July 19, 2016--Midcoast: Incognito

"What are you doing here?" It was John.

"Having breakfast. What we do every morning." He knows that. I thought he was putting us on.

"Here?"

"Where else? We're at the diner at about this time, what, four, five mornings a week."

"You can't be."

"What do you mean we can't be?" I knocked on the tabletop to assert our material existence. "Here we are. I'm beginning to think I'm in a Pirandello play."

"What's going on with you?" Rona asked, "Is everything all right?"

"How did you get here?" John said, ignoring her.

"We drove of course. How else would we have gotten here?"

"But where's your car?"

"Outside. Where it always is."

"I didn't see it," John said.  "I thought maybe you went to town and were at Crissy's"

"No. Here we are. We . . ." I finally realized that John didn't see our car because the one we're driving is a loner from Volkswagen. "Ours is being repaired and they gave us this one until Monday when it's supposed to be fixed."

"It's a clunker," Rona said. "Twelve years old with about 150,000 miles."

"Only 42,000 more than ours which is only seven years old."

"This makes me realize," John said, "that around here, and I'll bet in any small town, people know everyone's car."

"I've noticed that," I said. "Why do you suppose?"

"I suspect for at least two reasons. If you're driving around, say passing by the diner, and see your car, if I have the time and the inclination, I might pull over and come in to join you for a cup of coffee."

"That I get," Rona said, "But what's the other reason?"

"Don't take it personally," John said, smiling, "But I might be driving by and see your car and if I'm not in the mood to hang out, if I want some time alone, I pass by. Looking straight ahead, of course."

"To tell you the truth," I said, "we do the same thing. For example, twice last week we had breakfast with Jim. I like Jim but not enough to want to see him every day. So when we were about to pull up to the diner and saw his car we hotfooted by. With him twice in a week is fine. Three times is pushing it."

"That's my point," John said, "And why we all know everyone's car. That helps us decide what to do. To stop or keep on going."

Rona, who always urges people to be honest about what's on their minds, has for some time argued that as hard as it is to do we all should figure out ways to indicate what we do and do not want to do."

She said, "For example, you pop in after seeing our car and have an inclination to join us."

"I think I know where this is going."

"But if we're in the mood to be alone, why is it so difficult to say that without your feeling rejected?"

"Good question," John said, "Because to tell the truth, I probably would feel at least a bit rejected. Do you want me to . . . ?"

"No, no. Stay," Rona said, reaching out to him. "You're much more than a two-times-a-week person."

We all laughed at that. I said, "Maybe you're a three-times-a weeker."

John knew I was fooling with him. "But," he said, "there is something nice about having a loner for a few days and driving around sort of incognito."

"If you're inclined to want to have an affair, do a little fooling around, it could be a good way to do it."

"That's what my motorcycle's for," John said with a wink to make sure we knew he was just, well, fooling around.

"I wondered about you and your bike," Rona said.

"I recently got rid of it. With my retina problem I don't want to tempt fate. But, maybe rather than return the loaner you could pass it along to me. Being a little incognito once in a while isn't such a bad thing."

September 23, 2013--Midcoast: True Religion

With outstretched arms, he exclaimed, "She doesn't own a pocketbook! I'm in love!"

We were at the Volkswagen dealer to get a new running light installed. A light bulb icon had popped up on our car's computer screen with the message--"Replace left front downcast light."

"That sounds so Victorian," Rona said. "What's a downcast light? Anything like downcast eyes?"

"I have no idea. It does sound like a fancy name for a VW light. Look it up in the owner's manual. I think it's the light below the headlight that's on all the time in the daytime. For safety."

"With a name like that, I can't wait to see what they'll charge to replace it. We should probably go to NAPA and buy a new bulb for $5.00 and screw it in ourselves."

"That would make sense if we knew what we were doing. I don't even know where to add oil or even if the car has a dipstick. Everything is so high-tech these days. My suggestion--let's go to VW. I don't want to make a mess of things that will then need fixing and cost more than simply paying them ransom to change the bulb."

The staff was very accommodating, took care off us and the car, and only charged $37, including the bulb, labor, and tax. They even threw in a car wash which, I joked, they'd have to do again in a day or two considering the rutted dirt road that drops down to our house.

"Sure," the service manager said, when turning the car over to us, "Really, come by any time. We'll be happy to take care of you."

He felt sincere.

"I see you have New York plates. Where in New York you from?" he asked.

"Manhattan," Rona said.

"Amazing," he said, "I moved up here from there three months ago."

"From a VW dealer there to this one?"

"No. From a job in investment banking." He made a face.

"To do this? I mean . . ." I didn't quite know how to put it without offending him.

"That's OK. I think I know what you're thinking--that it must be a big step down for me."

"No. Just that . . ."

"No problem," he smiled to show I hadn't upset him. "In many ways it is a big step down. I worked for this bank for eight years. I made big money. Big money. I had all the toys--a Rolex, Prada this and Prada that, a BMW, and a fancy Italian dirt bike. All my friends were doing well too. After work--if I had the energy for it--I'd go out with them. Bars. Clubs. Restaurants. Expensive wine. Girls. Lots of girls. The whole New York scene. I had a two-bedroom condo in Chelsea. The good life, right?"

"It does sound like quite the life," Rona said, trying to sound neutral.

"Somehow it wasn't working for me. I was so busy most of those years that I didn't have the time or energy to take a moment to figure out what I was doing, how I was doing, and if it was working for me." He looked off toward the stand of spruce trees ranged beyond where the VWs for sale were arranged.

"So what happened?" Rona asked softly. "How did you get from there to here?"

"I'm from South Jersey, down by the shore. I lived there until I came to the city to work for the bank. My parents loved it here. The beach, the ocean, their friends and family. But every year they would come up to this part of Maine."

"So you knew the midcoast that way?"

"Not really. You see, I thought it would be boring here. Nothing for me to do. I was on high rev. And they said, don't come to Maine with us until you're ready. To understand it. So I never went until this June. Just for a few days to help them set up a house they bought on Southport Island."

"So that's . . . ?"

"Not exactly. I was so busy working on their house I was in my city mode. I barely looked around. I'd get up and hit the ground running. Scraping, patching, painting. That sort of thing. But I suppose, in spite of myself, Maine was beginning to get to me. Or maybe I was beginning to get Maine."

"I understand that," Rona said.

"They know a lot of people in the area from having vacationed here forever. One couple who live next to the house they bought had a cookout to which my parents and I were invited. And wouldn't you know it, there was this girl, this young woman at the party. I don't think it was a set up or anything; but whether or it was or not, we hit it off. Like from right out of a movie."

"That's it?" I said, "That's what got you to give up your banking job and move to Maine?"

"A version of that. I liked her so much, Natalie, that I came back the next weekend, ostensibly to work on the house but more to see her. She's a nurse right up here at the hospital." He pointed toward the road to Midcoast Hospital.

"I never knew a nurse before. All the girls I knew in the city were working for the same bank I was or for clothes designers. At least it seemed like that. Nothing wrong with that or them, but somehow we seemed to spend a lot of time checking each other out--shoes, bags, jeans, cars, bling. That sort of thing. What it felt like we were all working for. Not for the work itself, if you know what I mean--that was all kind of abstract. About numbers, very much including what we were making and our bonuses and what that would buy us out in the Hamptons and what kind of car we could afford to buy."

Rona and I nodded along as he told his story.

"It was no more Jersey Shore for me, baby. I'm movin' on. On and up." He paused to sigh and to look again toward the nearby woods.

"And?" Rona asked.

"Well, that second weekend did the trick. We were going out to dinner, Natalie and me.  I got all dressed up since I was planning to take her to a nice place my parents knew about and recommended. I drove over to her house to pick her up. When she got in the car I noticed she didn't have a bag with her. So I asked if maybe she forgot to take it.

"'Forgot?' she said, 'I didn't forget. I don't have a pocketbook.' I thought--no pocketbook? Everyone  I know has the latest Marc Jacob's bag and plenty more, but Natalie doesn't have even one!"

"That's not unusual up here," Rona said.

"Not only that, she doesn't have a pair of heels or Prada anything. She buys most of her stuff from Renys, Wallmart, and LL Bean. I love it!"

We smiled.

"She said to me, 'Look at you. What are you wearing on your feet? And those pants of yours.' She was making fun of me--friendly fun--but was also being serious. 'These are True Religion jeans,' I said. 'Everyone in the city wears them.' 'How much did they cost?' she asked. Shyly, I mumbled, 'About $400.'

"'Four-hundred dollars?' she whistled. 'That's about what I pay each month in rent. And you spent that on a pair of pants.' 'True Religions,' I said, as if the justify the cost, but then realizing that would mean nothing to her."

"Nor me," I said, "I never heard of them. And, by the way, what a strange name for jeans."

"I thought the same thing," he said. "Not right then but later when I thought the whole thing over--the evening, what Natalie said, and how I was feeling about her, myself, and my life."

"And you decided to give everything up and move here?" Rona said. "To come here to live? After just two visits?"

"Actually three because I came back for a third long weekend in June."

"Amazing," I said. "And, I think, impressive. To live here not knowing, for example, what the winters are like. How it gets dark by 3:30 and . . ."

"I know. Not from experience, of course. But I think I'm ready for it. Natalie and I are still an item. In fact, more than that. But we're both experienced and trust our feelings. We'll work hard to make things succeed. So far, so good. Actually much more than good."

"For what it's worth, I think . . ."

"You know what really did it for me? I mean what lead to this seemingly impulsive big change?"

"Natalie?" Rona guessed.

"That's a big part of it. Very big. But it was those jeans of mine. The True Religion ones."

"I'm not following you."

"How aptly named they are--True Religion. To think a pair of jeans, which should probably sell for $20 in Renys, goes for $400 in Barneys. And to link it to religion. When I realized I was in some crazy way worshiping jeans, I thought to save myself--pun intended--I'd better get out of here before it's too late."

He extended his arms to take in the VW sales lot and the encroaching woods

"And so here I am. Maybe this will turn out to be crazy, but so far it's feeling really good. Like I belong here. That this place was waiting for me until I was ready for it."