Fleetwood Mac

As I neared the county office building, I noticed something was afoot. The last few blocks of street were lined with big fire trucks and emergency vehicles. They took up a lane, parked right there in the street, possibly waiting for an emergency to occur. The big ladder truck was there, with supervisors’ SUVs and the bulky rescue trucks with enough equipment to pull a small country out of a crisis.

I parked the little convertible in a just-vacated spot, with an hour-and-a-half of time generously provided for me. I would need it. My car was right next to the wiener vendor outside the county offices, and only a few steps to the front door of the building. I left the top down, thinking the wiener guy would give a would-be troublemaker hell for molesting the car. It was unlikely he would do anything at all, but having the car there—just in front of the wiener cart and next to the courthouse was a comfort to me.

Things were turning out all right, and as I climbed the steps, I noticed official goings-on to commemorate something or other. Maybe firemen—owing to all the equipment I’d seen. But, no—it wasn’t firemen who were to be honored; it was the county itself, and someone had gotten the idea to recognize its birthday on this steamy day in early June. It would be a sprightly 350 years old. A lot had changed since it had first been carved out of the wooded wilds to the north of Baltimore City. For one thing, fire trucks had grown ridiculously huge, and now were on display as a reddish accompaniment to the speechifying and official statements about the Maryland county. Casting about for a symbolic statement of civic pride and progress, someone had said this: “Let’s have fire trucks. Lots of them. We’ll park them right on the street, where everyone can see ‘em—it’ll be great!” And the organizers of that important event nodded, said that, yes, fire trucks would be a welcome addition to the fanfare and official celebration.

I entered the air-conditioned offices, rode the elevator up the fourth floor, where the office that issued my health department permit shared space with another one that handed out permits for buildings and additions and the like. If you wanted to erect a pole barn on your land, you would go to that office, and wait in the little room until someone called you. In fact, a man who wanted to do just that was there waiting—his large arms colored by the sun and the times spent outside working with concrete projects. He had the big concrete contract for a local college, and it kept him plenty busy. He described in detail some of the new things the college was having him build, and I nodded vigorously in amazement at all the stuff you could build with concrete. Here is what I said:
“Isn’t that remarkable?”

The man who answered the phones at the counter and saw that the people signed in on the proper sheet for the office they were visiting himself had an elderly visitor—possibly greek in origin. The visitor would come in from the hallway, exchange some words in a low voice with the clerk, then the two would spontaneously break out into very quiet singing, of the kind that dated back maybe to olden times in the Mediterranean. Here is what it sounded like:
“Oooohhh Waaahhh Oh Oh Oh Woo woo woo. Oooohhh Waaah.” They did a pretty good job with the material, and the two obviously enjoyed their interactions. It was a welcome relief from the officialdom and general tedium of the awful county building, where no visit is ever straightforward, and each transaction is conducted by some new person to whom I have to explain the procedure repeatedly—after which I am still regarded with blank stares, then outright distrust, then garbled language that is even more incoherent than the Greek songs being sung at the reception desk.

The meter had clicked off an hour of my time, and now I was learning that the clerk planned to go see Fleetwood Mac that evening. There was the clerk, a woman on other business, and I assembled in the little reception room. The woman was Fillipino and was applying for a temporary permit to sell food at the Fillipino festival. She also sold used cars, and said she had a good Subaru wagon for me.

“So, we are all going to Fleetwood Mac together?” I asked. “Can we get a ride with you?” I directed this to the clerk, sitting low behind the tall counter.
“I’m taking the bus,” he replied. “It costs a dollar sixty.”
At the concert, which was not sold-out, he intended to get a cheap ticket for around twenty or thirty dollars. The Filipino woman came to the counter.
“Can you get me one of those tickets?” She asked. Suddenly she wanted to see Fleetwood Mac, too.
The clerk said there was no guaranty he could procure a ticket for such an attractive price, and was probably regretting ever having said anything about his plans that evening.
“I want one, too,” I piped up. “Can you get me one as well?” I said this just to be annoying, more than anything else. Also, the county office building and those who occupied it were now eating away at the third half-hour of time on the meter, with no end in sight. I would miss the official pronouncements outside, and the fire-trucks would probably be gone by the time I was released from the building.

The county man finally came to deal with my issue, looked over the paperwork—shuffled it around a bit, looked at it again, issued some statements that sounded not to be in English, but possibly a mélange of eastern European languages used by gypsies. I nodded, smiled beatifically, and said this: “I’m going to see Fleetwood Mac this evening.” He accepted this as proof that I had everything in order, and set about getting me the necessary permits so that I could conduct my business without the intervention of the county inspectors.

When I had paid, and was waiting for the final installment of this dreadful visit to come to a close, the county man approached again. Here is what I heard him say:
“Org loops can’t have it banned again. Sore thumb an’ toe had a spill in the tub. Better grease the gator hinge else the storm might stop.”

I had him repeat this several times, using different words, and finally got the gist of it: The person who would process my payment and issue the permits was no longer at her desk, was not even in the building. One thing was clear: She could be gone for a LONG time.

“Well, I wish you all a good day, but my car is nearing the end of its welcome time, and I must shove off. I’ll be back tomorrow to pick up the permits, as I will be in the area.”
The county man wished me a good day in his exotic language, saying what must be a traditional farewell:

“Panga panga panga. Pangs and thibits. Thibit to you thank you, sir.”

“See you at the Fleetwood Mac concert,” I said over my shoulder to the low-slung telephone clerk behind the counter, who was obviously hoping to have no further interaction with me. “And thibit to you, as well.”

With day’s end nearing, I drove over to the Colosso-Box to pick up paint for the next day’s project at the house. I had to be ready for my young and energetic helpers, who would expect materials and paint and necessary things to be on hand for their day of work. I had the Colosso-Box man, who had never mixed paint before, get together a can of yellow for an interior wall. He did a good job, handed the small quart can to me.
“Don’t bother putting a smudge on the top,” I said; “I’m going to see Fleetwood Mac, and they go on in twenty minutes.”

We left things like that, with the can smudge-less, but the color a good one. The man told me I was too young to know who Fleetwood Mac was, and I was surprised he knew who they were. At the Colosso-Box paint counter, with the band scheduled to start downtown at eight o’clock, I said this:
“I have lived the life of three thousand ancients—not the regular ancients, but the really old ones, that came before the regular ones.” I paused, looked at my yellow paint sample he’d used to mix the paint.
“I have caused a weariness in untold landscapes, that screamed a revolt in the wake of my passing, and upheaved and spat things at the sky, darkening both heaven and earth.” Then I added this: “I had a cat once, but it ran away.”

“Have fun at the concert,” the paint man said.
“Will do. You have a good one, pal,” I replied.

I drove the little car through the evening’s starting rain, saw the time approaching eight o’clock. I parked directly opposite the concert hall, joined the latecomers who were going to the ticket windows. A fat man with wild whiskers and energetically rebellious hair was hawking a ticket for fifty bucks outside on the wet sidewalk.
“It was gonna be for my girlfriend, but she never showed,” as if his selling the ticket needed further explanation. I looked at his bulging tee-shirt, wild hair and expression bloated by beer and cheetos. If in fact his girlfriend had deserted him on this evening of Fleetwood Mac, I can’t say I blame her.

At the ticket window I asked if there were any good seats left. The woman looked at an array of tickets before her, picked one out. She pushed it through the slot at the bottom of the window, and I reached for my wallet.
“How much….?” I asked, not seeing a price on the paper.

“It’s a gift,” the woman said. “Take it.”
I tapped the window with my thanks, not letting words suffice to express my gratitude.
Inside, I took a seat near the stage, over on the left side—with a spectacular view of the performers and the array of instruments. Behind the drums was a huge gong. After a few minutes of waiting, the house lights dimmed and the crowd’s cheering filled the auditorium. With a burst of light and an explosive downbeat, the music was suddenly propelled into the arena like the first volley of a fireworks display. Somewhere in the darkness of the concert hall the county desk clerk let the music wash over him, forgot about the phone calls and the tedium of his job, and the brief interludes of singing songs in some foreign tongue with an elderly visitor. He’d paid his buck-sixty for the bus ride, probably snagged a free or reduced ticket, and was comfortably enjoying the show. On Monday I would phone up the Filipino woman, buy the Subaru.