Playing the Not From Around Here Game

(Part II of III. A link to Part I is in the first sentence below and a link to Part III is at the bottom of this post.)

 

Still smarting at having been mocked by a man from somewhere else who, based solely on an old television show, made a very broad-based assumption about us, Larry, Dave and I were having coffee and donuts together the other morning. We mostly agreed that it was wrong to lump people into categories based solely on appearance and location and that if a person were going to do such a thing it is generally best to not do it out loud, especially if you are on their turf. At least wait until they have left the room.

 

Jeff, the man who owns our little village’s little market, heard Larry lamenting what had happened and offered up a little encouragement. “Oh, shut up, will you?” he said. “Just look at you! You have coffee dripping from your cookie duster and donut creme in your chin whiskers. You’re wearing at least three patterns of plaid, your boots are untied and you’ve had that stupid orange hat on so long your hair is growing through the weave. Your clothes are stained with gas, grease and who-knows-what, you smell like chainsaws, wet wool and fire, there are more patches on your pants than original fabric and you have four pairs of gloves sticking out of your jacket pockets. All three of you!”

 

“Sure,” Larry shot back, “but that guy came in here and shot off his mouth. He didn’t know what he was talking about. Besides, the guys on that TV show were surprisingly cultured. We are a misunderstood demographic. We’re not just a bunch of rustics, no matter how we look.”

 

“Yes you are,” said Jeff as he turned back to his post at the register.

 

The bell above the door gave a little tinkle and a man walked in. Dave whispered loudly, “He’s not from around here. Look, he’s shivering!”

 

It wasn’t easy, holding in the laughter until the man went back outside, but we managed. Even Jeff laughed along but he warned us not to get carried away. We decided, right then and there, that if we were going to play the not-from-around-here-game there would be some boundaries. There was to be no speculating as to the personalities, intelligence or lifestyles of our victims. That would just not be nice.

 

The parking lot in front of and around the side of the market held the usual mix of snowmobiles, pickup trucks with plow rigs mounted on the front and cars that were so covered with winter mud, salt and grime that there was no possible way they could be from anywhere other than Vermont, so it was slim pickings for a while. But, as the wind picked up and the clouds came in, people started leaving the slopes and traffic began to pick up.

 

Tinkle, tinkle went the bell. “Not from around here. His shoes have tassels.” went one of us.

 

“That one has a thousand dollars worth of ski passes from five states hanging off his coat.”

 

“That one looks scared.”

 

And so it went for a while until boredom threatened to set in. It was just too easy, picking out people who are not from around here. They are just so … different. There was one guy at one point we could not figure out but Jeff saved us as he walked by and whispered, “His boots are tied and he doesn’t smell like wood smoke.”

 

Two points to the man in the apron.

 

Our little game had lost its appeal after just a half hour or so. There was no challenge to it, given our pledge to be nice, and we were going to have to start getting personal if there was to be any fun at all. Eventually, we decided we should each probably get back to what we should have been doing in the first place and were grabbing one more cup for the road when the bell tinkled one more time and we all reflexively turned to look.

 

It was a man wearing a thin, nylon windbreaker, chinos and supple leather shoes. I know the shoes were supple leather because I saw them as his feet shot up and his ass went down on the slippery floor. It also helped that one of them came off and flopped to a rest right at Larry’s feet so he could pick it up and let us feel of the suppleness before handing it back to the man. The man did not even look up as he did not say thank you. He simply held the shoe with his left hand, pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his windbreaker with his right and limped to the back of the market.

 

Sensing more than a little potential for amusement, Larry, Dave and I settled back to our stations in front of the community bulletin board and waited for the show to begin. The show we got would have been worth six times the wait and I am afraid that you, dear reader, must now wait. I want to share it, and you deserve to hear it, but putting it into words will take effort and time. It would be so much easier and quick if only I was going to just make it up.

 

(The story continues HERE)