“My commute to work typically includes 1-2 gaps, thankfully these days, not three. But it can go south, even with good conditions. Today, besides forgetting to grab the lunch my daughter had so lovingly packaged for me, I ran right into road work, on Route 125. The same round man, holding upright his stop/slow sign, looking fatigued, and bending in half, in an awkward communion with his staff. I felt my heart go out, and didn’t like the rote ritual of leaving him here, to suffer his choice or his only choice, to labor at tedious, physically demanding road work, often in cruel summer heat. In some, far away world we both silently acknowledge, he is enjoying a lithe, fit body, perhaps playing volleyball with cute blondes, on a reclusive, Cayman Isle. In that same world, I am nobody special, a seamstress, organ grinder, or street sweeper. My recognition of this, I indicate, by waving, as he waves me by. But the worst is yet to come. It happens in Hancock, VT as I weigh the odds against ignoring my “low tire pressure” gauge promptings, vs. pulling into a gas station. There are still gas stations, in Hancock. Or, one. It being attached to a tiny convenience store, with a beer cave. I’ve been in the cave, and found what I was looking for, and had a friendly banter with the staff on late shift. So, I pull in, against my best instincts. It pays to be bold, doesn’t it? And to push past the fears, that one is going to be made lesser, by an interaction with humans? Truck maintenance trumps petty insecurities, I’m sure of it, even though I’m bracing myself. Throwing my body out of the driver’s seat and door, I pivot & look for a mechanic, stepping into the hallowed ground of the lift, where I smell oil and grease. An older guy is underneath some rig. I try to communicate with him, in a casual tone, which is impossible, when you have a speech impediment. After being ignored three times, he glares at me. “Talk to him about it” he barks, gesturing towards a younger fellow, in army green mechanic’s coveralls, who just happens to be walking by. I feel hard, like a bull dog, and resigned to whatever treatment I’m going to get. I don’t really expect anyone to be nice. I’m not pretty, or particularly inclined to be charming anymore. The younger guy shows partial interest. He seems to tolerate my request, to get my tires checked and attended to. Unfortunately, he is also the only one on site, to sell groceries, and snacks. Some other folks roll in. I’m now running 15 minutes behind my own work schedule. I’m taking deep breaths, and trying to appreciate the oddity of being alive, as a kind of philosophical exercise. Lucky for me, I developed this habit early in life, and learned to endure just about any unexpected setback. No need for a monastery! The younger mechanic checks a tire. This is taking longer than it should. Rocket science, tire pressure, is not. But, if you’re annoyed with your station in life, and annoyed by having to serve “the public”, you may not give a shit. Like I’ve said before, I often find myself thrown into categories, and treated like many cattle are. Good thing I have my own engine, running on rarified fumes, able to leap or limp away, without giving too much mind to assholes. A half hour later, I’m at Exit Four service area. Only 15 minutes from my job, but I really need a cup of coffee. I walk aimlessly thru the isles, between Hostess Twinkies & Koffee Kup donuts, trying to recognize any real food that might exist here. Let’s be honest. There are times it’s only “calories in, calories out”, as one of my ex’s used to say. I hated when he said it. He said it to imply that I was eating too much, and gaining too much weight. Now, all I want to do, is let go of rules, and diets, and judgements, and comparisons that destroy my sense of integrity. I have worked harder than anyone I know, doing the kinds of things that feel vital to me, when no one else maybe really cared. And that’s what I did and that’s ... where I got.”
