I drive my car pretty much everywhere I go. This is because
I don’t live in China. I live in AMERICA, where the only thing we’re killing
faster than our own will to live is the ozone.
I have a 2005 Honda Pilot with about a gazillion miles on it
and whose horsepower best compares to a rickshaw pulled by a dozen doped-up squirrels.
Of course, you don’t own an SUV for its gas efficiency; you own it for the amount
of people/junk you can cram into it. Since my average weekday takes me from my
home to my office to (sometimes) the gym to (occasionally) the grocery store to
my home once more, I usually don’t cart around other human beings, so the extra
seven seats plus trunk space are primarily dedicated to junk food, cases of
bottled water, throw blankets, footballs, basketballs, orange cones, scattered
glow sticks, hand-me-down tweed jackets my uncle gave me three weeks ago,
campfire skewers from a camping trip I took in May, a bottle of mouthwash, golf clubs, bags of garbage, 25 pounds
of raw ground beef, the entire collection of “Sanford and Son” DVDs, about
seven or eight raccoons, and Jimmy Hoffa.
I took a trip to Ohio/Western Pennsylvania this weekend and,
knowing that driving the Pilot the entire distance would not only accelerate its inevitable
demise but also singlehandedly cause the Keystone Pipeline debate to reopen, I
chose to rent a smaller, more fuel-friendly mode of transportation, and was
thus assigned a Toyota Yaris by the God of Car Rental, Hertz.
As I returned on Sunday night after putting the Yaris
through an absolute beating, I thought about a column of Bill Bryson’s I read
recently. Bryson’s been a recent discovery of mine…and by that, I mean my esteemed co-blogger and my brother have been telling me about how awesome he
is. Bryson spent one of his columns in the late 90’s lamenting how residents of
his town would drive to stores mere feet apart from each other, rather than getting out of their two-ton metal contraptions and burning a couple calories.
Bryson’s affinity for the simplicity of small-town living
hit me in the right spot, even if Newark, DE bears few similarities to Bryson’s
town of Hanover, NH (though I have it on good authority Newark also has a grocery store and at least
handful of trees)
So when I returned my rental car to the Hertz about a mile
and a half from my house, knowing I had an errand or two that needed attending
to, I decided I’d take the scenic route home and get to know Newark on the
strength of my tattered sneakers.
The first thing you notice about doing your errands by foot
is that you have to do them by foot. Like, walking. The whole time. I’m going to sneak in some boasting
here: on Saturday, I completed Tough Mudder in Belmont, OH with my brother and
my friend Reezo, and I’ve been virtually incapable of basic motor functions
since. My first few steps were not-so-gentle reminders of the gauntlet I’d run
about 48 hours prior. You fool. What are
you doing? This is nonsense. Just walk home, sit in your nice, cozy,
air-conditioned monstrosity of an automobile and bang out your errands in about
20 minutes. Heck, why even walk home? They have cabs here in town. Hey, that guy
with the big white van sitting outside the Toys R Us looks like he’s got plenty
of room in his ride and nothing to do. You’ve got options.
Yet, I continued.
I needed a haircut, a new pair of running shoes, a bunch of bananas, and
an excuse to not sit around my house watching ESPN all Monday morning and
afternoon.
On the way to my haircut, I found a row of about four or
five eye doctors on Main Street, the major street running through the
University of Delaware’s campus, more known for brick-exterior bars and takeout food than
anything considered remotely adult (though if beer and pizza aren't “adult,” I
definitely don’t want to be one). About two months ago, I’d tried to set up
appointments with a primary care physician, a dentist and an optometrist for
the first time since moving to Delaware, with no luck. I’d gotten some curt
receptionist every time I called one, who very quickly advised me that no, they were not, in
fact, accepting new patients at this time, so could you please get off my phone
because this episode of Basketball Wives I’ve got cued up on my computer isn’t
going to watch itself.
I entered the second one I saw, strolled to the front desk,
and asked the woman at the desk if the office were taking new patients, to
which she surprisingly answered, “Yes. When would you like an appointment?”
We exchanged information, by which I mean I told
her my name, address, date of birth, social security number, insurance
provider, favorite color, worst fear, fondest memory of my childhood,
expectations for the upcoming episode of “Breaking Bad,” and number of times
I’ve woken up in the middle of the night with a charley horse in my right calf,
and in turn, she let me know how much my co-pay would be.
I handed her my insurance
card, and before she even had a chance to see the information on the front of
the card, she asked whether I worked for Bank of America or Capital One. (This
was after I had to convince her I was not, in fact, currently attending the
University of Delaware, even though I had time in my life to show up at an eye doctor’s
office at 10:30 AM on a Monday) There are hundreds, thousands of employment
opportunities in the Newark area, but thanks to Delaware’s relaxed big business
laws, the only ones of consequence are with credit card companies. I felt
momentarily insulted that this woman, a complete stranger not two minutes ago,
felt confident enough to pigeonhole me. Then, that moment passed, and I
sheepishly informed her I worked for Bank of America.
After scheduling my appointment, I
continued down Main Street and across four lanes of Capitol Trail traffic to
College Square, a shopping center with vast parking lots and little else. Among its relatively few shops was a Hair Cuttery, though, so I walked in, chatted with the barber Catherine
about our thoughts on Newark, beaches, and reality television, and went on my merry way.
This put a thought in my head: Catherine hadn’t done any sort of styling to my
hair, just washed it and hacked it off. Yet I felt compelled to call her a
“hairdresser” or a “hair stylist” simply because it was Catherine and not, say,
Carl, doing the work. I looked it up later and learned a “barber” is one who cuts
men’s hair, but is gender neutral with regard to the person doing the actual
cutting. It still feels weird to me for some reason, though, the same way I’d
feel like calling a male a “hair dresser” was wrong even if they were cutting
women’s hair. I’ve decided I will avoid this problem in the future by cutting
my own hair off with a hatchet.
After doing a little more exploring (there’s an emergency
pet hospital just two miles from my house, which will be very convenient if I
ever acquire a pet), I got lunch at Jake’s Wayback Burgers, a local chain with the
best hamburgers and milkshakes in the area, reading the Delaware County Times
in the process and noting how the paper’s baseball writer was quite fond of
stating that a player had “but four home runs this season” or had played in
“but ten games” since the All-Star break.
Next door was D&S Music, a guitar repair shop that also
sold second-hand guitars, picks, straps, and songbooks. I walked in wearing my
Philadelphia Flyers T-shirt and, using a Visa credit card (only after finding
my American Express card wasn’t accepted at this particular establishment),
purchased a set of picks and a Dream Theater guitar songbook from a middle-aged
man also wearing a Flyers T-shirt, in what I believe will go down in history as
the whitest transaction in American commerce.
On my way back to Main Street, I came across the Newark Free
Public Library, hidden in the shade of a row of trees. I already knew about the library, but hadn’t graced it with my
presence in a few weeks, so I spent 30 minutes reading “Plato in 90 Minutes,”
then checked it out, along with another book on religion and three CDs.
I stumbled across an actual barbershop, peppermint color
scheme and all, on my way back down Main Street, which will throw a wrench into
my aforementioned “hatchet to the head” method of cutting my hair. Just a few
shops down was Bing’s Bakery, a classic bakery with enough frosted goodness
to wreck even the most steadfast of health nuts, a class of folk which I am proud not to
consider myself one of. If you’ve never been to a bakery outside of the paltry
five-by-ten area of your local Acme with no more than a basket of Italian bread
and a closet of stale donuts on display, you are cheating yourself out of some
truly decadent desserts. I limited myself to a small cannoli (the cashier’s
recommendation) and a chocolate cake-like French pastry square laced with
raspberry sauce.
I was now wandering around Newark with three books, three CDs
and two desserts, which means I was probably being followed by the police the
rest of the day. At the very least, I got several confused and worried looks from the college students who weren't preoccupied with finding out whether they were even headed in the right direction to reach their new classes or dorms.
Next, I crossed the street to a natural/organic foods store,
where I bought my bananas, a bag of lima beans and a box of “Puffin Cinnamon
Cereal.” You may recognize this cereal as the only one at your local grocery
store with a puffin on it, a box usually surrounded by several other cereal boxes with
much happier-looking, sugar-crazed animals on the front. I tried the organic
cinnamon cereal later, and concluded the main difference between Puffin
cinnamon cereal and say, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, is that CTC is made with
“cinnamon,” while Puffin’s cereal is made with HOLY SHIT CINNAMON YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW MAN.
I asked the cashier, an older, white-bearded gentleman, for an
extra bag for my books and such, which he gladly obliged. I’m convinced this
was because he was wearing the type of straw hat you’d see Harold Hill wear in
“The Music Man,” which seems to automatically make its wearer 15 percent
friendlier. (Is there a name for this hat? I can’t figure it out) As I
loaded my books in a bag, he noticed one of my library books, How to Be Secular: A Call to Arms for Religious Freedom.
“Good subject,” he said, gesturing towards the book.
I looked down and saw which one he was referring to. “Yeah,
it looks interesting,” I replied. “It’s about how religious and non-religious
people need work together to protect freedom of belief and live more peacefully.”
“Imagine if you had that in the Middle East, if it weren’t
dictated by dogma and extremism.”
I nodded. “It’d be a whole different ballgame. Well hey, if
it’s any good, I’ll come back and let you know.”
“Good deal.” He then discounted me about 15 cents on my
bananas because they looked “like they’re at the end of their shelf life.” I
will sing the praises of Internet shopping all day and night, but I haven’t had
any quick talks on faith and current events or received any discounts on my
items for no apparent reason from Amazon.com. That’s as good an argument to
support small business as anything.
My checklist was almost complete: I’d gotten everything I’d
needed and more, save for the sneakers (I’d “cheated” on my small-town
afternoon and used my iPhone to determine the nearest sneaker store was seven
miles away, something my calves weren’t feeling at the time). I was ready to
return home until I spotted a sign for “Captain Blue Hen’s Comics.” The Blue Hen, for the uninitiated, is the mascot of U.Del’s various athletics teams, but
more importantly: there’s a real-life, old-school comic store in Newark? I had
to see this.
I’m no comic book junkie by any means, so I figured I’d just
see a few of the classics and novelty items and be on my WAIT A MINUTE IS THAT THE SONIC
THE HEDGEHOG-MEGA MAN CROSSOVER SERIES I NEED IT.
Sadly, they only had a few issues of the 13-issue mini-series available (more would be coming in a couple weeks, the manager told
me), so I simply bought issue one, along with a comic called “Key of Z,” written
by Coheed and Cambria frontman Claudio Sanchez. The store manager gave me the
prequel issue of the Sonic-Mega Man series for free as a gift, and with that, I
was walking home with the most eclectic collection of trinkets, books and
snacks this side of the Schuylkill River. (If only the farmer’s market were
around that day, I probably would’ve brought a whole raw chicken home with me,
too)
As I walked back home, past the beat-up town homes now occupied with college students and the small church and parish daycare that gave Chapel Street its name, I reflected on my day. I was an economics major in college. I know the benefits of big businesses like Wal-Mart, and the advantages that impersonal online shopping
present for consumers like me. I love getting groceries delivered to my door,
because I’m lazy as hell. The rational part of my brain knows this is all, for
the most part, good.
The other half of my brain that spends $5 on cannolis and
pastries, though, felt gratified to spend a day in the fresh air and sunny, 75-degree summer weather, seeing the
sights of my small town, stumbling upon its secrets (like a segment of the United
Church of Christ hidden in a run-down concrete building that’s certainly seen
its share of back-alley drug deals, a kung fu school, a sign for the Newark chapter
of the Rotary Club – more on that at another date), and actually talking to the folks selling me their
wares. I’ve never really understood the appeal of being a “regular” at a bar,
store or otherwise, but you know what? Maybe I would like to go back to that organic grocery store and talk to
that cashier about my religion book. Maybe I’ll go to a barbershop and not just take whoever the next person
is.
In the meantime, I’ve got a half-melted French pastry to
take care of. And I’m doing it with two hands all over its sloppy exterior,
because I’m an adult.
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