to the orange soda, back to me. She smiled sheepishly.
“Well, yes.” She blushed. “My boyfriend, he lives here too, usually.”
My business pants were on, of course, and cohabitation is not exactly shocking (thanks, MTV/Friends/sexual revolution/Census questionnaire that offers “Unmarried Partner” as an option). “Okay, we’ll put him on the survey, too.” We started to go through the questions again.
Then, Question 2b. “What is his date of birth?” She giggled. “Well, he’s… 21.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I like younger men,” she said.
“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”
I asked the wrap-up questions again. Yes, her name was right. Yes, she was living here on April 1. No, no one else besides the three of them lived here. “Okay, thank you so much for your time,” I said, “and for the cookies!”
She jumped up again, scurrying into the kitchen one more. I heard drawers opening and tissue papers rustling. As I stood to leave, she came back around the bar into the living room. We walked to the door and I turned to say goodbye.
“Here,” she said, pressing a plastic baggie full of tea cookies into my hands. She smiled and nodded enthusiastically, her Richard Simmons curls shaking like little fronds as I walked out of the dark of the apartment and into the blinding, gnatty heat of the afternoon.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Stories from the Census
The thing is, I haven’t always been a grown-up with a full-time job and insurance.
First, I was a baby. And then for a long time, I was a student. I was very good at being a student, and I loved it, and I never wanted to stop, because what if I wasn’t good at anything else? But then the University of Tulsa ejected me from its warm nurturing bosom, and I had to start figuring out how to be a grown-up.
It was what I like to call a “process.”
But if there’s one thing I know about being a grown-up, it’s that it’s very expensive. Money is a must. And as my parents failed to teach me any practical skills for participating in the underground economy (carjacking, drug-dealing, etc.), I had to find some legitimate way of getting my hands on some cash.
Luckily, the year was 2010: the year of the Olympics, an oil spill, a lunar eclipse, and Dwayne Johnson’s breakout role as the tooth fairy in… Tooth Fairy. It was also the year of the 2010 Census.
In short: desperate for work, I passed the Census test (“How would you put the following names in alphabetical order?”) with flying colors and was offered a job as an enumerator (yes, a door-knocker) for the summer.
I soon learned that when you knock on strangers’ doors, strange things can happen. That’s why they’re called strangers. I would like to share a few of those stories with the World Wide Web in the coming weeks. I hope you're ready!
First, I was a baby. And then for a long time, I was a student. I was very good at being a student, and I loved it, and I never wanted to stop, because what if I wasn’t good at anything else? But then the University of Tulsa ejected me from its warm nurturing bosom, and I had to start figuring out how to be a grown-up.
It was what I like to call a “process.”
But if there’s one thing I know about being a grown-up, it’s that it’s very expensive. Money is a must. And as my parents failed to teach me any practical skills for participating in the underground economy (carjacking, drug-dealing, etc.), I had to find some legitimate way of getting my hands on some cash.
Luckily, the year was 2010: the year of the Olympics, an oil spill, a lunar eclipse, and Dwayne Johnson’s breakout role as the tooth fairy in… Tooth Fairy. It was also the year of the 2010 Census.
In short: desperate for work, I passed the Census test (“How would you put the following names in alphabetical order?”) with flying colors and was offered a job as an enumerator (yes, a door-knocker) for the summer.
I soon learned that when you knock on strangers’ doors, strange things can happen. That’s why they’re called strangers. I would like to share a few of those stories with the World Wide Web in the coming weeks. I hope you're ready!
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Summer Plans
You ever been in a hammock before? They're real neat new-fangled things you tie up to trees and swing in all summer long. Like this:
We have two very nice, strong hammocks. Only we don't have perfectly-positioned trees. Or hammock stands.
We have two very nice, strong hammocks. Only we don't have perfectly-positioned trees. Or hammock stands.
Everyone wins, there's no weight limit, and there's no chance of falling off and hurting yourself.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Work
Well, three funny things, actually.
Firstly: Tulsa is still recovering from a major blizzard, record amounts of snowfall, and a decided inability to plow its neighborhood streets. With these factors in mind, I decided to park my little car safely on the street half a mile from work and hoof it the rest of the way through the neighborhood.
Secondly: Shortly upon exiting my car, I immediately took a tumble on the icy road. I spilled my lunch all over the street, laughed at myself, and went on my merry way.
Thirdly: A few moments later, I happened upon a car spinning its tires and trying to get out of the middle of the road. I pushed, the tires spun. I pushed harder, the tires spun harder. The driver exited the car. Noting that he was at least 6-foot-6 and 250 pounds, we decided that perhaps he should push and I should hit the gas. Eureka! And jackpot! Off he, too, went on his merry way.
Now, these three things may not seem to be connected or interesting. If I were just going to broadcast three random-- and rather mediocre-- life events to the world, I would be posting mundane facebook status updates, not shaking the dust off of this poor abandoned blog. But as any reader of O. Henry or W. Lechner will attest, everything matters. Everything is connected. And these three events, as I discovered just an hour ago, came together to make for a very interesting revelation.
You see, I wore snow boots to work today. I also brought along a pair of regular shoes to wear around the office. It was time to take of the boots and put on the shoes. I reached into my bag and, with great apprehension, pulled out a lone shoe.
There is only one shoe.
My sweet, sweet, black patent leather shoes, the only shoes I own with ergonomic insoles and non-slip soles, my practical, grown-up, only-shoes-I-wear-all-winter, are now separated.
The left shoe now lies like an abandoned salmon on my office floor, dejectedly beached and no longer even flailing its pathetic little fins as it gapes at me. "Where is my brother?" it asks with its last shuddering flap of a gill, its slowly congealing insides, its dimming eye.
My right shoe, the beautiful black salmon, now lies in one of three places. Revisiting the events of this morning, I imagine it, too...
Waiting patiently in my little car: safely parked half a snowy and freezing mile away.
Lying shivering in the dirty mounds of iced-over snow: which, if we are to believe local meteorologists, will be joined tonight by an additional eight to twelve.
Or, the most vaguely hilarious option: staying warm and dry in the passenger seat of a six-foot-six, 250-pound stranger who has long since exited the neighborhood, my new friend who was happily sent on his merry way just hours, and a lifetime, ago.
Firstly: Tulsa is still recovering from a major blizzard, record amounts of snowfall, and a decided inability to plow its neighborhood streets. With these factors in mind, I decided to park my little car safely on the street half a mile from work and hoof it the rest of the way through the neighborhood.
Secondly: Shortly upon exiting my car, I immediately took a tumble on the icy road. I spilled my lunch all over the street, laughed at myself, and went on my merry way.
Thirdly: A few moments later, I happened upon a car spinning its tires and trying to get out of the middle of the road. I pushed, the tires spun. I pushed harder, the tires spun harder. The driver exited the car. Noting that he was at least 6-foot-6 and 250 pounds, we decided that perhaps he should push and I should hit the gas. Eureka! And jackpot! Off he, too, went on his merry way.
Now, these three things may not seem to be connected or interesting. If I were just going to broadcast three random-- and rather mediocre-- life events to the world, I would be posting mundane facebook status updates, not shaking the dust off of this poor abandoned blog. But as any reader of O. Henry or W. Lechner will attest, everything matters. Everything is connected. And these three events, as I discovered just an hour ago, came together to make for a very interesting revelation.
You see, I wore snow boots to work today. I also brought along a pair of regular shoes to wear around the office. It was time to take of the boots and put on the shoes. I reached into my bag and, with great apprehension, pulled out a lone shoe.
There is only one shoe.
My sweet, sweet, black patent leather shoes, the only shoes I own with ergonomic insoles and non-slip soles, my practical, grown-up, only-shoes-I-wear-all-winter, are now separated.
The left shoe now lies like an abandoned salmon on my office floor, dejectedly beached and no longer even flailing its pathetic little fins as it gapes at me. "Where is my brother?" it asks with its last shuddering flap of a gill, its slowly congealing insides, its dimming eye.
My right shoe, the beautiful black salmon, now lies in one of three places. Revisiting the events of this morning, I imagine it, too...
Waiting patiently in my little car: safely parked half a snowy and freezing mile away.
Lying shivering in the dirty mounds of iced-over snow: which, if we are to believe local meteorologists, will be joined tonight by an additional eight to twelve.
Or, the most vaguely hilarious option: staying warm and dry in the passenger seat of a six-foot-six, 250-pound stranger who has long since exited the neighborhood, my new friend who was happily sent on his merry way just hours, and a lifetime, ago.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Cookie Girl Does Cookie Girl
Well, it's the day we've all been waiting for. Many thanks to the cookie eaters, bakers, and monsters in this video. I couldn't have done it without you.
Love, C.G.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
"I Love You Sweatheart"
A man risked his life to write the words.
A man hung upside down (an idiot friend
holding his legs?) with spray paint
to write the words on a girder fifty feet above
a highway. And his beloved,
the next morning driving to work...?
his words are not (meant to be) so unique.
Does she recognize his handwriting?
Did he hint to her at her doorstep the night before
of "something special, darling, tomorrow"?
And did he call her at work
expecting her to faint with delight
at his celebration of her, his passion, his risk?
She will know I love her now,
the world will know my love for her!
A man risked his life to write the world.
Love is like this at the bone, we hope, love
is like this, Sweatheart, all sore and dumb
and dangerous, ignited, blessed--always,
regardless, no exceptions,
always in blazing matters like these: blessed.
Thomas Lux
A man hung upside down (an idiot friend
holding his legs?) with spray paint
to write the words on a girder fifty feet above
a highway. And his beloved,
the next morning driving to work...?
his words are not (meant to be) so unique.
Does she recognize his handwriting?
Did he hint to her at her doorstep the night before
of "something special, darling, tomorrow"?
And did he call her at work
expecting her to faint with delight
at his celebration of her, his passion, his risk?
She will know I love her now,
the world will know my love for her!
A man risked his life to write the world.
Love is like this at the bone, we hope, love
is like this, Sweatheart, all sore and dumb
and dangerous, ignited, blessed--always,
regardless, no exceptions,
always in blazing matters like these: blessed.
Thomas Lux
Monday, November 9, 2009
It's A Good Thing These Posts Are Months Apart
Because when I post... oh, do I ever post.
I am thinking that next semester will be much more conducive to blogging.
But until then, did you know you can cook a salmon in the dishwasher?!?!?!??
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Well, That Wasn't The Plan
I swung the full garbage bag in the air, only a little nervous that the macaroni & cheese box would poke a hole in it and dirty Kleenexes, apple cores, empty beer cans, and eggshells would rain down on my head.
With an expertly executed wrist-flick, I let go of the handles and watched the overstuffed cloud of a trash bag sail through the sky.
A perfect arc: big white poof, skinny fluttering yellow handles, tiny silver glint sparkling in the morning sunlight.
Tiny silver glint?
My keys.
"Goodbye, goodbye!" they jingled and giggled as they sailed into the dumpster.
With an expertly executed wrist-flick, I let go of the handles and watched the overstuffed cloud of a trash bag sail through the sky.
A perfect arc: big white poof, skinny fluttering yellow handles, tiny silver glint sparkling in the morning sunlight.
Tiny silver glint?
My keys.
"Goodbye, goodbye!" they jingled and giggled as they sailed into the dumpster.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Update: A Trip To The Dentist
I may have mentioned my love/hate relationship with oral hygiene (as in: I love brushing my teeth/my dentist hates me).
The point is, I left the dentist's office at about 5:00 with a totally numb left side of the face. Mouth, teeth, lips, cheek-- numb. Left nostril? Definitely not responsive. Left eye? Yup. A little droopy.
That means it was time to play my favorite post-dentist game. It's called "Look In The Mirror And Try To Smile Even Though Your Face Is Really Droopy On One Side!"
It's hiiiilarious!
Because you try to smile, but you only can with half of your face, which is hysterical, so then you laugh, but you're only laughing with half of your face, which is even more hysterical, and then you laugh even harder, because you look like a total freakazoid, and the cycle goes on and on until the toilet flushes and some lady comes out of the stall in the public restroom and, refusing to make eye contact, washes her hands and darts outta there at lightning speed.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Smooth, Part II
Scene: On the dance floor at Caravan Cattle Company. A middle-aged Jordanian MAN with an... um... exotic scent is two-stepping with WHITNEY.
WHITNEY: So, what's your name?
SAMAL: I go by Sam, but my name in my country is Samal.
WHITNEY: Samal?
SAMAL: Don't say that!
WHITNEY: [terrified she has said something profane in his language] Oh no, why?!
SAMAL: Because you will break my heart.
WHITNEY: So, what's your name?
SAMAL: I go by Sam, but my name in my country is Samal.
WHITNEY: Samal?
SAMAL: Don't say that!
WHITNEY: [terrified she has said something profane in his language] Oh no, why?!
SAMAL: Because you will break my heart.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)