I’m fixing to turn 47, which
sounds pretty old to me. But I’ve only been
breathing really well since my wife and I moved
to a town where, paradoxically, everybody knows
everybody else’s business. It’s
downright refreshing to be one of the less
interesting items on the gossip menu for once!
Of course, our neighbors do know we’re a
bit strange. For one thing, we name everything
in sight: the car, the truck, our stomachs, the
microwave – just about everything.
Sometimes we forget to turn it off when other
folks are around! Also, we have fur-covered
children, not the human kind — and nearly
everyone in this town considers having kids to
be mandatory for acceptance into the human race!
(We don’t tell them that I can’t and
that my wife, 8 years older than me, is way past
the age.)
But all of our peculiarities pale compared to
those of the man who has been calling himself
“Santa” so long that no one remembers
his first name. He has red shirts only,
different weights for each season. The weekly
paper will mention “Santa and Mrs. Santa
Norvill . . . .”
The first time I passed Santa plowing a field
in March, I just about drove into the ditch! He
has a flowing white beard and hair, and that
day, like most, he had on a red work shirt
rolled up to the elbows and denim overalls.
In December, Santa covers the population sign
with one reading, “Merry Christmas,
TX!”
The only grocery store is owned and run by a
well known, one-armed embezzler, who can sack
your groceries or cut your beef faster than any
two-armed sacker or butcher you’ve seen
— and he’ll make sure you stay and
watch, too.
The man across the street from us lost one
leg and all his crotch parts (ouch! Hits too
close!) 49 years ago in Korea. He’s married
to an enormously fat nurse with a foghorn voice,
who can be heard from inside his house and our
house yelling at him or the dog.
Next door, one child is nuts and her
35-yr-old mom has had a heart attack, a stroke,
and now has lupus.
See what I mean? The folks down at the
grocery don’t have time to get around to
boring ol’ me — they didn’t even
spend five minutes on a neighbor’s news
that I have bipolar disorder! Big deal.
What interested them far more was when
Marsha’s black-and-white cat was gonna
domino. “It could be any minute now, and it
better not be under my pickup!” I feel my
lungs starting to expand little by little, day
by day.
Nobody looks at me as if I look odd; in fact,
no one notices me at all unless they want to hit
me up for a band-candy sale. People just say
“Howdy” as they pass, just as they do
to everyone else. But best of all . . .
Everyone, from smallest child to the bank
president, caresses my battered ears daily with
those lovely words “he,”
“him,” “his,”
“man,” “guy,”
“fellow,” “Mr.,”
“husband,” and all those other
masculine references. No more correcting
confused or hateful, spiteful people. No more
wondering whether I look “normal”
enough, or avoiding all mirrors or panicking
lest I be caught by someone’s roving
camera.
Here, in this gossipy little town, I’m
really small potatoes. The old-timers consider
guys like me a dime a dozen. (Wow! What a great
feeling!)
I can let my gut hang out if I feel like it,
slouch as much as I want, wait too long between
haircuts, and do all sorts of other dreadfully
“unladylike” things any time I prefer!
Nobody notices, much less cares! This is what I
call “freedom to be me.”
I never realized how splendid
“blah-ness” could be till we moved
here. I reckon we’re staying awhile; my
wife likes all the closets and I like the shed
out back. I’d better go so we can get those
papers signed.
