|
Rage and Omens I
On Saturday morning, Nonelvis wakes me up. I'm groggy and know that I have barely enough time to get ready, let alone make coffee. I'll have to get some on the way. We're to meet her parents for the day's activities in less than an hour. I'm annoyed, because we'll be going to venues that make me very appearance-conscious, and I'd really be more comfortable wearing makeup - but I can't; we've been afraid to bring up my gender matters with Nonelvis' parents and thus I have to tread lightly.
The sleepiness and the rush, combined with not being able to dress as I want, makes me irritable. When Nonelvis starts getting nervous about the time and begins to push me to hurry every few minutes, my responses get increasingly harsh. When we leave the house, she suggests that I move on ahead, since I walk faster, to get my coffee. She'll meet me on the subway platform. It's not lost on me that this means we'll walk down opposite sides of the street and not have to talk to each other. When I get to the platform with my coffee, my anger has passed. She's still a little resentful, I think.
Lunch is lovely but the conversation isn't. First Nonelvis mentions the book she'll be working on. It's a non-fiction project, a textbook of sorts. It probably won't pay much beyond the initial fee, and it's not exactly going to be a best seller, but she's got a contract. Between her, and my mother talking about this Danielle Steel-ilk novel she's written (which should be a cinch to sell), the whole subject depresses me. When the talk shifts to our preliminary search for a house (another really depressing subject), my mood is noticeable and I have to complain. I comment that I'm the person who's supposed to be a writer, but everyone is going to sell a book before me.
It's obvious from the parents' reaction to my claim and my unpublished works that no one is going to take me seriously until I actually sell something - which I knew already; I'm not surprised at their reaction, but even so it annoys me enough that I don't get over it until after lunch, when Nonelvis asks privately what's wrong and I vent a little.
Then we go to the Boston Wine Expo - a wine-tasting show - which is worse. Far worse. We wait for the shuttle bus in the cold. There is only a single shuttle and a lot of people waiting. Then, when we get there, we stand in an incredible line that loops around twice and crosses itself and does heaven knows what else. Fortunately it moves fast and the absurdity of it is making the mood genial, instead of cross - everyone's smiling, joking.
Inside the building, my levity ends immediately. This is a convention floor. I've been there a number of times and thought I'd seen it crowded before. This exceeds anything I've ever seen. There is no place to move. People are edging past each other sideways just to navigate. You can't stand still anywhere without the feeling that you're blocking traffic. And this is a wine tasting! Not the kind of event where you want to feel rushed or shoved. I can't even get near most of the stations where wine's being poured, and since I don't really have the palate for this anyway (this was mostly an event for Nonelvis and her dad), I feel like shoving past people with my little wine glass isn't worth the bother.
The crowd is all white and all yuppie - figures. I love the way some of these glitterati are dressed, in their sleek European black and their wraparound sunglasses (lots of Very Cool Shoes sighted), but at the same time I detest their trendy herd-following. Some of the people are obviously here to see and be seen. They could care less about the wine, it's just a socially powerful place to be - also a nice indoor activity on a cold winter weekend which even involves a little booze to boot. They annoy me. Get out of the way and leave this place to the wine fans, I want to say. And while you're at it, stop staring at me.
No, I really do feel like all the women in the place are staring at me. I can't tell if it's because I'm looking incredibly intense (like I do when I'm cross), or because they think I'm cute (dubious - I'm not their type), or because of those spider earrings. (I don't know what the deal is with the spider earrings, but I can't wear them without someone commenting on them. I mean, I love them but I don't think they're that striking.)
The only wines I really want to try are the Germans. One booth is pouring several Rieslings, including an auslese and a spätlese. The people in front of me obviously wouldn't know a German wine if it bit them, but now that they've tried this novel new experience, they're standing there chattering about it, not getting out of the way, even though people are clustering behind them. The gentleman in their party sees that I'm waiting patiently to try the wine, and gestures me to move up to the table. Move up how, sir? Through your body? The gentleman from the wine merchant either doesn't see me (despite the fact that I have a foot of height over these other people) or is too busy chatting them up because he suspects they'll buy wine later. (No direct sales of booze at the expo - you can only hand out sales materials.)
Finally, one of the clueless says something like, "Oh, the spätlese is sweeter!" like this is a news flash, and I can't take it anymore. I spin around and stalk off, hoping the little gent behind the counter will notice he's just lost a potential customer with more brains and possibly more income than the morons he's flattering. Of course a spätlese is sweeter. That's the point. Would you buy a French wine if you didn't know the difference between Burgundies and Bordeaux? Come to think of it, those clowns probably would.
Drinking wine without knowing the rudiments of the label - I mean, I'm no wine scholar either, but if you don't know the basics, you might as well choose wine at random every time you drink some. (At this point, the people whom I always argue with about intellectual snottiness will bring up the usual excellent objection: If you don't ever stop to explain it to them, when will they learn? Normally I'd agree. However, I happen to feel that a wine tasting is not the place and time to get a basic wine education. It is not a wine appreciation class. It's for people who already know a little something about what they're doing.)
I can't get near any of the other German vendors either. There are just too many people. It's ridiculous. I stalk over into the only empty corner nearby, so mad I can't see straight, and Nonelvis comes over to find out what's up. She's mad at me. She gets mad every time I show visible anger; she gets upset every time I raise my voice. It doesn't matter that I'm usually not shouting at her - apparently I am never permitted to lose my temper at all. She asks me to calm down and go back to have another try at the wine. I make a rude gesture in the wine merchant's direction. Your dad, I say, who doesn't worry about lines because he just pushes people out of the way, is now going to come back and tell me about the spätlese. Sure enough, he does. He says that in his opinion it's not very good, which just annoys me further, because my tastes aren't his, and the point was that I wanted to try the wine for myself. But I don't say anything harsh to Nonelvis' parents. They're off-limits. I'm trying not to get angry with Nonelvis either, but her habit of getting upset when I show any sort of rage at all just enrages me further, because I hate upsetting her but I also hate the feeling that I can't get angry in her presence without upsetting her.
After that it's torn. I want to leave - I am not having any fun - but I know if I leave, Nonelvis will stay upset. I finally realize that there is no course of action that will keep Nonelvis from being upset, and this makes me upset - and the more upset I get, the worse company I am and the more obvious it is to Nonelvis' parents that we're having a fight - and finally I just make my apologies and leave. Nonelvis assures me she'll get over it. That's not good enough.
I take a long walk on the way home, across the old Northern Avenue bridge. The bridge was built in 1908 and is beautiful, in its blunt way. It's closed to all but pedestrian traffic now. The autos are all routed over a new bridge nearby. The new bridge is named after US Rep Joe Moakley's wife, who died of cancer. Moakley pushed heavily for the new bridge. Moakley wants the old bridge - the one I'm walking on now, with its amazing ironwork - torn down. It blocks his view of the new one. He says he didn't push to build the new bridge just so we could keep the old one up. I'm sorry about Moakley's wife, but the new bridge is soulless and this one is practically a landmark and he's being a bastard. I manage to get a little annoyed about that.
A guy nearby on Rowes Wharf is taking a picture of the bridge. I've done that myself a few times. I want to go down to him and say, Come up here, take a picture of where the auto gate is being held partially closed by police-line tape, partially stuck in a snowdrift, weeds and snow on the bridge surface a foot deep in the unused auto lane. A beautiful desolate photo. Come get that one, because I really wish I had a camera. But I don't tell him that. He wouldn't take it well.
I stop in Borders and buy a couple of magazines to read while I sit and relax somewhere. What I'm really craving is formal high tea, a china cup and a plate of cookies - but I don't know when the Ritz serves their afternoon teas, and I'm not interested in walking there anyway. I am in the vicinity of a curious little Edward Gorey-themed coffeehouse, so I walk there to unwind. It is absolutely packed. I can't even get inside. Who invited all these people? So I get cross again, and stalk off to the subway without getting any coffee.
By the time I get home, I've calmed down a bit. I have some cookies and that's good. Then I decide I have enough time to check my mail and so forth online before I have to get ready to go out and rejoin the company for dinner. I go to mouth organ and read the recent messages and I just blow up all over again. I happen to feel the facts are on my side in this particular battle, but the harshness of my reply can only be explained as the culmination of a long day of intermittent rage.
Dinner is absolutely wonderful and free of misfortune.
© Columbine
|
|
