A Prefatory Note of some note to my Dear Reader(s)*:
The following mini-meander on the highwayhood of neighborliness was written sometime in late August; there I was, attempting to inscribe whatever "creative non-fiction" may or may not signal in the temporal and temperamental time/space continuum of that durn "blogisphere"; blog spaces are all about the "right now" of hyper (no KIDDING) textuality, but I'm rather absent-minded, like slow-food as much as I like "slow scroll," and was consumed by the following life-stuff, rendered here for you in despised discursive form, otherwise known as "bullet list". So I didn't publish it "today" (that someday in August) because I was
- Preparing for the then-upcoming and now all-encompassing Academic Year
- Finishing my Paint Quest 07 Paint-a-Thon
- Avoiding preparing and/or painting (and much else)
- Being rather absent-minded and losing the survey that was to be snarked
Much has changed since I wrote this. We're all living that spare-change, so I'll spare it, but share some context that seems share-worthy.
My living room is now that perfect shade of periwinkle that haunts bridesmaids but compliments cherry wood and bone china plate; the snarky of summer self has given over to the promise of pumpkin picking in some future October day, no doubt, but above all, my dear friend who lamented her Bartleby "Before" shots is now a colleague. :) She decided that people and their words are worth the Slow Scroll (and the severe pay cut) after all, and thus, this is dedicated to her dedication to helping our peeps communicate in complete sentences, in MLA TNR 12, and in ways they never imagined possible. May she find her voice as she enables the tenor and treble in those she edits and abets. :) Congrats, Tiff! Woooo!
And yes, I lost the damn survey. Shit, but that was one creepy document of snark-worthiness, folks. Damn. . . . I honestly think I threw it out with the outdated rebate forms from Home Depot I never got around to filling out. All I know is that at some point when I thought to look, I only came to found that my damn pharmaceutical-grade survey was gone. But certainly, as we live in an Assessment Obsessed "Culture of Assessment," I knew something would turn up eventually. And then, lo! A new year begins (September will do that to a teacher or student type) and suddenly I forgot about this essay altogether! Yep. It sat in Draft Limbo (very much like much of my life, it seems) awaiting some sign or "exciting coupon" of remittance. And there it sat, until the above pictured "Reader/Customer" survey slipped out of a book I was browsing and my WTF?! florescent-on-a-timer turned on. As I "filled it out" (the only way one can, of course), I remembered
*plurality, like hypertextuality, is a state of being my "audience" may consider optional. . .
“In a free economy, people do not always buy just because they have money. . . . Theirs is the sovereign right of choice. One of the hopeful developments of recent years is that new knowledge is rapidly being accumulated about the aspirations and wants and motivations of our people.”
–President Dwight D. Eisenhower on the wonders of consumerism and consumer surveys in relation to the prospects of the national economy; quoted in A Consumers’ Republic by Lizabeth Cohen.
“Sauntering the pavement or riding the country byroads here and there are faces,
Faces of friendship, precision, caution, suavity, ideality,
Faces of friendship, precision, caution, suavity, ideality,
. . . . . . . . .
Sauntering the pavement or crossing the ceaseless ferry, here and there are faces;
I see them and complain not and am content with all.” --From “Faces,” Leaves of Grass by Brotha Walt
I see them and complain not and am content with all.” --From “Faces,” Leaves of Grass by Brotha Walt
“Would you be mine? Won’t you be mine?” –Fred Rodgers
I have actually existed on this portion of our planet for 33 years and had never as of yet experienced the pleasures of dining at an Applebee’s . . . until this very day. The wondrous thing about this bizzaro fact and life in general? Well, there are always firsts;
and lasts.
Apparently, until today, despite my thinking otherwise, I hadn’t truly experienced “local” dining; as the façade and interior of the chain portrayed, I had finally arrived at my “neighborhood” grill, after all. And I didn't even need to bring the buns.
These were my “neighbors”; Applebee’s: my “friends.” Funny thing about these neighbors, though. They reside on a highway. Funny, that.
I hadn’t seen her in over a year; an old friend, we had a lot to catch up on and share. She knew nothing of my recent neuroses, hobbies or honey, and I knew nothing of hers. There were over 365 days of life’s bliss and boredom to compile into bite-size bits in between bites. And even though I almost hesitated to meet being still in the midst of catching up to the middle once again of my Apartment Revitalization Plan, I stepped away from the blue tape, nothing to paint here, and got ready to head out. She lives in a sweet little beach town in Monmouth county but has the misfortune of having to commute to work up here near enough to my hood; thus, knowing we should meet somewhere in proximity to her work, my residence and the GSP, she sent a text asking if meeting at Applebee’s would work for our reunion. “Never been. . .” began my text-reply, but I looked forward to seeing her, and perhaps, I half-joked, trying out something from the Weight Watchers menu, as I am always, obsessively watching and measuring that.
I also tend to be an obsessed foodie-in-the-making. I can be a bakin’ fool depending on my particular hormone count, and I certainly enjoy cooking for my peeps, and when I can, I pretty much attempt to eat/shop in that pathetic but not SAD fashion: whole, organic, local and all that jazz. This “pretty much” healthy and as the "flex" happy wordies call a “flexitarian” lifestyle--coming from a chick who as a young girl believed a balanced meal consisted of Classic Coke, Sour Patch Kids, Andy Capp Hot Fries and Little Debbie Oatmeal Snack Cakes--is an accomplishment that’s been well over a decade in the making. Trust me, I was (and, heck, still am at heart, and man, ya gotta have that) a Joisey Diner girl, a drive-through Diva, and an all around junk fetishist. But I just couldn't do it anymore. And time went on, and so did I. When I do eat out—and gosh, but I love to dine out with folk— I tend to stick to my local Baristaville eats owned and operated by actual families (not corporations) and gen-u-ine chefs (and not TV chef personalities represented on laminate menu selection). I don’t really have that much disposable income, but I will and do spend on food. I’m a bit obsessed with it. But, hey, I’m American. Who isn’t obsessed with food in one way or another round these parts?
“Welcome to Applebee’s. Let me start you with a drink. We have a new Red Apple Sangria, and there’s the Banana Berry Breeze, and . . . ”.
It was a discursive equivalent to a daiquiri filled machine gun, and I was the “kill”. “And don’t forget the drink specials. . .” She must moonlight as a telemarketer, I thought. She’s so quick; she almost has the face down straight. She’d be good. Especially on the phone; that way, they wouldn’t see her ever-so-slight and ever-so-repressed smirk as she maneuvers through her script.
I stare and blink out an “S.O.S” at Tiffany.
“Diet Pepsi,” she offers our telemarketing ninja neighbor.
“Unsweetened ice tea and, um, water,” I exhale. No more machine gunning margarita mixes. I turn to Tiffany to begin the year’s exchange.
With our drinks comes a new line of fire: “How about an appetizer? We have a special that includes . . . and don’t forget to add. . . and you should try the. . .” she directs her pen-weapon at one of the many laminated pictorial menus which work to make a gaudy, shiny altar to the Buffalo Winged Margarita Gods at the window side of the table; “we have the wah-wah-wah-wah where you can choose three wah wah wah for . . .”. At this point I can’t believe that the scribes of the Neighborhood Welcoming Committee Volunteer and Anima-Donor Recruitment Speech believe me to be so. . . well, gullible? Lulled by siren sheen of tropical colors in laminate? I don’t know. I mean, c’mon! Do they really think we aren’t paying attention to the fact that they sprayed down their weedy-lawns and replaced dandelion and crab grass with AstroTurf? Do they really think we’re buying the gaudy green for something real and living? Do they?
Do we?
When the curious child holds a strip of turf to the Man Loafing, does he reply, simply, “It is the handkerchief of Monsanto”?
Hey! What’s so weird or wonder-worthy about listing appetizers? you may ask. Don’t you always get a “specials” tirade at any given restaurant? What gives? I know I have been accused of “thinking too much” about things not deemed thought worthy by my kind and patient peeps (and occasional reader!). The thing is, there was something different about the whole experience—er, no, approach. There was something different yet familiar about this script. And it wasn’t the “Cheers” familiar where everyone knows my name and “taste preference”. It was scripted; it was . . .“customer”-oriented; it was retail; it was all about the sell.
“No thanks,” Tiffany begins. She’s good. She sees that I’m too awestruck and fascinated by the wonderment of it all and brings me back to her presence and “reality”. In retrospect, and after all this wandering about nothing, I am still so glad for that repressed smirk. I can’t imagine if I’d get much sleep tonight if there wasn’t one.
"Love Thy Prospect"
The manager walks from table to table: “How is . . . fill in the blank?”. As anyone who eats out anticipates the owner and/or chef crawl, you’d think the manager’s walk through would give me the same sense. But there’s just something about the place, you know? Something about the overdetermined nature of their overt neighborly determination. And for crying out loud, but how many chefs or proprietors walk around in standard issue polo shirt and “Manager” name tag? But Mr. “Managing by Walking” wasn’t smirking. He may even have been sincere in his stops and stride, actually. I’d like to think that I remember feeling comforted by the human face behind the Customer Service Protocol. These lists of lines and protocols are everywhere we turn, behind the doors we ignore if we are not “employees only”.
A few weeks ago when I visited my family in Miami, I went to get my hair dyed by my cousin at her salon. She works for a popular strip mall hair chain; it was a slow morning, and I walked around and stared at the mugshots of missing stylists on licenses taped onto mirrors and the racks of clearance hair product bottles as my cousin slipped out front for a quick smoke before she washed my grey away with her magic touch. Stopping by the employee’s room, I became transfixed by the rules of engagement presented in Commandment Poster-board on the other side of the open door. Eye contact. Name and familiarity exchange. Shampoo sales (through indirection). Service extras (indirection strategies listed and repeated). Retention strategies (oh! Sorry! That last one’s a slip; that would be the student—er—customer service lingo of my "biz," sorry! Golly!). Every bit of relation, of interaction, from how to look, position your body and speak, down to the final goodbye was rendered in bullet list on that poster. Everything scripted and mitigated by the potential sale add-on. By the
“three course combo for $12.99 is a great choice ” (smirk).
This may seem overboard, but sometimes I wonder how it is we can truly, well, follow suit and "love thy neighbor". I am left to wonder: what are our reference points for relation? What are our notions and metaphors for such exchanges nowadays? That love, real love, is possible is a testament to the beauty I found there along the highway, despite the décor.
See: "Edwardo, Party of Five" (including grandma) celebrating the youngest son’s birthday.
“Carrie; we need singers: Anne, Jennifer, Carrie? Birthday,” commanded a server as I returned from the ladies. The Special B-Day Task Force maneuvered and assumed positions and voices. They sang, clapped, and moved on to the next performance in appetizer plea, and a year in a young life was celebrated.
May he have many, many more.
I continued toward our table. “Mom, I just think you can do better,” the large woman with the thick and frayed blonde curls pulled back in a vintage “scrunchie” leaned over and whispered to her on-the-cusp-of-elderly mother. It was a contrast in hands and hair. Her mother’s hair was sleek and smooth and a pristine yellow-white. But her hands were small and withered and spotted, rendered “old” in light of the large but elegant and smooth, kindly hands of her daughter. “You can,” she clasped both hands, and the small spotted fingers disappeared in her own.
As I sat down our server returned to place two pieces of paper on our table and ramble through lines in reference to them, but at that point I was just in complete awe. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at: surveys. A survey! To be filled out and . . . Now.
Then she went through the various desserts we should order. I looked at her; I looked at Tiffany. I couldn’t help myself.
Tiffany and I laughed through my coffee and her cola order.
“A survey!” I went on and on about my other obsession with our other cultural obsession: assessment and metrics. Oh, the glories of assessment. It’s in everything we do; it is everything we have become. We can say the phrase “data driven” without a single smirk. We are fully in love with our identities as customers, and we speak, breath eat and think in the language of satisfaction surveys. So began my tirade, and when the coffee was brought to the table, we were regaled with a reminder:
“Don’t forget to fill that out for me, ok?” the pen taps the surveys.
I sipped. It was getting late; the commute ahead for Tiffany made me for once thankful that it wasn’t me making that long trek to the other side of the Raritan, and I felt sorry and selfish for a moment. “You’ve gotta go!” I chugged. We began cramming in thoughts and ideas we’d wanted to cover but left out, and new ones that happened along the way as we started to maneuver to call it a night.
“Are you going to fill this out?” asked the anxious pen.
I am, of course, leaving out the two other “reminders” we were offered. I suppose there is some sort of penal code and system of reward and punishment these poor peeps reckon with in light of the surveys. No doubt it was plastered on the back of a door somewhere. By this point, though, I had already smuggled mine into my bag. Consumer contraband for a future survey snark!
“I don’t think so,” Tiffany politely responded. Subtly firm with a slightly scrunched up nose and side-turned head, yet assuredly polite, Tiffany is an ace at the call and response of the retail and service blues.
Having worked in retail most of her working life, she knows the ins and outs of all the dance moves. She’s a writer at heart but currently a Buyer by trade, and the Bartleby-esque apathy in which she described her work between those bites seemed a fitting discourse in our current hood:
“I spend my day with vendors; we have the data on what our clients want, and then yell at the vendors to re-configure the product to get what we want: to make sure that the features they want and need are only on the expensive, higher end models; It makes me sick. But I’m supposed to think this way. This is supposed to be normal; I mean, it’s not “normal” for me to think it isn’t, you know? Because that’s our job, right? It’s our business. I’m supposed to enjoy spending hours strategizing about squeezing every last and extra cent out of our clients. Because, hey! they’ll pay more for the gingham check fabric, don’t forget. Gingham check fabric! So I spend my days figuring out what we should buy from the vendors, and my nights writing and proofing catalog copy in order to sell it.”
Sans smirk, our server grabbed at the single survey remaining and then the part of her body I could see as she walked away wished us a good night. She was rushing toward the table adjacent to our own. It’s not easy to get all the protocol straight.
My neighbors at the adjacent table, apparently, can see a good “free appetizer” survey bribe for what it is: “Do you have a pen?” the woman with the hair scrunchie and the beautiful hands asks. “Oh, sure!” she replied and gestured with her trusty weapon.
Maybe they were the mysterious Pharma Reps referenced in the survey’s question #15. Yes. Question #15. When I scanned down to it, I just couldn't figure out if I was in a snarky post modern Twilight Zone recreation, or if it has really come down to a world of Question #15s. I'm afraid of the outcomes of this question I'm questioning. . .
#15: “Are you a pharmaceutical representative?”
Answer:
W . . . T . . . F?!
As we collect our things, I am distracted by a flash of light from the window behind our laminate altar and notice the birthday-celebrating family huddled close for one last shot before the sun set. There are hugs and smiles exchanged, and the boy breaks free from grandma’s grooming ritual and runs toward an eggplant colored (and shaped) mini-van. I watch each get in and then, remembering myself, turn away to get ready to leave as they drive off to their own neighborhood and settle in next to their own neighbors. For a moment, despite the décor, it seemed as if they were mine as well.
"Our Vision is becoming the world's favorite neighbor" -- from the Applebee's "Vision and Mission" Statement
I live in an apartment which is essentially the second floor of a large, old converted house where my neighbors’ lives are played out above and below me. As this is an old house, and we have but wooden floors between us, I sometimes hear the daily dramas enacted above those boards and behind those walls. There are four sets of lives living in this house. Four. But I’ve never once had a cup a tea or java in their kitchens. Not once. Only once did I actually sit a spell and get to know my upstairs neighbor. She had locked herself out and was waiting for our landlord's son who was heading over with a spare key. When she knocked on my door, she apologized and asked if she could just use my bathroom; she was honestly planning to wait on the steps in the hallway. Breaking the false boundary of the hallway threshold, I pulled her into the kitchen, placed her shopping bags on the counter, showed her where the bathroom was and proceeded to spend two hours talking, laughing and learning and discovering the life I’d only glimpsed in moments through brief seasonal-themed exchanges, kind hellos and hallway echo. She’d been my upstairs neighbor for well over four years, and this was our first kitchen table chat. Our first and thus far, only. I hope not the last.
I know the names and many of the standard life stories of my local deli clerks; I know the names of my favorite dry cleaner, grocery and wait staff, and they know mine. They know my “preferences” sans check-box. I know the names of many if not most of the folk who help me consume the things I like to consume, and somehow that makes my life a little more life-like, but for the life of me I can’t remember the names of the sweet and hard working couple on the first floor unless I remember to check their laminated tag on the mailbox. And I keep meaning to ask them up for a cup; I keep meaning to bake a thank you batch of muffins as he always takes out my garbage to the curb. I know I will; man, I sure do hope so. And this is not a merit-accruing attempt at “radical hospitality”. But I gotta admit, I like that concept. I like the notion of opening that door and listening to a life. I’m tired of the parking space lines we draw between us. I try to find ways to re-figure those borders, but I can't always figure it (or me) out. So, I try, but I fail at it often. I do. I still see "obstacle" if not a car instead a person driving a car on the GSP as I blindly speed my way toward the place I think I’m going . All of these folks, just like me and so not like me, going and vibing and try but who (or what) do I see? People? Not really. “Phantoms,” to borrow a phrase from Curtis White's latest. Phantoms.
But there are moments when I remember that it isn’t—despite what the tee shirts say—always and all about “me”. I’m not even sure what that means, anyway, and especially not as “I” have been rendered on pre-shrunk cotton and the false frame of survey check boxes. So the day my neighbor got stuck outside, I was in the middle of a "Holy Shit! Deadline!!!" writing frenzy and attempting to write a proposal for a project at work; when I heard that knock and the "Roseanne?" which followed it, I found myself automatically shifting into the “this is not a good time” gear. And when I debated whether to stay behind my half painted walls to finish my work or go out and reacquaint myself with an old friend, I also re-discovered (as I do on the daily) that oftentimes, most of the things we do (or really should do) really aren’t about us. Yet somehow, in the process, they really are quite becoming.
