In which I am slow on the draw

The rain that's been beating down on us for the past several days has ceased, leaving a brilliant, clear sky and in the distance, snow-topped mountains. It's startling to look across green fields where strawberries are ripening and see a snowy mountain range, but the beauty of life is in contrasts, friends, and let me illustrate that with an anecdote.

You may have inferred from my description that this was a beautiful morning. A clearing breeze blew scant clouds across the sky, itself a pleasing shade of blue. The hills were hazy purple, the eucalyptus trees dark, their grey-green leaves glossy with rain. Even so, the knowledge that the world is a kaleidoscope of color does not provide sufficient incentive to make going out into it any easier. I was warm under the blankets, and going out into the world, regardless of its beauty, meant an eventual arrival at my office.

If you do not live on a boat, which you likely don�t, then your morning routine probably differs from mine in that you do not have to carry your shower bag down a long concrete dock, traverse a ramp that varies in angle according to the tide, and then shower in a facility that accommodates a number of bathers, albeit in separate stalls. In the grand scheme of things, walking a hundred yards to take a shower cannot be considered a major inconvenience. At six o�clock in the morning, however, when the air is cold and the dock is wet, and the seedy neighbor several boats away calls after you that you dropped your bra in a puddle, �convenient� is not the word that comes to mind.

At this point, I should mention that if you are the type of person who reads the previous paragraph and thinks, �That would never happen to me, because I am perfectly organized and lay out all my clothing the night before, and operate according to a carefully maintained checklist,� then you need to stop reading right now and go away, for your own safety. I am the first to admit that I am one giant whirlwind of disorganization and mismatched pajamas, and I have little patience for people who lord it over me with their Franklin-Covey planners and neat mosaic of matching spice containers.

So, where was I? Right: I had just rescued my bra from a puddle, and was trudging up toward the showers on the concrete dock I sometimes pretend is a runway at a fashion show. �And here we have Violet! Violet is wearing a pair of threadbare flannel pajama pants in a Black Watch tartan. There�s a big hole in the left leg, but she refuses to discard these pants because she was wearing them when she met Jonathan Richman in 1998. She has forgotten a shirt, but her waterproof jacket, featured here in electric robin�s-egg blue, is by Calvin Klein. Her shoes, which she has not yet realized do not match, are by, respectively, BCBG in black, on the left, and DKNY, in brown, on the right. The waterlogged bra wadded up under her arm is by Felina.� This morning, on my way out of the gate at the top of the ramp, I met Laughin� Ed, a fellow sailor who has tanned himself the same rich reddish-brown shade as a Beggin� Strip. He talks like his chest cavity is filled with asphalt and laughs at seemingly random times. He is the Doctor Hibbert of our marina. �Hey, Ed, how�s it going?� I said this morning, and he laughed and laughed. I think he�s on pills, but at least he held the gate for me.

There are two showers in the little building near my dock, and the farther one was occupied when I arrived. The occupant hadn�t turned on the fan that keeps the mirrors from fogging up, so I did, and went about my own shower, after which I realized that I hadn�t brought a towel. I dried off as best I could with the Lucky Jonathan Pants and put myself together. Whoever had been in the other shower was through, and running a hair dryer in the other section of the bath house. As I turned the corner, I recognized her. One day last spring, I was at home on the boat and was startled by a loud knocking on the hull. I came outside to see an unfamiliar woman with ice-blonde hair worn in a loose bowl cut similar to one favored by Phil Spector. She was crying. �Are you Violet?� she asked me, and when I said yes, she told me that she�d hit my car in the parking lot. She introduced herself as Janine, and together, we walked up to survey the damage.

All that had broken was the directional signal on the driver�s side. I looked at the pieces of yellow plastic that littered my bumper, and told her not to worry about it. She insisted that I talk to her husband, who owned an auto repair shop, and dialed a number on her phone. �We�re separated,� she whispered as the phone rang on the other end of the line. �He doesn�t know I�m living on a boat with Jerry.� I guessed that Jerry was her boyfriend, but her expression asked me to keep her secret. So, I talked to the husband and decided that it wasn�t worth making an 80-mile drive with no turn signal, to fix the turn signal. Janine was limp with relief and gratitude, and hugged me. I thought it all ended well enough, but from that moment on, every time I saw her, she pretended not to know me.

None of this was on my mind when I passed her in the bathroom this morning, and she shut off her hairdryer and turned to confront me. �You know, when you�re taking a shower in that far stall?� she started, her partly dried hair hanging over her eyes, �and someone turns on the blower? It gets freezing in that stall, especially on a cold day like this.� She stared at me. I stared back. I have taken showers many times in that last stall, with the �blower� going, and felt no discernible chill. Yet I did not say that. Unused to confrontation, I stood there, holding my Lucky Jonathan Pants and shower bag, my hair wet and unbrushed, and said, �OK.�

My answer wasn�t sufficient, because she went on about how uncomfortable it was, and how she left the �blower� going because she could see that I wanted it on, but that in the future, I should refrain from turning it on if someone was in the other stall. She brushed off my apology, and my explanation that the fan, you know, keeps the room from filling with fog. She was rather ungracious about the entire thing, and then turned back to her hair-drying.

It is not flattering to me to report that I turned on my heel and exited the bathroom, saying, Fuck. YOU. not quite under my breath. I don�t think she heard me, but the hair dryer stopped just after I said it, so it�s possible she did.

It�s entertaining to think about the different things I could have said to this woman who stood there in her white terrycloth bathrobe, hairdryer in hand, and lectured me about the fan in the showers. Why couldn�t I say, for instance, �Oh� aren�t you that nice lady who ran into my car in the parking lot?� Or, �Hey�does your husband still not know that you live here with your boyfriend?� Or, �Phil Spector wants his hair-do back, you crazy, motherfucking bitch!� But no, I said, �OK,� and then tried to explain myself, and then said �Fuck you� not quite under my breath, when I figured she couldn�t hear me. I am disgusted with myself.

What would you have done? I want to know. I�m compiling a list of suggestions to which I can refer next time this happens. You know, if it ever happens again. Like, if I ever see her go into the shower building again, and just happen to turn on the fan. Not that I would�that would be exceedingly petty. I�m just saying, if it did happen, I would want to be prepared for the Rage of Janine.

In the meantime, I�m practicing this phrase under my breath, so my coworkers in the bullpen can�t hear me: Aren�t you that nice lady who smashed into my parked car with your truck? Aren�t you that nice lady who smashed into my parked car with your truck? Aren�t you that nice lady who smashed into my parked car with your truck?



Star of the day. . .Christian B�rard
posted @ 12:34 p.m. on January 07, 2008 before | after

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She lay awake all night,

zzzzzzzzzzz......