14 June 2010
The sign in the waiting area encourages people to use mass transit. Twilight Tolstoy’s have written their smarmy quips about taxes, Schwinns, and poop smoothies. It’s so infantile and yet I add my line amongst them. “Plus bikers aren’t fat” On the ferry the locals read their papers and sip their coffee in silence, while tourists chatter to shake off the morning groginess. A few stretch out across bench seats and catch a nap. Work boots hanging over the edge and sweat-washed ballcaps blocking the light. A few tables over, someone shuffles a deck of cards and another man turns the pages of his newspaper.
While off island we went to all of the usual stops, a sea of consumerism with strip malls extending out on to the pavement like awkward angled jetties. The hardest was WalMart. Fat women in tight capris and stilletos dragging their fat bawling children. Men with bellies hanging miles past their belt. Forcing them to create ballast by thrusting their heads backwards and adding bags of cookie dough to the back of their calves. Everyones shirts are so tight their back rolls appear as a pack of sausages made by an inexperienced butcher. I feel so out of place, nausea begins to take over. A couple of women walk past that are perfect examples of real behead. They don’t waste their money on styling gel, they just use the sculpting power of unwashed stringy locks. I want to run out the front doors and breath in the sweet rain perfume air. Dan pipes up “Oooooh, Scrubbing Bubbles, I love scrubbing bubbles.”
It strikes me as utterly hilarious and I can’t help giggling as we walk towards the checkout lane. I only feel completely normal again while sitting in the ferry line. A Ford Focus with Oregon plates pulls up next to us and a nun steps out with her dog.
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