James Sikes. Post II.

I forgot to mention that the poem his parents posted as part of their remembrance of him -- that was the poem we randomly chose as part of our wedding.

I can only hope they have peace and understanding that their son has inspired a whole lot more than they realize.

Eddie - July 3, 2010, 4:42pm

"Heeeey, you two! Is this your first time here? Well, no, it's not YOUR first time here, but I don't recognize him. You HAVE been here before, right? Maybe recently? Maybe not-so-recently? I've seen you here before. Anyway, I've been here forEVER, and I definitely know YOU, but not him.

"Oh, you just moved here? To the Middle of Nowhere? WONDERFUL! We have some wine open? Do you want to taste it? Orvieto. Chardonnary. Pinot Noir. Just the Orvieto? Oh, it's SO good, you'll love it. Yum, right? Only $8.99 a bottle! A STEAL! You two do know what I do for a living, right? I DRINK. I worked in the grocery store for 30 years, retired, and opened up shop here. This little place rolls.

"If you like Orvieto, you'll love Riesling. Oh, of course you DO! Well, we have a bottle. Only $12.99 for a one and a half liter! It's deLICIOUS. See? I even put it on the sign: I LOVE THIS WINE. It's so good. SO good.

"Big plans for the fourth? NO! Do NOT go there! I live there. It's neat to see the fireworks up close but it will take you HOURS to leave. No. Stay in the Middle of Nowhere. Out where the Mogul is building that big resort, they do fireworks over there. I'm going to a party at my friends' house that backs up to that field. They're customers of mine, they probably only invited me for the free wine: 'Hey, Eddie, why don't you come on over?!' and throw a couple bottles in your bag, too. But I've never see them from that view before.

"You're gettin' married December fourth? REALLY?! I started working for the grocery December fourth in 1977 and I retired December fourth, 2007. That must mean it's a good day for you two. You'll be together forever! When was that wedding here? We had a couple that practically met here. Her name was Bonnie, she was a flight attendant and he - I can't remember his name - he worked with horses. But they came in and we lit a fire in the fireplace and they stood right there and got married. That was neat. My first wedding! I think that was December...well, maybe December third. The day of the snow storm. I rent the old house next to here, just in case. And I live out by those fireworks. But I own this building. I wouldn't want to have a business in a building I didn't own.

"You know Echo and Cassidy? I had a hard time figuring THEM out. I think I pissed her off a little bit. She wanted me to rent from her and open up another shop, but why would I do that? I don't want to have a business in a building I don't own! And I don't want two of these. I'm fine with one!

"So, you know them, you must go to the Market. I...I don't have a preference between the two. Neither do you? H-ah! H-ah! H-ah! Good, you've already learned. I don't like HEARING about it all the time. Have you tried Solano? They have the BEST escargot. It is SO good. Yea, I've been to Cullen's a few times. Only opened a few monthes ago. It's alright.  But you must go to Solano for the escargot! I live right across the street from them. I give them recommendations for their wine and they throw some business my way. She recently made me a little mad. I called to see if I could come in around 8 and she just said, 'Yes. I have to go.' and she hung up! I didn't tell her who I was, but I thought that was SO rude!

"Did you see my baby? He's my baby. He's been around a long time and he's still alive. Everyone in this town has their dog. If you don't have one, you better get one soon. Otherwise, people'll stop talking to you. You gotta be a dog person. You ARE? FanTAStic, you'll do great here. You like good wine. You like dogs. Horses? NO? Eh, you can fake it with the dogs and the wine."

Echo & Cassidy -- Tuesday, May 11, 5:30pm

Glass shattered out into the street as Bud (the name by which we will heretofore call my fiance) clamored to retrieve what was left of his wine whilst also feeding the affections of the friendly Cavalier King Charles puppy that was pulling her owners onto the deck at the Market. The other assortment of five or six dogs, obviously older and of similarly sized breeds, lingered just behind their owners hoping that the wine spilt out onto the concrete and into the street would magically turn into freshly cut slices of filet mignon. When the older dogs realized this was not the case, they lazily made their way up the stairs and parked at their owners feet.

Attached to the puppy and the rest of the pack was a middle-aged couple dressed in a combination of just-worked-on-the-farm and just-left-the-office clothing: he wore worn wranglers and a loose, button-up white dress shirt with scuffed up workman's boots, she in black leggings and a long, flowy floral shirt with no make-up and flip flops. Her blonde hair was straightened but dry, and his long dark gray hair with white streaks was pulled back in a casual ponytail that trailed down his back. She was pale. He was tan. And they both looked tired.

"Don't worry about the glass. I told Alyssa it was Baby's fault," The man said.

"Thanks. That's a cute dog," said Bud, gratefully, "I'm Bud, and this is my fiancee."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Echo. This is my...woman, Cassidy. And our dogs. Baby is the puppy. We found her in a box on the front stoop at the elementary school."

Everyone got settled on the deck with Cassidy sitting closest to me and Echo on the other side of her. Baby fell asleep, Alyssa brought Bud another glass of wine with the appropriate, sarcastic scold, and we all resumed eating and making pleasant enough small talk: how long have you lived here, do you have a dog, where's a good groomer, we want a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, oh, they're great dogs, and on and on it went. We found out that Echo and Cassidy were both from southern California where they'd been in charge of many, many horses; but now they ran a small shop in town.

"What made you leave southern California? I heard the weather there is gorgeous."

"The market."

"THIS Market? You moved because of John's restaurant?" I could not believe that someone would move to the Middle of Nowhere for a restaurant, having lived outside of Los Angeles for the majority of their lives.

"No, no, not the restaurant. Just the general market."

Cassidy must mean the stock market. Which means they're probably swimming up to their eyebrows in green. I felt like continuing this conversation would be a poor choice as I am embarassingly dumb with regards to the innerworkings of the stock market, investing, highs and lows, trading, and any other words associated with an Accounting or Finance degree. My major in college was English Literature. I never read a poem about the stock market.

"What do you do?" Cassidy changed the subject.

"I'm in sales."

"What do you sell?"

"A product I don't use," Har har har. Look at how well I can make clever, albeit eye-rolling, conversation with extremely wealthy individuals. I was trying to be cute because in my head I kept hearing, "Oh, the stock market! Maybe they don't have kids! Maybe they need someone to occasionally watch their dogs! Maybe we can get in real good with them and then, when they die, they'll leave us all of the dollars they raked in over the course of their lives and we'll be rich! FILTHY DIRTY RICH! Like Holly!"

Cassidy and Echo chuckled. I was golden. First thing I'd do? Buy a boat in an embarassingly ritzy locale. St. Barth's would be nice.

Cassidy responded, "That's alright! I sell pot but I don't use it!"

In my mind, I heard the sound of the slot machine churning out money come to an abrasive, screeching halt. Pot? She sells pot?!

I looked at Bud to make sure I heard her correctly and he looked as though someone had hit him in the head with a cast iron skillet. Yes, she really did just say that.

"I...um...do you mean like flower pots?" No, seriously. That's what I said. Thankfully, Cassidy laughed.

"No, pot! Like Marijuana. Mary Jane. MJ. Cannibis. Ghanja. What kind of market did you think we moved for? The stock market?" At this, Cassidy and Echo both laughed hysterically. I could hear my cash cow being slaughtered in the distance. Alyssa came out, collected our checks, and we got ready to leave. Echo gave me his card "if I ever needed anything" with a wink and a nod. As we took the steps off the porch, a brand new Porsche pulled up to pick up a 20-something male walking a gorgeous miniature Australian shepherd.

"Cool dog. It matches your cool car." I heard Echo tell the kid, followed by piercing laughter from Cassidy. Nope, they're not even successful pot dealers. I would have to find another cash cow.

Lyle - One night in April, 7:30pm

Lyle must live "in town." He pulls up to the Blue Tick Hound Tavern (our only bar) every evening around the same time in a very different, very expensive brand new car and hawks business cards for his used car dealership just outside of the big city until he's so blind drunk he slurs his own name. On the one occasion I happened to meet him, he was very interested in two things: (1) telling me that buying a new car is never a good choice because they depreciate an extraordinary amount when you drive them off the lot; and (2) the cops don't hang out on Main Street until after about 10 or 11pm. He was insistent that you cannot get a DUI coming back from the big city (only going to it). And, he explained, there are checkpoints just west of our little town every Friday and Saturday night.

By the looks of things, Lyle probably knows what he's talking about.

His beady little eyes focused on his glass of wine, the capillary veins in his nose pushed out to the surface on his nostrils as though he was one drink away from getting that reddish glow common to freshly minted AA members. He grew quiet for just an instant before asking the all-important question:

"Do you like the Market or the Stop?"

In the Middle of Nowhere, there is no question more polarizing than this. It is tantamount to asking whether or not you were a Confederate or a Yankee in the Civil War, and, if answered incorrectly, will earn you a verbal lashing that will drain the life out of you faster than if you'd been stabbed by a bayonet.

You see, there's a war going on in the Middle of Nowhere.

Just up the road, there are two restaurants. One, a former "greasy spoon" owned by a very famous and successful Hollywood superstar turned gourmet dining room called the Stop; and two, a deli-come-gourmet directly across the street from the Stop, called the Market. According to local legend, long ago the chef at the Stop trained and then fired the chef at the Market, spurring him to open up his own restaurant directly across the street and compete against his old boss. Their menus are similar, both restaurants have open kitchens where you can talk with the chefs as they cook if you're sitting at either places' esteemed bar seats (easily the best and most coveted seats in the house), and they both cook with fresh local ingredients, make their own breads and pastas and cuts of meat (seriously, the Market makes their own bacon), and are open on the same days (never Monday or Tuesday nights).

I refuse to answer this question. I do have a preference of one over the other; but in the Middle of Nowhere, I'm Switzerland.

"I like both of them."

Lyle was not satisfied with this response.

"Well, if you want a true dining experience, you eat at the Stop. Now, I'm not saying John isn't a great chef. He's pretty good. But, you know, the Market is really a deli. It's just a deli. A place to grab a bite to eat, get a drink, hang out. You go to the Stop, you have a dining experience. An experience. D'ya know what I'm saying?"

"Yes, you get an experience at the Stop."

"That's right, an experience. John's Market is just a deli. A place for a drink or a sandwich. And you know what the difference is?"

"The experience?"

"Yea, the experience and the atmosphere. There's no atmosphere. When's the last time you went to a deli with an atmosphere? Alyssa gives me a hard time when I go to the Stop. She yells off the Market's deck, "You're a traitor, you bastard!" and I just wave. But, you know, there's no class in that. That's not the dining experience I want. So I take my business to the Stop. They don't call me nothin', there. I gotta take a piss."

And just like that, Lyle was gone. He stumbled up the stairs to the restroom as I closed up with the bartender.

The Market: 0; The Stop: 1

Townies

Here in the Middle-of-Nowhere, we have two kinds of people: those who live "in town" and those who don't. Now, those who live "in town" are poor (Middle-of-Nowhere-poor generally equals about $150,000 income per year) but they're fiercely loyal. For example, after first moving to the area I was shopping for some inexpensive earrings on Main Street (you know this is a story from when I just moved here because "inexpensive" and "shopping" were still a part of my vocabulary) and one of the petite shop owners, in her Lilly Pulitzer caftan shirt and Jack Rogers sandals, asked me "if I was spending the weekend in the country?" "No," I replied, "I just moved to town...a few blocks away, actually."

Immediately there was a flurry of excitement. She was grabbing earrings all over the place, and helped me - nay, dragged me - to the perfect pair (the last pair I'll purchase in this town). The customer service became outstanding when it was previously distant and disconnected. And, as it turns out, she lived just down the street in a stone house from the 1780's. She chuckled wholeheartedly when I told her that I lived in an apartment from the 1980's. Because we were both "in town" (read: poor), she and I were equals. The fact that I am way, way, way more "in town" (read: poorer) than she did not matter one bit.

I'm telling you this little story so that you understand the kind of camaraderie that exists within my little town and so that you understand how I've learned to spot other townies like myself. Well, not quite like myself because by the Middle-of-Nowhere standards of wealth, I'm not just poor, I'm destitute. But I'm still a member of the "in town" crowd, which makes sense since those in the immediate areas "out of town" are people with net worths of $500 million. Which effectively makes me a charity case. Which I suppose in my little town I probably should be. Give me your Gucci bags, people. And the keys to your Maserati. I'm broke!

Holly -- Saturday, May 1, 2010; 8:30pm

Holly languished on her stool, coral sundress now hiked inappropriately above her forty-plus - though, she claimed thirty - year old knees. Dark tan hands attempted to coax a wilted cigarette to light, whilst also cradling a glass of $50-per-bottle French red wine and a butter cracker topped with locally made, high quality goat cheese. She exclaimed how much she liked "shiver" (chevre) before swallowing the cracker whole, swigging some red wine, firing up her Marlboro Light, and spinning around on her tall stool much faster than you'd expect someone whose body, just moments before, appeared almost as lifeless as the early 19th century wooden deck on which we sat.

"Why d'ya live here?" she asked with a cheese-filled, lightly southern twang tinged with nearly thirty years (she'd claim fifteen) of tobacco use.

"I'm in sales. I work up and down the interstate and I have to commute there every day. My territory didn't have many housing options and I'd heard great things about the Middle-of-Nowhere," was my standard party line every time something like this would come up. And it always came up.

"D'ya like it?"

"Oh, I absolutely love it. I grew up in a small town with two stoplights, so I'm used to being in a small town. I really wish I could stay here forever..."

And, that's when Holly cut me off. Passionately.

"Oh, honey...unfortunately, you can't stay HERE forever unless you're one of two things: either you work with the horses; OR..." and Holly got real quiet, puffed up her chest a little bit, and thrust her hand in the air like a school kid who KNOWS the answer to the math question, "OR, you're filthy, dirty rich."

Holly's eyes gleamed as she proudly announced that she lived here, not because of talent or desire or hard work or education or even connections, but because she was filthy, dirty rich. I looked around, quickly. Had I been the only one who heard her correctly? Surely, even here, someone must take offense to someone so loudly declaring that their net worth is both filthier and dirtier than the average American's. The porch at this particular restaurant was packed with people eating and drinking, with relatively low conversation volume.

But, no. No. One. Moved.

And that's when I decided to write this blog.

Hi, there! Some of you may know me from "real life," some of you may know me from my other blog, and some of you may have found me completely randomly whilst perusing the interwebs looking for a good time...errr, a good read. I hope that I can entertain all of you.

For those of you who don't know me, but would like to know how I met Holly*, why I feel the need to write about her and the other people I meet on a daily basis, and how I ended up living as a 20-something in the Middle of Nowhere, I urge you to read the "About Me" in the left hand column of this blog.

I would like to assure all of you that I am changing the names of everything -- where I am, where I live, who I meet, where I eat, where I work and where I shop -- to protect the innocent and the not-so-innocent. The stories that will be told herein are all based on cold hard facts told through the fuzzy lense of memory and, sometimes, a glass of wine or two. So, take them as they are and enjoy!


*Interested in reading more about Holly? Don't worry, she will come up again. Her story is nowhere near over and, when you're living in a town of 300-odd people, you tend to run into most of them more than once.