June 6, 2011--Midcoast: Stories

To begin with, it wasn't that good a story. Judge for yourself--here's how we told it the other morning at the Bristol Diner:

"You remember that big storm on Monday?" Doug [co-owner and chef] had noticed it was about to rain. "Real hard," he said. "Look at those clouds." He pointed out the window up toward Damariscotta where the clouds were indeed gathering and looking threatening. "Rod," he said to one of the customers with whom we were sitting over coffee, "I suggest you either plan to leave now or be prepared to wait an hour until it passes through."

Rod was with his daughter Constance, in visiting from Seattle, and was needing a wheelchair that morning to get around. He said, "I'm ready. I've had about as much coffee as I can handle." Constance began to get up to help him to the car.

Rona asked, "Need any help? We're also ready to go."

Constance said, "Help is always welcome," and with that Rona and I began to stir. By then we could hear the first raindrops drumming on the roof of the diner. "We can use the side door," Constance said, "It's close to where I parked the car."

"I'll get an umbrella," Rona said.

"And I'll help push the chair," I offered. Constance and Rod were OK with that. So with Crystal holding the door open, Constance and I got Rod out to the car and with a bit of effort out of the chair and into his seat. Rona helped with his seat belt. The rain was getting heavy and it was good to have him safe and dry.

"Follow me," Constance said, "It's only a couple of miles, and in the direction where you live." And with that, to get Rod home before it really began to storm, Constance hit the accelerator and it was not easy keeping up with her. But after about ten minutes we pulled up at Rod's house on Harrington Meetinghouse Road. By then not only was the rain coming down in sheets but there was also lots of lightening and thunder. Some of it close by. Rod's place is up on a hill and I was not feeling good about being out and about in the storm, especially since Rod's car couldn't be pulled into the shelter of the garage--the doors on it, Constance told us, were not working properly.

"We'll be OK," Rona said, half standing under an eave. Opening Rod's door a crack, she assured him, "Don't you worry, we'll get you inside nice and dry," I could see this was not true for her. By then Rona was looking pretty soaked through. "Why don't you sit in the car with Rod," Rona said to me. "Keep him company while we wait for the rain to abate." So I raced around to the drivers side and jumped in.

A nice piece by Aaron Copland was playing on the radio and I said to Rod, who was looking a bit concerned, "With music this beautiful it'll make us forget the rain." He turned to smile at me and I knew he was all right.

With that, I saw Rona dart from undercover toward where I had parked our car. I wondered what was going on and then noticed that the rear hatch was wide open. Attempting to avoid getting any wetter, she ran bent half over and quickly pressed the button to close it. It laborious lowered and I heard it, between thunder claps, thud shut. Again she ran for cover.

I turned back to Ron and said, "I think maybe the rain's letting up a bit. If this keeps up, pretty soon we'll be able to get you into the house."

"I'd rather wait for the lightening to stop," he said with a wry smile, "With me in this steel chair, if I get struck by lightening it will be like getting electrocuted in San Quentin." At that we both got a good laugh.

Out of the corner of my eye I again saw Rona heading for our car. This time the hatch door was half open. Getting drenched further, she was fiddling with the button, first to get the door fully up, then to push it again to close it. Hopefully, this time securely. I was fearing that we might have some sort of serious problem that would cost us $250 to fix at Volkswagen.

As she raced back toward the shelter of the house, dripping with rainwater, she shrugged and mouthed to me above the sound of the thunder, "What is going on?" Without a clue as to what, I shrugged back at her. We'll help Rod, I thought, and then worry about the car.

I turned again to say something to Rod but out of the corner of my eye saw the hatch again begin to open. This time, as Rona, totally exasperated, begin to run to close it for the third time, I waved her off and jumped out of Rod's car. It takes a man, I shamelessly said to myself, to fix these kinds of mechanical things.

Getting wet myself--though the rain had begun to abate--I gave the button a firm push and when the door slammed shut pushed down hard on it, thinking that would get the job done. Maybe it's all the electricity in the air, I thought. I had been a good physics student in high school and college, maybe that's what's causing the problem.

But as I slid back into the seat next to Rod, with no lightening in the air, wouldn't you know it--the door inexorably begin slowly to open.

The rain by then had pretty much stopped; and Rona, as if she had read my sexist thoughts about static electricity and high school physics, came sauntering out. She signaled for me to lower Rod's window, the Copland piece was reaching its own thundering conclusion, and said, "Can you please turn that thing down?"

"It's almost over, I said sheepishly. "Rod seems to be really enjoying it and . . ."

"And nothing, let's help get Rod out of the car and into the house."

"But what about the hatch?" I stammered.

"We'll worry about that later. Let's help Rod.

"You're right," I said, "Of course."

"And while you're at it, Mr. Handyman, where's your car key?"

"Right here in my pocket." I tapped on my back pants pocket.

"And it has on it, doesn't it, buttons to lock and unlock the doors?"

"Yes, it has those. By why are you asking me about them now? We have to help Rod and since the rain's let up we should do that before it begins again."

"Because with your sittin' on those keys, with all the twistin' and squirmin' you've been doin' sittin' in the car with Rod listenin' to that music, while I've been runnin' back and forth gettin' myself soaked to the skin, you've been pushin' the hatch release button, and who knows what else, with your big rear end."

Embarrassed that she was right, I muttered, "It's not that big."

"But big enough," Rod said, "to open that hatch and get Rona all drenched.' He paused for emphasis and added, "It's like butt-dialing a cell phone." At which we all got quite a good laugh.

That's pretty much the story. Not that great a one, I'm sure you'll agree. But one of the other customers at the Bristol Diner had obviously been listening in and as he got up to pay his bill said to Rona and me, "That's a real good story. You should take it on the road and charge people to hear it." Roaring with laughter he headed out to his car.

But here's the good part.

A couple of days later we were over at Reilly's Market in New Harbor to get some of their delicious home-baked chocolate chip cookies, one of our seasonal guilty pleasures. As we were about to pay, the customer ahead of us who looked vaguely familiar said to the cashier, "You should ask them to tell you the story about the rainstorm and their car." I recognized him then--he was in the diner with us the other morning. "It's about as funny a story as you'll ever hear."

After he left the cashier asked us to tell it to him. "It's not really that funny," Rona said.

"I'd still like to hear it he said. "It's quiet in here now."

"How 'bout we tell you the short version," she said.

"That'll be fine," he said looking around at the relatively empty store, "I have all the time in the world."

And so this time Rona told it, leaving out lots of details, though being sure to make it clear from the start that all that transpired was my fault. When she got to the part about Rod making a joke about getting electrocuted--Rona though set the electrocution at Sing Sing--the cashier was slapping his thigh and rocking back and forth with laughter.

"That's a good one," he said, gasping for breath. "Rod really said that about Sing Sing? I love that guy. He's quite a card."

But here's the really best part. A couple of days after that, we were in Damariscotta at Reny's to get some fresh batteries for our emergency flashlights. The lightening from that storm last Monday had knocked out the power. We've gotten to know the manager fairly well since Reny's is a great place to rummage for almost anything you need from towels and sheets to cookware to gardening implements to shoes and drugstore items. Pretty much anything. All at amazing prices.

As we were poking around among the dishes and drinking glasses, he sidled over to us. "You know Matt over at Reilly's?" We nodded. He's the cashier. "Well he told me you were in there the other day and had this great story about getting caught in the storm over at Rod Swank's and how it was all about getting executed at Alcatraz.

We were amazed to hear how our story had been making the rounds and how it was being transformed in the retelling. "That's not exactly how it went," Rona said. She at times likes to make things literal, even if it means risking stepping on the punch line. It's one of the few things that we spat about--I'm quite an exaggerator and it can make her crazy when I stretch things for a cheap effect. "It was Sing Sing and not Alcatraz."

"Actually, it was San Quentin,' I interjected, "which of course is also in California." I thought I'd playfully give Rona a little of her own literalist medicine.

"Can you tell it to me?" the manager asked. "As you can see it's quiet in here at the moment. I have the time. I love a good story."

"It's not that good," I disabusively said. But he was eager to hear it anyway, as he put it, "straight from the horse's mouth"; and so this time I told a brief version of it, making sure to set Rod's self-imagined electrocution in its proper setting.

When I finished, and again the manager like the cashier got quite a few laughs--his favorite part was Rod's comparing my sitting on the car keys to butt-dialing a cell phone--"I didn't know old Rod, who everyone in town loves, knows from butt-dialing." As he said that he shook with deep, rumbling laughter; and was joined in it by a couple of his colleagues who he had invited to come over to hear the hatch-door story.

"This kills me," he said, also slapping his thigh.

Rona moved closer to him and asked in not much more than a whisper, "We're glad you seem to enjoy the story so much," he was nodding, "but, though it seems it's a good story it's not really a great one, so can I ask you why you seemed to enjoy it so much and why it appears to be making its way 'round town?"

"Oh, that's an easy one," he said.

"I'm listening," Rona said.

"Things can be hard here," he said, "We just came out of a very harsh winter. More snow than even the old-timers can remember and the economy is still terrible. Hardly anyone has work and gas costs, what, $4.00 a gallon. So we need stories to help us get through hard times."

"Actually," one of his coworkers said, We need them to help get through life."