Having coffee at Jamie’s, by the window, occasional glances at the passers by on main St, scanning the NY Times. Patty served me after being introduced by Sam from the general Store. She was complaining, “I’m 34 why do I only get set up with 24 y.o. guys?” Sam’s cue.
Sam is the genial guy about town, knows everyone, and is the consummate town host, or at least he has been to me! Everyone in Stowe is 2 degrees of separation from him. From the inventor to the Oscar nominated actor. Stowe is a small town, and if it wasn’t for the ski resort would be non existent in mine and other folk’s eyes. The mix of the urbane and the folksy down home create opportunities for intercourse. The “Kindle” coexists with the lack of wireless coverage, and creates pleasant small town exchanges that refugees from the big NE cities encourage. It is after all the openness and confidence of the big city folk that creates the small town atmosphere. The small town folk seem more suspicious and wary of interaction with strangers. Yet we big city folk are drawn to the Rockwellian view of small town life, and is one of a pleasant exchange of light conversation. The reality I’m sure is somewhat different. I’m drawn to the anonymity of NYC life. In Manhattan one can completely avoid interaction of any depth, but without ever being alone. I can walk the streets of the city with the aloofness of James Dean or the texture of one of those lid century b&w photos. Nobody knows me, but all who casually pass, and I mean the most casual pass, know I belong to the city. Our Manhattan neighborhoods are mere blocks, our dogs are better known than the patrons of the local wine store, our local coffee spot, the pizza joint. That is our anonymous world. Faces are known, remembered, or at least our preference in coffee, but we are nameless members of our neighborhood. Names for our dogs asked and remembered, but rarely requested of us, and even less seldom given. I’ve lived 20 years in one small 9 number zip code, & I’m mis-known as the Australian by the coffee shop owner. Maybe that’s me, but that’s the way I prefer it. With the greyhound and the Alaskan, I was known as the greyhounds Dad, ( a common NYC naming convention…”oh I banged into …insert dogs name…owner today”) or as the Alaskans boyfriend. I think I prefer the descriptor as naming convention. It implies and establishes connection without a wordy verbose explanation.
Of course I’m not known as the Alaskans anything now. I’m the recent ex…recent enough to still wonder what happened. Unclear what precipitated the break-up. My past experience in NYC is that there’s usually someone else. People get bored, no matter how wonderful you may be, the grass is always greener. Invariably all that’s happening is a change from rye to bluegrass. When the Alaskan said it was over, it came from nowhere. There was no inkling, although she’d even admit she’s a difficult one, and although the saying goes past history is no guarantee of future results, in relationships that is untrue. She has a history of short term relationships, most lasting mere months, and the less time spent together, the duration of the coupling, measured in months is longer. Long distance relationships are even preferable for duration. Our relationship was full and seemed content, directed and good for both.
She wants, as she put it a few weeks ago in a text “Time alone, I do like you in my life but I can’t commit right now, I want time alone” The words “time alone” were repeated 3 times. So even a complete idiot can figure out the essence of the message, leave me alone. So the Alaskan has all the cards. So will she make an attempt at a return? Who knows, I mean at this point I don’t know and she doesn’t either.
My opinion of the Alaskan is heavily influenced by the fact that I’d prefer she was in my life right now. I’m alone, and enjoy the company of others. When I meet some other attractive athletic blonde girl, my type, I’ll be as happy as a clam. ( BTW what makes a clam the metaphor for joy?)
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