The story so far: The Old Saleswoman is telling her niece Sara about a stormy evening in Rutland in 1978 when she rode with her husband Roy to deliver a $19. case of wine glasses.
We hit route four on four semi bald tires with loose chains rattling and threatening to come loose. I’d reach out the passenger window and snap the wiper blades every sixty seconds or so to loosen the ice and release the blades. The defroster worked only on the driver’s side. I prayed we had a decent ice scraper somewhere in the backseat. After five minutes I begged Roy to turn back.
“You're killing me!” I shouted at him. “You’re going to kill me!”
Roy knew instantly I meant our life together. And I knew it too for the first time. The cold, the stump, the flat, the dainty and delicate blonde. The laser-like concentration it took just to live was overwhelming me. We both knew I was only with him that evening to protect my meager interest in the only adult life I ever knew.
I stopped talking now and looked over at Sara to see if I could gauge her reaction to my story. Sara was staring at me, waiting for more. But there really was no more. Not really.
Finally, she asked, “Well, what happened that night?” Did you make it to the ski lodge?”
“We slid off the road about halfway there and had to be towed. The towing company wouldn’t take our card because we were over the limit. It was a mess. We eventually got out of there somehow and made it back to the flat. We must have. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
Now I just wanted my story to go away.
“And you stayed married to him for how long after that?”
“About six years.”
“Six years,” she repeated staring out her window.
“But it was different between us from then on. We didn’t give each other breaks anymore. We were still married, still teamed up, but that didn’t mean we had to be nice to each other or give each other breaks.”
For the rest of the ride to Killington, Sara kept the earbuds in. When we finally entered the ski lodge, my insides felt stiff and icy. I was trying to shake off Rutland, and the brittle, awkward feeling you get when you know you’ve given away too much of yourself, hoping for some return, but realizing, more than likely, there will be none.
We caught up with the rest of the family easily enough. It was helpful to connect with people who knew me while my back story was being written. I still felt wide open and shaky, and chattering aimlessly seemed to help. Sara simply drifted away to meet with some girls who looked of a similar age and life.
Not long after we arrived, everyone in the lodge turned their heads at the sound of broken glass. A waiter, not far from my niece, had dropped a very large drink tray, spraying glass and cocktails all over his vicinity. Instinctively, I pulled myself out of the deep leather sofa I'd staked out to disappear in and took a few steps in her direction.
I could see she was unhurt and could hear her reassuring her friends that the waiter wouldn’t get in trouble because those glasses didn’t cost much. She knows that because her aunt lived in Vermont in the ’70s and had been close to the restaurant industry. The glasses probably cost $19.00 a case in the ’70s and $30.00 now. Then she told them it wasn’t much money then, and it still isn’t much money now.
I turned and walked in the opposite direction, and found myself in the pub on the other side of the lodge. A glimmering big screen TV hung over one end of what looked like a very old wooden bar. I took a stool and put my shoulder bag down in front of me.
“Excuse me, Sir? What’s a good, no your best- dry, crisp chardonnay? I’d like a glass. No, could I have a bottle?”
My stool was comfortable, it was situated nicely to watch the TV if I cared to; the wine glass I held in my hand was pretty and delicate. As I sipped my wine, I watched the bartender use his motor memory to clean and stack glasses while he talked to customers. Then I watched as my purse slid slowly off the top, then slowly down the side, of the smooth old wooden bar to the floor.
Next Week: The Old Saleswoman moves from Vermont to West Virginia. The name of her next story is "Wheeling".
Guts Chapter 5 Conclusion
The story so far: The Old Saleswoman is telling her niece Sara about a stormy evening in Rutland in 1978 when she rode with her husband Roy to deliver a $19. case of wine glasses.
We hit route four on four semi bald tires with loose chains rattling and threatening to come loose. I’d reach out the passenger window and snap the wiper blades every sixty seconds or so to loosen the ice and release the blades. The defroster worked only on the driver’s side. I prayed we had a decent ice scraper somewhere in the backseat. After five minutes I begged Roy to turn back.
“You're killing me!” I shouted at him. “You’re going to kill me!”
Roy knew instantly I meant our life together. And I knew it too for the first time. The cold, the stump, the flat, the dainty and delicate blonde. The laser-like concentration it took just to live was overwhelming me. We both knew I was only with him that evening to protect my meager interest in the only adult life I ever knew.
I stopped talking now and looked over at Sara to see if I could gauge her reaction to my story. Sara was staring at me, waiting for more. But there really was no more. Not really.
Finally, she asked, “Well, what happened that night?” Did you make it to the ski lodge?”
“We slid off the road about halfway there and had to be towed. The towing company wouldn’t take our card because we were over the limit. It was a mess. We eventually got out of there somehow and made it back to the flat. We must have. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
Now I just wanted my story to go away.
“And you stayed married to him for how long after that?”
“About six years.”
“Six years,” she repeated staring out her window.
“But it was different between us from then on. We didn’t give each other breaks anymore. We were still married, still teamed up, but that didn’t mean we had to be nice to each other or give each other breaks.”
For the rest of the ride to Killington, Sara kept the earbuds in. When we finally entered the ski lodge, my insides felt stiff and icy. I was trying to shake off Rutland, and the brittle, awkward feeling you get when you know you’ve given away too much of yourself, hoping for some return, but realizing, more than likely, there will be none.
We caught up with the rest of the family easily enough. It was helpful to connect with people who knew me while my back story was being written. I still felt wide open and shaky, and chattering aimlessly seemed to help. Sara simply drifted away to meet with some girls who looked of a similar age and life.
Not long after we arrived, everyone in the lodge turned their heads at the sound of broken glass. A waiter, not far from my niece, had dropped a very large drink tray, spraying glass and cocktails all over his vicinity. Instinctively, I pulled myself out of the deep leather sofa I'd staked out to disappear in and took a few steps in her direction.
I could see she was unhurt and could hear her reassuring her friends that the waiter wouldn’t get in trouble because those glasses didn’t cost much. She knows that because her aunt lived in Vermont in the ’70s and had been close to the restaurant industry. The glasses probably cost $19.00 a case in the ’70s and $30.00 now. Then she told them it wasn’t much money then, and it still isn’t much money now.
I turned and walked in the opposite direction, and found myself in the pub on the other side of the lodge. A glimmering big screen TV hung over one end of what looked like a very old wooden bar. I took a stool and put my shoulder bag down in front of me.
“Excuse me, Sir? What’s a good, no your best- dry, crisp chardonnay? I’d like a glass. No, could I have a bottle?”
My stool was comfortable, it was situated nicely to watch the TV if I cared to; the wine glass I held in my hand was pretty and delicate. As I sipped my wine, I watched the bartender use his motor memory to clean and stack glasses while he talked to customers. Then I watched as my purse slid slowly off the top, then slowly down the side, of the smooth old wooden bar to the floor.
Next Week: The Old Saleswoman moves from Vermont to West Virginia. The name of her next story is "Wheeling".
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
