“They were lined up on both sides of the narrow river road, kayaker types from who-knows-where. Some in wet suits, some with cameras, all positioning themselves to get their best shot at the rapids. I slowed the Chevy, now a huge truck oversized for what space was left for commuters. A spring run, a race to the bottom, a race to the top. I just wanted to get to the hardware store. For joist hangers, corner braces, pressure treated planks and screws. My life currently involves a lot of screws. Deck screws, precision black screws, the occasional galvanized nail, then more screws. T25; I’ve learned the lingo. I sat hunched over my steering wheel, one arm casually draped almost to the elbow, watching for children first, then for their larger, darting, mission-driven counter-parts heading directly into icy waters. My tonnage, slowed, inching along the familiar road between mountain & town, felt territorial, a bit. This is my road, you are my guests, I thought. Saturdays can be like that around here. We look forward to sharing, but also, feel put off. It’s an immature response, but somehow, one small entitlement duly granted to residents “de rigueur”. I had to look that up for spelling, but it popped into my head, honestly. Something to do with etiquette, and allowing for others to have room. Graciousness. Humility. We don’t really own anything, after all. I wouldn’t trade my life for any of theirs. The guy I got at the counter, at the local hardware store, went beyond my expectations, when he could only locate 3 of the joist hangers, out of the seven I needed. He checked with the other franchises in the area, to see what was in stock: a no-go, but we easily chatted about their competitor, a real lumberyard, 15 minutes away. “ You can buy these three”, he offered “and bring them back if you don’t need them”. I like to be nice to people who are nice to me. But I also know my way around lumberyards, at this point. I punched in a few search terms into my phone. “I’m sorry this is taking so long,” I said. “No problem”, he replied, “You’re the customer”. He stood, relaxed, as I checked the internet for the hours of the other supplier. “I think I’ll just go there and see if I can get everything”. We both knew that Aubuchon’s was no match for r.k. Miles, if I could get there by noon. It became clear that I was heading out. He smiled, laughed, made a joke about something, and we both laughed. I forget about what. He seemed to be enjoying me as a customer. Granted, that made an improvement to my day. But heading back to the counter where I’d left a gravel rake, I grabbed it quickly, and returned it to the rack. No sale here, today, I said to myself, and exited quickly. What kind of loyalty do I owe a local store that has just been bought out by a national chain? I didn’t like to solder joints on the rake, or any of the rakes they had, really. I’d have to rethink where to buy gardening tools, this was getting too confusing. So tired of shopping, I thought, a weight and depression, descending upon me, as I climbed back up, into the cab of the Chevy. Darn glad this truck still runs. My mind tumbled into a brief revery, in gratitude to the guy who found me my truck in 2020 or so. It was warm enough now, to put down the front windows, and ride with the wind in my hair. I returned to the thought of plain donuts, since I’d skipped breakfast in an effort to get out early, as the road opened out before me, in one glorious stretch of ugly highway. I’d be driving south now, to the next biggest town. Passing a Dunkin’ Donuts, but loathe to stop there and use any drive-in BS. Down Route 7, not a particularly scenic stretch of it, but fast. I punched in an audio book, some Norwegian detective novel. I think I’m learning how to put up with the things I don’t like about modern life, sort of. I might be lucky, and my least favorite, leering sales rep would be off on the weekends, at my next stop. And lucky I was. Got in and out with all my materials, even got to load my own lumber, without any oddball to deal with, in the warehouse. I was more than elated to hand over my invoice to the goofy guy at the kiosk. At least he took me for a regular, and it was smooth sailing from there, all the way home, including the side trip to pick up a half yard of 3/4 Champlain blue stone. You have to go through the paces. You have to take most things, with a grain of salt. You have to be brave, and learn how to act like you know what you’re doing. Because, most likely you are way beyond pretending, and well on your way to building a life of your own, carte blanche, thanks to your own, inimitable style.”
