Ober and Out

Dear besties,

Today I hopped in the Vibrator and drove my sweet one up to Derby Line, a village that’s supposed to be in Canada, but by some twist of fate and one surveyor’s drunken mistake, it ended up in Vermont. I had to go up there for my little job to talk to people who were mad about stuff.

On the way back, I stopped at the Johnson Woolen Mills, one of the glimmeriest jewels in Vermont’s tourism crown. At the mill, hard-bitten Vermonters make wool plaid plants and buffalo check mackinaws for grizzled farmers and hipsters in Japan (Johnson Woolen Mills has actually earned the right to say “We’re huge in Japan.” Those crazy little Asians love them some ironic buffalo check vests and hunting coats. You know, for all the maple sugaring and deer stalking they do in Japan.)

I’ve been desperate for a pair of Adirondack plaid trousers and there’s no better place to get them than the Johnson Woolen Mills. That might be the only place to find them. I know I would look as silly as an elephant in ballet flats in those trousers, but I must have them. They will complete my Vermont experience and when I move to a place like, say, Williamsburg or Portland or some such enclave of slavish trendsetting, I will fit in.

Just think how good I would look in these trousers. Yum.

Upon entering the factory outlet, I was greeted by a tsunami of plaid. Muted plaid, stag plaid, Canadian plaid, windowpane, black watch and a pattern called Big Buck Benoit, which I’m pretty sure no matter how burly I grew, I could never get away with. Many of the plaids came with accompanying swaths of blaze orange so your hunting buddies don’t inadvertently gun you down with a .22. Fat lot of good that does here in Vermont. Every hunting season, some poor sod gets a load of shot in his gut because his hunting pal mistook him for a 10-point buck.

Adirondack plaid, how do I love thee!

As I began to wander the racks of woolen garments, I was approached by a feller who worked at the shop. He looked more like he should be manning the loading dock than the till. He was slightly overweight, with a beachball-sized belly shrouded in an oversized navy T-shirt that was clearly not made with love by anyone at the woolen mill. He had scruffy blond facial hair and a pinched little hamster face.

I’d like to share with you the interaction I had with this fine gent. It goes a little something like this:

Feller: We keepin’ you up?

Me: Excuse me? (while fingering the delicious plaid trousers)

Feller: We keepin’ you up? You just yawned. (Laughs)

Me: (Confused, because I didn’t yawn at all.) Oh, yeah. Sorry, I’ve just been driving for a bit.

Feller: Where you comin’ from?

Me: Derby Line.

Feller: What are you doin’ up there?

Me: I was up there for work.

Feller: Oh, what do you do for work.

Me: (Annoyed. Why can’t this guy see I want to look at the clothes not talk to him?): I’m a writer. (Yes, I realize it’s a little smug to say you’re a writer when really all you do is ask people questions, write down their answers and copy those into a computer file that gets pasted in the paper. I’m really a stenographer, but most people don’t know what that is.)

Feller: What do you write?

Me: I’m a newspaper reporter. I work for Seven Days in Burlington.

Feller: I’m a writer myself. I write the blurbs for the brochure.

Me: (Impressed) Oh.

Feller: Being a newspaper writer must be the hardest easiest job.

Me: I’m sorry?

Feller: Like it’s the hardest easiest job. Like it’s hard, but it’s pretty easy.

Me: Well, it’s as hard as you make it. But it’s not easy.

Feller: Right. Well, I also do role-playing and I write stuff for that.

Me: Oh. (WTF? What does he mean “role-playing?” Like Dungeons and Dragons, or like Bad Doctor and Naughty Nurse?)

Feller: Yeah, I wrote some stuff for this role-playing thing and I asked my friend to read it and he said it was really boring. Basically it’s really hard to make things not boring. I mean, all stories are basically all the same.

Me: Um, I’d disagree. If all my stories were the same, no one would ever read them.

Feller: Well, most authors, once they write one story, every story after that is the same.

Me: Hmmm, well, that’s not true in the newspaper business.

(Break in the action. I walk over to admire the wool throws as another employee materializes and briefly distracts this guy. After their interaction is over, he finds me again.)

Feller: So what do you make of this health care thing? I can’t make heads or tails of it. I hear it’s going to be tough on the employers.

Me: (Blindsided, and secretly desiring a plaid belt pouch.) Well, I guess some people don’t like change.

Feller: So what do you think of the health care thing?

Me: (High-tailing it to the door.) Anything’s better than what we’ve got now. (Opening door.)

Feller: Don’t you want a brochure? (As I’m running out the door.)

Gratuitous buffalo check plaid.

Now, I’m not trying to be uncharitable, but I can think of about a million other conversations I’d rather have. Like talking to my mom about where babies come from and penises and stuff. Or talking to my boss about yet another “personality conflict” I’m having in the office. Literally, if talking was an Olympic sport, this guy would easily get a bronze medal. I, of course, would take the gold.

As I got back in my sick-ass Vibe, I vowed to return for those sumptuous plaid trousers. And perhaps a fetching wool cape or poncho, two of the many au courant fashions Johnson Woolen Mills offers for womenfolk. But before I return, I’m calling ahead. If Chatty Charlie is working that day, I ain’t goin’.