The Locals
We're all here because we're not all there
A few years ago, I moved from a big city to a small coastal town. My first few weeks there were colored with that special hue that novelty will give a place. It was a weird place so think purple or maybe chartreuse? Anyhow it was all new to me so I walked around and made observations and took notes. In retrospect (I don’t live there anymore) the notes I took still represent the town pretty accurately: it was and is a really weird place! Some friends of mine are moving there soon. Maybe I should warn them. Or maybe I’ll just wait until they’ve moved and are saying shit like “man, this town is really weird!” and then I’ll just laugh, knowingly. I do enjoy a knowing laugh. Some of the weird things that I encountered while I was there include old hippies, dead jellyfish, and meandering drunks. They all had the air of dug-in natives who’d been stuck up at the end of the peninsula too long. Grizzled of Hair, Long of Tentacle, and Loud of Opinion, if you catch my drift. Which reminds me—there was a lot of driftwood on the beaches, closely followed by driftwood carvings—those ubiquitous wooden animals, slaking the thirst of Tourists Everywhere. Which brings me to the jellyfish; they didn’t have much to say, but managed to make themselves unpleasant—lolling about, squishy and dead—all over the beach. Ah, the beach. Makes me think of Sex on the Beach; the drink—not the miserable, chafing experience of lust gone wild. The first time I had it—still the drink—was a mistake; there’s no excuse for the other times. But back to the peninsula: maybe to them, those colorful locals who had lived there so long, nothing was weird. Or maybe they thought I was weird. If that was the case, they’d have been right.
On my walks, which went over the hill, into the forest, through the meadow, and along the beach, I saw: few people. Many deer. Eagles, herons, and other birds of indiscriminate parentage. On a rock—one preening otter, another in the water. But also …an Aberration. In the forest, looming out from beneath the pine trees, were the criminally ubiquitous rodidendun rododoldrum rododumdum oh, fuck it! bushes. The flower of the Rhododendron, just like its stupid name, is a tasteless affair—of lurid pink or purple arranged in a frilly circle amid dark green leaves. It is the late eighties prom dress of flowers; if prom dresses in the late eighties could take a bottle of Robitussin, pass out on the lawn, and vomit all over themselves. I would like to be generous and say that maybe Rhododendrons are less repulsive in their native habitat, wherever that is, because they sure as hell don’t belong in a Pine Forest, but it turns out, incredibly, that that is their native habitat, which is clearly a failing of the entire ecosystem, evolution, and Nature’s Sense of Right and Wrong. In any case, I knew when I saw them that my continued residence in the area was out of the question, because, as a person known for her Character and Integrity, it was impossible that such a locale could long contain us both.
Neighborhood Watch
Some notes.
In trying to acclimate and get a sense of Life in a Small Town, I am finding the local police blotter to be well worth reading. Here’s this weeks.
“Kids using transistor radios interfere with shipyard frequencies.”
“Man caught drinking in park.”
“Reports of smoking: cigarette butts left everywhere.”
“Man drives by, slowly.”
“Estranged husband returns to pack up his things unannounced.”
“Man loses credit card, finds he must replace.”
“Multiple people cited for taking up too many parking spaces.”
“Man in green Mazda is reported to peel out ‘while making rude gestures.’”
(Since reading this, I have been careful to leave my doors …unlocked.)
Bus Number Three
As well as taking care not to lose my credit card or drive, too slowly, I’m learning to navigate the town.
I had to take the bus to the doctor today. Bus Number Two. It was late. I paid my fare, then said to the driver, "I'm trying to get to the health center. Do I need to transfer?"
"Mental health?" he said. I looked at him. He wasn't smiling.
"Uh ...no. Just regular health."
"Oh, okay. Well, you'll just need to get Bus Number Three at the transit center."
"Alright. Thanks."
I sat down. There were several other people on the bus. Old hippies, mostly. They all seemed to know each other. I listened to them talk for a while. Most everyone seemed to be counter-culture, artsy—you know; a bit weird. I thought of the town motto—I'd seen it around on bumper stickers and T-shirts: "We're all here because we're not all there”. I realized, with a mixture of joy and dismay, that I fit right in.
At one point the bus driver pulled over to drop someone off at a trailhead. No sidewalk, no bus stop—just a tiny trail leading into the forest; her regular stop.
After a while we got to the transit center. I stood up, preparing to get off. I hoped we hadn't missed my transfer. The driver picked up the intercom.
"This bus is now Bus Number Three," he announced.
I sat back down.
"This bus is now Bus Number Three." I wish all changes were that easy.
I love the concept of a knowing laugh. Puzzling and ambiguous… Yet makes me want to soil my drawers.