"Defiant is for hosers"

Yesterday evening I got in the little car and drove to the grocery where the hip and “in-the-know” crowd shops. I even remembered to bring my canvas shopping bag from the farm market. The store was full of the regular black-clad youngsters bustling about with great purpose, their movements unusually lively and energetic. There must be some motivation therein; I compare this crew (and the store calls them a “crew”) to the personnel at the giant supermarkets—the men and women in their store aprons, looking blankly at nothing in particular, or—if you happen to be in their line of sight—right through you. Groceries and grocery-related items are foremost on their minds, apparently. The customers are an afterthought. Not so with the crew of thin and lanky and progressive-looking youths who seemingly run the alternative (but increasingly mainstream) little store. Anyway, I bought some shrimp, a bottle of sparkling cider, and a box of the orange sticks that have become a favorite. They’re chocolate-covered, have a jelly filling.

I put my groceries into the car’s small trunk, saw that I’d left my large serving bowl in there—the one that I’d put delicate little holiday sandwiches in on that rainy night. It took up considerable space. I put my canvas market bag next to the sandwich bowl, carefully closed the lid so as not to damage the tiny car, and walked over to the coffee shop and bookstore nearby. I grabbed a copy of my Hemmings, which I’d already received in the mail, but wanted to sit down with some articles I hadn’t read yet. I would read the store’s copy while I drank a coffee and ate something rich and horrible. I looked at the offerings, chose a double-rich choco-blast brownie—or something to that effect. Then, thinking I would stem the hemorrhaging of money a little by ordering a plain beverage, I took a small coffee—black. I was ready to sit down with my coffee and brownie, needed only to pay. The lights flickered, went out as they rang up my sale. They flickered on again, then off. Then once more they came on, then off for good. They told us all to leave the store—those people who ran this darkened place where you could hardly see anything. I’d gotten away with a free brownie and coffee, since I’d made a point of starting to eat it while I was waiting for the lights to go back on. This left me feeling rather pleased with myself, but not as happy as I might have been: What would have put the icing on the cake is if—just before the lights had flickered, then gone dark—I’d changed my order to an ultra grande vanilla latte el supremo with extra whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles, please. And anything else you can throw on there—just add that, too. As it is, I was stuck with my small coffee—black.

I didn’t want to leave the place, was unhappy to be going.
“I want to stay,” I whined plaintively.
The servers and young man who took my order nodded sympathetically, sad to kick out their customers—even the ones who came in and made off with free stuff.

So it was out to the cold, dark parking lot with my brownie and coffee. This was not ideal, as the little car does not make for a good eatery. The stickshift, the console, everything is kind of in the way. It seems that the car was built more for people who want to avail themselves of its performance characteristics. That was just fine—so long as the coffee people were going to let me stay at their place. The tinny little station wagon, however, makes a fine dining room—a veritable carryout on wheels. There’s a place for your beverages, the passenger seat does nicely as a makeshift table, and there is no shifting gears to be annoyed with. When you’re finished, you can just throw the trash in the back. It’s plenty big.

God how it was dark outside. You really don’t realize how much light the lamps give off until they’re all extinguished. Everyone backed out of their spaces, trying not to hit each other, snaking out towards the exit. Out on the road the traffic lights were dark. Sirens wailed from behind, a large fire truck passing the row of stopped cars as we waited to get out onto the main road. Then—again—the same fire truck, this time coming back, passing us from the opposite direction. These blackouts get everyone all mixed up, it seems—even the people who are trained to deal with the big emergencies, the crashed cars and burning buildings, the things that fall from the sky. It was just too goddamned dark, see—how can you know where you’re going when it’s that dark? So the sirens wailed, going in many different directions, and the cars honked at the lame and timid drivers up front, those who did not take advantage of the break in traffic while the emergency vehicles bullied their way onto the main road. They sat there stupidly, waiting until the cross-traffic got going again, then waited some more. More honking.

I finally got out onto the roadway, saw that police were at the next intersection directing traffic, had no one at this particular crossroads, which was pretty important. They were overtaxed, the police; the blackout was pretty extensive, the whole shopping plaza was dark, and much of the surrounding area besides. I’d gotten a free coffee and brownie, so I was doing ok this evening.

December 19, 2007

I drove out to the diner this morning for a waffle and sausages. I washed it down with some iced tea, read my Washington Post, and set out for the hardware store nearby. At the store I picked up some deck screws to fasten the boards down onto the floor of the new porch next door. I also chose a new lock for the front door. My helper had eyed the deadbolt and keyed doorknob I’d installed some time ago.
”Defiant, huh?”
Yes, it was a Defiant brand lock. Was there a problem?
“Defiant is for hosers,” he said—or words to that effect.
I asked him for his thoughts on locks, ones that could be counted on more than these Defiants that he spoke so disparagingly of. He recommended Schlage as the best, then perhaps Kwikset as a more reliable alternative—and one that would cost less than the fancy Schlage. I picked up a Kwikset deadbolt and keyed doorknob for the front door. I’d meant to do this long ago, since my former tenants presumably still have keys for the house. Not that there’s anything worth stealing, but still. Truth be told, the Defiant lock DOES seem a bit sticky, hard to work when you put the key in to unlock it. It leaves something to be desired where locks are concerned. I’ll be happy to be rid of it.

Driving back through town I stopped at the farm supply store, talked to the store man and his cat sleeping on the warm printer at the front counter. Miss Penny, not wanting to entertain visitors or be bothered even by mice, hardly stirred when I tried to rouse her. She curled up tighter, brought her large bushy tail around in front of her face, and snuggled in a little more, wanting just to be warm and left alone. I talked to the store man, who recounted his recent trip to France, and had his helper bring up a fifty-pound bag of squirrel corn for me. The squirrels have depleted the supply from last year, finished off the few ears from the ornamental corn shocks I’d put around, and now had visited a mostly empty feeder for the past few days. Fifty pounds of ear corn would change all of that.

This just in: Recently, as I was glancing at the online ads posted for free, an unusual one caught my notice. A tractor-trailer full of field corn was listed—fifty-thousand pounds worth—for the cost of delivery and unloading. I thought of all that corn, the many squirrels and other critters it could feed, thought about the truck backing up to the yard, the mountain of corn that would result. Fifty thousand pounds. Imagine that—all that corn. I wanted the corn, resisted hard the temptation to pick up the phone, give the corn-man directions, tell him that—you know, this is a residence—the corn is just going straight into the backyard. Is there a problem with that?

I put the lumpy bag of corn into the convertible’s trunk, found that it fit almost exactly. It is a one-bag trunk. Now I know. The car is getting about all right in the dry weather, is not fogging up like it did on that rainy night of the party and the little sandwiches. The sandwich bowl is still back there, however. Oddly enough, there are two pomegranates as well. I don’t remember buying them.

I left the store man and Miss Penny, felt guilty that I didn’t give the helper a tip for fetching the bag of corn. He’d dropped it at the loading dock, near where the car was parked. I’d been talking to the owner and petting Miss Penny at the time, didn’t think to give him something for his trouble. Normally I would, had I not been distracted. As I drove away I noticed another man who’d bought the same thing—a bag of corn—slip the helper a bill as he went on his way. I felt in my pocket: I had one single dollar. The moment had passed. I’ll remember next time; most likely, in my neurotic and overblown way, I’ll dream up some pretext for going to the store, for getting a big bag of something or other, will make sure that the helper—who most certainly won’t be the same one—is given a token of appreciation. That’s just the way it goes.

Driving home I saw men from the road maintenance crews pruning and cutting away large pieces of trees. They may have been doing maintenance for the overhead power lines—I’m not sure; in any case, they were producing a goodly amount of cut wood. I phoned my helper, whose family heats the house entirely with wood. I explained the situation, that many of the people in these houses along the road probably didn’t want the wood, would be glad to see it gone.
“Do you know which ones don’t want the wood?”
“No—I didn’t ask around,” I told him. “I’m just coming back from breakfast, wanted to let you know about the wood.”
“How much wood?”
“A lot—probably a couple of cords by the time they’re all finished.”
“Enough to fill a pickup?”
“Yes—and then some.”
I offered to help him with the wood if he wanted to go out and get some of it. I said that I wouldn’t be lifting the large pieces, would prefer to split them up right there on the spot. My back wouldn’t tolerate the strain. He said ok, would think about getting some of the wood, might drive out there to ask the people there if they wanted it or not.


At home the day was grey but not too cold. I started cutting some pieces of lumber to fit around the sides of the porch—and a piece of trim for the front as well. Working alone, the job was not too difficult, and I made good progress. When I’d had enough, was tired of the porch, I went inside to rip away more of the kitchen flooring material. The stove and refrigerator were in the way, had to be moved around, but they were fairly easy to push out of the way. I got the pressed cardboard-like material torn up, cut into smaller pieces, and boxed some of up for the trash pickup on Thursday. I would get to the rest of it later—when the dust had settled. The flooring material is very heavy—much heavier in fact than the walls of sheetrock that I’d ripped away from the bathroom and kitchen. I tried not to overload the boxes, out of consideration for the trashmen. Tomorrow, If I have some help, I’ll move the kitchen stove and refrigerator into the utility room. For the moment, they’ll be out of the way.

Next I took out my new set of locks for the front door—the deadbolt and the keyed knob. They are an exact fit to replace the set that I removed—the reluctant Defiant that becomes more difficult to unlock each time I open the house. This one would be better, I thought. I remembered my helper’s words: “Defiant is for hosers,” or words to that effect.