That Guy

By Mike Nettleton

 At some time or another, we’ve all encountered “that guy.” And, because I’m an equal opportunity ranter, let me point out “that guy” is often a woman. You know who I’m talking about, right?

“That guy” is always perched on the last weight machine at the gym. The one you need to complete your workout before heading for a soothing and well-deserved shower. He sits staring into space, as if trying to puzzle out how he arrived there and what he intends to do next. His eyes meet yours and he nods, then continues his existential questioning. A minute passes, two, three, stretching now into five. Dripping with sweat, with your brain shrieking “please God, strike me dead on the spot,” you consider asking him if he’s going to actually move the weights from their resting position, but finally give up, towel off, and slink away to find hot water. 

Later, defying all odds, you encounter “that guy” again at the supermarket. Or, perhaps it’s a different “that guy” wearing the disguise of a 50 something heavy- set woman who’s standing behind her cart in the soup and rice aisle as you turn the corner and try to enter. Spotting you, she immediately swivels her cart to the diagonal, bends at the waist and finds fascination with a row of chicken stock on the lowest shelf. “That guy’s” (gal’s?) rear end bobs up and down, to and fro, hither and yon to punctuate his (her) efforts. The aisle couldn’t be any more blocked if someone had backed a semi with two trailers in, shut down the engine, pulled out the keys and left the building. If there was a shower in the store, you’d be toweling off and heading for it now. Later, you cross paths with “that guy” in the 10 items or less checkout. He’s pushing through two crammed carts while burying the clerk in a waterfall of expired coupons and trying to cash a 4-party out of state check.

The most dangerous place to encounter “that guy” is behind the wheel of an automobile. “That guy” is the one in the left lane, driving 15 miles-per-hour under the speed limit while the right lane is clogged with a tightly-packed never ending stream of cars. “That guy” has a lifelong love affair with his left turn signal, employing it several dozen streets before turning left, turning right, or going straight through the intersection. 

It pays to be alert when spotting “that guy” approaching a stop sign on the cross street just ahead of you. Your “that guy” Spidey sense will tingle. You’ll glance again to see “that guy” (again a random sexual assignment), texting, singing at the top of his lungs while demonstrating “jazz hands,” blow drying his hair, eating a meatball sub, or examining the polish on her (his?) toenails. Worst case scenario: “that guy” will be involved in all of these behaviors simultaneously. There’s not a chance in hell “that guy” will even consider his brake pedal as he careens across in front of you.

“That guy” is the one who camped his monster SUV cattywhumpus across two slots in the crowded shopping center parking lot. “That guy” is nearly as dangerous in the role of pedestrian, ducking out from behind a parked car to skitter across the street in front of you, then scowling when you have to go into a screeching skid to avoid turning him into a flesh and blood hood ornament.

“That guy” can also be a telemarketer who tries to convince you he’s a close personal friend while phonetically stumbling through  your last name, rendering it unrecognizable.

“That guy” walks her drooling mega-dog through the neighborhood, sauntering away from the steaming mega-load the beast has dumped on the street. “That guy” fires up his lawn mower at 6AM on the only morning you can sleep in. “That guy” never lets facts get in the way of his own loudly-expressed opinion.

Here’s the most sobering thing about the whole “that guy” phenomenon. At some time or another, in the eyes of other people, all of us will take a turn being “that guy.”

Oops, time to go. I just noticed my left turn signal’s been on all the way through this blog.

But won't my morning donut get lonely?

Mike Nettleton 

 

 When my doctor turned to me with a serious-you're-not-going-to-like-what-I'm-about-to say expression on his face I could feel my heart race. The blood test. Did they find some rogue white cells? A deadly virus? A mutant gene that would turn me into a wart hog?

"Michael," he starts. 

Uh-oh, definitely not good. When my mother called me that it would be time to duck and cover. I felt myself shudder.

"It would be best for your health if you gave up caffeine."

This is not bad news in the same league with "I think you should get your affairs in order," but still...

"Hello, my name is Mike and I'm a coffee-holic." What started as a way to stay awake all night cramming for finals in classes I barely knew the location of, had accelerated into a two pot a day habit. I blame my 40-plus year radio career, mostly as a morning man. After all, it wouldn't do to have your wake-up guy go face down on the control board halfway through a sentence, right? 

Quitting a life-long habit cold turkey could present a major challenge. But, I was game to try. After all, I'd left all my other vices behind. I gave up smoking, both tobacco and pot. I've cured myself of habitual overeating. (Although I still go into occasional anaconda mode.) Irresponsible sex with supermodels? A thing of the past. Driving my Ferrari 150mph with the top down? I'm a Prius guy now. (Note: One habit I haven't kicked is a hyperactive fantasy life.)

The Pacific Northwest has to be one of the hardest places in the world to quit caffeine. After all, the running joke is, that the only place left to build a Starbucks is inside another Starbucks. You can buy a 5$ skinny white chocolate mocha, extra foam without getting out of your car at any one of the hundreds of they-multiply-like-rabbits drive up jitter-juice stands.

They all have cute/catchy names like Brewed Awakenings, Espresso What or Bean There, Done That.  

Recently a new concept coffee stand has opened called Bikini Baristas. Here, an attractive (and buxom) young woman in a swimsuit that would make a cartoon character's eyes boing out of his head on springs will deliver your steaming hot caffeine fix. She almost always has to bend from the waist to hand it over. 

I don't know this first-hand of course, only from a report filed by our team of correspondent. He apparently stopped in when he felt the need for a little pick-me-up on the way across the river for some family entertainment at Hooters.

This information stimulated an idea for a sure-fire can't-fail business. Imagine a roadside drive-up coffee vendor called Booty Brew. We may have a city code issue with the visuals on the signage, but we'll worry about that later. 

The baristas would deliver your double shot, half-soy caramel cappuccino to pounding electro-funk, sliding and twirling suggestively down a gleaming metal pole to deliver the fragrant 20 ounce ambrosia to your window. 

Or, for the ladies, Chippen-ccino. A hunky guy with major 6-pack abs would dance your drink to the window to the tune of "It's Raining Men." Instead of putting your money in the till, he'd let you stuff it down... Well you get the idea.

"If it's any consolation," my doctor brings me out of my reverie/pity fest. You can drink a daily cup of de-caf.

De-caf? De-caf? One cup? That's like handing an 8 ounce near-beer to an alcoholic. Why, if I pull up to the window and order a de-caf skinny white hazelnut mocha, hold the whip, my barista might laugh so hard she'd fall off her pole.

Where’s that fairy godmother?

Carolyn J. Rose

If you were raised on Disney movies like I was, maybe you know the feeling. You’re cleaning up the kitchen or doing the laundry and you find yourself wishing you could get a little help—not from your husband or kids or roommates, but from some adorable animated mice and birds. You pause, sponge in hand, imagining their cheerful songs or chirps, marveling that they’d know exactly how you want things folded and which dishes go on which shelves.

Then the sponge grows cold, water drips down your arm, and you’re back to reality. Back to scrubbing and sweeping and mopping. Back to washing and drying and putting away. Back to the round of chores necessary to keep things up to standards—whatever those standards may be and whoever may have established them.

If you asked me when I was a child whether I believed forest creatures would help around the house, I would have scoffed at the idea. I knew what make-believe was. I knew those cute little birds and animals were the product of imagination and art and film.

If you asked me that question now, I’d still scoff. But the scoffing would have a dollop of wishing it could be so, and another dollop of wishing I’d never seen those tiny helpers. Knowing they aren’t real makes drudgery more tedious and burdensome.

I think a glass slipper would be uncomfortable. I don’t want to go to a ball. I don’t care if I never meet a prince. But I wouldn’t mind making the acquaintance of a fairy godmother and a few helpful forest creatures.

A Golden Walk for the Class of ‘65

Carolyn J. Rose       

 

Recently I received an invitation to return to Onteora Central High School in Boiceville, New York, and participate in the Golden Walk on graduation night.

My first reaction was, “Huh? 50 Years? That’s not right. I haven’t been out of high school for 50 years!”

But, yes, I have.

Fifty years ago this month I sweated with my classmates on a sunny slope in front of the school. The group photo shows us stuffed into gray chorus robes, caps on our heads, smiles on our faces. Some smiles seem serious, others goofy, others tinged with fear. 
We were, after all, going out into the wide world.

And, like now, it was a scary world. My high school years were marked by the Cuban Missile Crisis, President Kennedy’s assassination, the Berlin Wall, the publication of Silent Spring, civil rights marches and murders, the beginning of Nelson Mandela’s prison term, and growing concern about how deep we’d be sucked into the conflict in Vietnam.

I studied that graduation picture but, even with a magnifying glass, couldn’t make out which of the girls with brown hair was me. Caps shade our eyes, our images are tiny, and I have no memory of which row I was in, who I stood beside, and whether I left my glasses on.

I heard from a classmate I’ve been close to since we survived a second-grade teacher who, in our opinion, tortured more than taught us. She’s going, and hoping to persuade another long-time friend to come along.

For a day or so I was almost nostalgic enough to book a flight and join them for the walk and the festivities to follow. Then I put the idea aside. Not this year. Maybe next.

Before I deleted the invitation, I read it one more time and saw participants would meet at the loading dock before the ceremony. I’ve always thought of my high school as a utilitarian brick building. Functional. Not fancy. The loading dock was probably the most functional and least attractive area.

And yet, it seems right that those taking the Golden Walk will meet there. High school graduation was, after all, the event that moved us from the classroom and onto the loading dock for the lives we’d lead.

You can’t lose it if you never had it.

Carolyn J. Rose

 

The bad news is that I was never much of a bowler. My high game is 150. My low games are better left unmentioned. The good news is—thanks to my grandfather—that 50+ years haven’t made me much worse than I was.

I was just a kid when the bowling alley went up near my home in the Catskills. I had vague ideas about what bowling involved, ideas gleaned from the duckpins we’d set up in the cellar on rainy days, and the trophies my grandfather won.

My grandfather was a wiry man who smelled like pipe tobacco and liverwurst sandwiches, garden soil and liniment. A natural athlete, he was good at swimming, skating, skiing, and other sports. But he didn’t trust to nature alone. He believed in practice. Lots of practice. Practice with the goal of steady improvement.

If my grandfather was at the bowling alley when I went to hang out there with friends, he would come over to critique my form. Frankly, there was a lot to critique. More frankly, I didn’t much care if I improved.

But my grandfather did. He saw that I lacked power and couldn’t manage a hook to save my life. So he tried to teach me to control the straight-on ball I threw. Often he had me start my approach at the scoring table and release the ball two yards behind the foul line. His thinking was that if I could control a ball rolling a greater distance, I’d do better when I released from the line.

When I couldn’t master the four-step approach he suggested, he agreed that three would do. He had me concentrate on getting low and laying the ball down as smoothly as I could.

It must have been painful for a man who could make the pins shake, rattle, and roll, to watch my ball ease its way down the alley, and make only a few pins wobble and fall. It must have hurt when I asked if he could just let me bowl for fun.

But I think he’d be proud that a few nights ago I went bowling with my neighbors. I would have been happy just to be there, wearing the shoes I got at a yard sale, rolling the ball I found at a thrift store, and listening to the thump and whump and clatter of balls and pins. But his lessons came back to me, and I managed, with my slow, straight-rolling ball, to lead the pack in the first game.

After that? Well, let’s just say I should have practiced a heck of a lot more than I did back in the day.