Fill'er Up
Betty toils behind the counter at my local lumberyard. She is short and slim, has brown hair and a childlike Betty Boop sounding voice, which is odd coming from a woman who must be in her mid-forties. Her voice makes me want to go home and watch cartoons.
I placed a quart of ceiling paint on the counter.
ìAnything else you need?î
ìNo, thatÃs it. And I see you are bundled up again.î I looked around and she was the only one wearing more than a long sleeved shirt. Even teardrop-shaped Al who often wears sweaters sported only pin stripes.
ìNo blood.î
ìNo what?î
ìNo blood. I am always cold and growing up my Swedish grandparents told me I didnÃt have enough blood.î
ìAnd your parents… ?î
ìMy mother died when I was four and my father was no good. I plopped into my grandparents’ lives when I was four and they were about fifty.î
ìI lived next to a couple who raised their two granddaughters after the girls’ parents were killed in an auto accident. The grandmother lived forever, but not so for the grandfather.î
ìMine lived into their eighties and they died a month apart.î
ëThat must have been awful. I mean, they were your parents,really.î
ìIt was and they were. I was in my thirties then.î
Betty turned away to retrieve my printed sales receipt. I could see another salesman, David, who could play a perfect mall Santa Claus, sitting behind his desk, listening. Betty returned.
ìAnd they thought you needed more blood?î
ìI was hungry all the time. IÃd eat all day and my growling stomach would wake me at night for another meal. And I couldnÃt stay warm. When they cooked a roast beef they would pour the blood and the fat from the bottom of the pan into a glass and make me drink it.î
ìThat sounds delicious.î
ìIt was terrible, especially the fat. I drank it from nine until about twelve, but as a teenager, they couldnÃt make me drink it.î
ìItÃs funny, isnÃt it? The stuff that gets handed down. In extreme climates like the arctic that fat would be good for you.î
ìNow I just wear a sweater.î
Cat (college daughter just home without those forms!) was telling us last night about cannibalism and westerners — that it wasn’t at all uncommon. And we said “What?” and she explained that drinking blood of a just-dead-by-violence human was considered to protect one from I-forget-what (so people hung around executions for a sip of the stuff), and that ground human bones were considered to provide I-forget-what. OK, so maybe Betty’s family’s thing isn’t related. Maybe I won’t sign this after all.
Oh, about yesterday’s art … sometimes I go by the “if you can’t say anything nice …” rule. Not that I think he should have taken up tedious poetry earlier. I just didn’t find it engaging — maybe my mood; maybe the medium doesn’t work for this, for me. It is much more interesting once you know what it’s supposed to be about. So I’ll shut up already.
Comment by jennifer — March 12, 2005 @ 8:43 am
I love this story. Though I utilize my pan juices I just don’t put them in a glass to drink. Now spinach juice…my sister and I would fight over what was left in the bowl after the spinach was gone. That delicious oil and lemon and spinach combo…mmm, mmm good. I still drink it only now it grosses everyone out at the table and they certainly don’t fight me for it. Betty needs spinach juice. Loads of iron, it’ll warm her right up. You have this uncanny way of getting people to tell you their life stories. I like todays art. Like Jennifer, the others just weren’t comment worthy. In fact they were downright spooky.
Comment by popeye — March 12, 2005 @ 9:24 am
Popeye, I’m going to assume that you didn’t mean to say that I’m not comment worthy!
Comment by jennifer — March 12, 2005 @ 10:13 am
Took me a minute to see where you got that idea, then after I read my sentence 5 times I got it! I was agreeing with your “if you can’t say anything nice …” remark.
Comment by popeye — March 12, 2005 @ 12:14 pm
A QUART of ceiling paint…………..?!!!
Comment by handyman — March 12, 2005 @ 12:17 pm
A punctured pipe above a textured ceiling. I patched the hole through which I repaired the pipe, but left the texture match for the professional. He botched it. I redid it, and since the ceiling had been recently painted …
Comment by michael — March 12, 2005 @ 12:29 pm
Now that you know that sometimes I don’t say things because my thoughts aren’t nice, I suppose I better make a greater effort to say the positive thoughts (lest you think I’m always negative). Michael, that was an amazing conversation, and well recorded. I didn’t realize how hard it is to write up a conversation until I tried (around when you-all were discussing Bananafish, which I haven’t read). And by “amazing conversation” I mean: I’m impressed at you finding ways into interesting conversations with the regular folks in suburban life. A few years ago in a group about eliminating white racism someone mentioned that white suburbanites often think there are no people of color around, but it’s just that they are invisible. So I decided to try and notice, and realized that the station where I generally get gas usually has the same, not-white man at the register. I thought I should try to have a conversation. It took a few weeks, but finally I managed to ask him something somewhat personal but (I hoped) not too intrusive. He told me where he was from and maybe other things which I know you could have followed up on, but I didn’t recognize the place and immediately forgot it! So for 2 plus years I’ve been back too “Hi, how are you?” and occasionally “I haven’t seen you in a few weeks, have you been away?”
Comment by jen — March 12, 2005 @ 2:49 pm
Speaking of drinking fat & blood to keep warm…
We just got back from a talk by Borge Ousland, the Norwegian XC guy who crossed the Antarctic and Arctic Ocean solo and unsupported, and who recently crossed the Patagonian icefields. Considering the cold spots he spends most of his time in, he’s always trying new ways to keep warm. He told us how he once tried drinking a bottle of olive oil and a warmth-inducing tonic. It failed. He threw it all up. Now he drinks only a cup, and it warms him from the cockles of his heart down to his toes.
Comment by rakkity — March 12, 2005 @ 8:48 pm
ohh the lumber yard……….. great times
Comment by goose — March 12, 2005 @ 9:25 pm