Carelessly
It's not the very thought of you, nor Billie Holiday, that makes me forget to do those little ordinary things that everyone ought to do. We're all careless.
Not literally, that is, without any cares, but too frequently without care for anyone other than ourselves. Inattentive. Inconsiderate. Unmindful. Oblivious. Disregardful.
Selfish.
You know someone who you consider selfish, don't you? What you really mean is that he or she is more selfish than you. You disapprove of that person's level of selfishness, because it is greater than yours, which you consider appropriate and reasonable.
Maybe you think I'm selfish.
Maybe I am.
There's a No Frills store a couple of miles from my place, where I shop about once a month for no-name, non food necessities such as toothpaste, kleenex, and cleaning products. The savings on these sorts of items makes it worth the monthly excursion, but I don't do my food shopping there because it's just too depressing.
You see, to push a grocery buggy around the No Frills is an exercise in frustration.
When I shop at the No Frills I select only what will fit in a carry basket, and save for last the plastic jug of laundry detergent or cat litter to be carried in my free hand. It all fits in a cardboard box which I can lug without too much difficulty to my car, and up the stairs when I get home. I live in a building with more stairs than the CN Tower, so I've learned to be a highly efficient shopper.
The store is located in an old, middle class neighbourhood of Toronto, inhabited by elderly, middle class people who have lived in these beautiful, half-million dollar homes for fifty years. My bank is also in this part of town, and I've learned never to do my banking errands on the day the pension cheques arrive. These very sweet, very old, very slow ladies and gentlemen do all their shopping at my No Frills store.
If you've ever been in a No Frills store you know what it's like, and if you haven't, you can form an accurate image based on its name. There ain't no frills like, say, wide aisles or pleasing produce displays, and there sure ain't no bakery or deli section. It's Wonder Bread or nothing, and I'll take nothing, thanks.
Go ahead, call me a snob, but remember I started this story by telling you that I do shop there. And I recognize that there is a market for this store, and that it is a very different market segment from the typical Queen's Quay Loblaw's flagship store shopper. I shop at both those stores. I like to think I'm a trans-market anomaly. While I might duck quickly into the Loblaw's just to pick up a few things for dinner, I only go to the No Frills when I'm not in a hurry. If you hurry through that store you're likely to knock someone over. I even try to remember to stick my glasses in my purse before I go, in case a nice, grandfatherly gentleman asks me to tell him what the difference between the three types of canned salmon is.
Today wasn't my day to shop, but I did need to run a banking errand before the year ends, and so I drove out to Bloor West Village. We're having one of those unbelievably unseasonably warm days today — I actually saw someone wearing shorts — and it's melting the heaps of snow that fell for four days straight at Christmas. The roads are messy, the sidewalks muddy, and if you venture outdoors today wearing those suede boots you got for Christmas you're a lunatic.
My banking done, I'm driving down Windemere Avenue, toward the lake, going no more than 40 km/hr. The road is coated with an inch of water, with larger puddles filling in the depressions. I'm not in a hurry, so I'm able to register in my peripheral vision, as I pass him, an uncharacteristically violent gesture from the stooped, grey-haired man walking on the sidewalk carrying a bright yellow No Frills bag. I'm a hundred yards past him, now, when I realize I splashed him. In my rearview mirror I see him gesticulating in the direction of the apartment building across the street from where he's standing. "Did you see that? Did you see what that car did?" I can hear him swearing in my mind.
I stop. I wait for two cars to veer around me, noting that they both give the old man a wide berth as they pass him.
I back up.
I have no thought as to what I might say or do, but I can't just leave him there, thinking there goes another disrespectful young person, splashing old men willy nilly on the road, with never a thought for anyone but herself.
I'm struggling to shift into reverse, drive backwards, and lower the passenger window simultaneously. As I get closer, the old man leaves the sidewalk and walks toward the middle of the road. He's going to come up on my side of the car. I'm still fumbling with the damned window controls; I always forget that the last time my car was stolen, when my mechanic rebuilt and rewired the dash, he inadvertently switched the window controls so that the one you think rolls down the driver's window actually rolls down the passenger's.
Careless of him.
The old man and I meet, and we both stop. My window is down. He's glaring grumpily at me, the No Frills bag in his left hand is raised.
"Did I splash you?" I ask, stupidly, and don't wait for an answer, "I'm so sorry! Are you all right?"
He says nothing. He lowers the bag, and continues walking past, then in front of, my car. Back to the sidewalk.
I wonder whether he heard me, or whether, perhaps, he doesn't understand English. I am relieved to note that the front of his clothing doesn't appear to be wet, so if I splashed him, it wasn't of tsunamic proportions.
I shift back into first, and move tentatively forward, paying close attention to the depth of the water, and alert for deeper puddles. The passenger window is still down. I slow to a crawl as I pass the old man, and call to him, "I'm very sorry!" Then I roll up the windows and continue — very slowly &mdash on my way.
In the rearview mirror I see the old man raise the bag again in a gesture that no witness to this encounter would mistake for a wave, but that could, perhaps, be interpreted as a grumbling acceptance of my apology.
As a rule, I don't make New Year's resolutions, but this year I will:
In 2005, I will go about less carelessly.
* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass remembers her cat, Beaker, who parachuted off the thirteenth floor balcony. Without a parachute. In April, Sass is called upon to remember her resolution.
Not literally, that is, without any cares, but too frequently without care for anyone other than ourselves. Inattentive. Inconsiderate. Unmindful. Oblivious. Disregardful.
Selfish.
You know someone who you consider selfish, don't you? What you really mean is that he or she is more selfish than you. You disapprove of that person's level of selfishness, because it is greater than yours, which you consider appropriate and reasonable.
Maybe you think I'm selfish.
Maybe I am.
There's a No Frills store a couple of miles from my place, where I shop about once a month for no-name, non food necessities such as toothpaste, kleenex, and cleaning products. The savings on these sorts of items makes it worth the monthly excursion, but I don't do my food shopping there because it's just too depressing.
You see, to push a grocery buggy around the No Frills is an exercise in frustration.
When I shop at the No Frills I select only what will fit in a carry basket, and save for last the plastic jug of laundry detergent or cat litter to be carried in my free hand. It all fits in a cardboard box which I can lug without too much difficulty to my car, and up the stairs when I get home. I live in a building with more stairs than the CN Tower, so I've learned to be a highly efficient shopper.
The store is located in an old, middle class neighbourhood of Toronto, inhabited by elderly, middle class people who have lived in these beautiful, half-million dollar homes for fifty years. My bank is also in this part of town, and I've learned never to do my banking errands on the day the pension cheques arrive. These very sweet, very old, very slow ladies and gentlemen do all their shopping at my No Frills store.
If you've ever been in a No Frills store you know what it's like, and if you haven't, you can form an accurate image based on its name. There ain't no frills like, say, wide aisles or pleasing produce displays, and there sure ain't no bakery or deli section. It's Wonder Bread or nothing, and I'll take nothing, thanks.
Go ahead, call me a snob, but remember I started this story by telling you that I do shop there. And I recognize that there is a market for this store, and that it is a very different market segment from the typical Queen's Quay Loblaw's flagship store shopper. I shop at both those stores. I like to think I'm a trans-market anomaly. While I might duck quickly into the Loblaw's just to pick up a few things for dinner, I only go to the No Frills when I'm not in a hurry. If you hurry through that store you're likely to knock someone over. I even try to remember to stick my glasses in my purse before I go, in case a nice, grandfatherly gentleman asks me to tell him what the difference between the three types of canned salmon is.
Today wasn't my day to shop, but I did need to run a banking errand before the year ends, and so I drove out to Bloor West Village. We're having one of those unbelievably unseasonably warm days today — I actually saw someone wearing shorts — and it's melting the heaps of snow that fell for four days straight at Christmas. The roads are messy, the sidewalks muddy, and if you venture outdoors today wearing those suede boots you got for Christmas you're a lunatic.
My banking done, I'm driving down Windemere Avenue, toward the lake, going no more than 40 km/hr. The road is coated with an inch of water, with larger puddles filling in the depressions. I'm not in a hurry, so I'm able to register in my peripheral vision, as I pass him, an uncharacteristically violent gesture from the stooped, grey-haired man walking on the sidewalk carrying a bright yellow No Frills bag. I'm a hundred yards past him, now, when I realize I splashed him. In my rearview mirror I see him gesticulating in the direction of the apartment building across the street from where he's standing. "Did you see that? Did you see what that car did?" I can hear him swearing in my mind.
I stop. I wait for two cars to veer around me, noting that they both give the old man a wide berth as they pass him.
I back up.
I have no thought as to what I might say or do, but I can't just leave him there, thinking there goes another disrespectful young person, splashing old men willy nilly on the road, with never a thought for anyone but herself.
I'm struggling to shift into reverse, drive backwards, and lower the passenger window simultaneously. As I get closer, the old man leaves the sidewalk and walks toward the middle of the road. He's going to come up on my side of the car. I'm still fumbling with the damned window controls; I always forget that the last time my car was stolen, when my mechanic rebuilt and rewired the dash, he inadvertently switched the window controls so that the one you think rolls down the driver's window actually rolls down the passenger's.
Careless of him.
The old man and I meet, and we both stop. My window is down. He's glaring grumpily at me, the No Frills bag in his left hand is raised.
"Did I splash you?" I ask, stupidly, and don't wait for an answer, "I'm so sorry! Are you all right?"
He says nothing. He lowers the bag, and continues walking past, then in front of, my car. Back to the sidewalk.
I wonder whether he heard me, or whether, perhaps, he doesn't understand English. I am relieved to note that the front of his clothing doesn't appear to be wet, so if I splashed him, it wasn't of tsunamic proportions.
I shift back into first, and move tentatively forward, paying close attention to the depth of the water, and alert for deeper puddles. The passenger window is still down. I slow to a crawl as I pass the old man, and call to him, "I'm very sorry!" Then I roll up the windows and continue — very slowly &mdash on my way.
In the rearview mirror I see the old man raise the bag again in a gesture that no witness to this encounter would mistake for a wave, but that could, perhaps, be interpreted as a grumbling acceptance of my apology.
As a rule, I don't make New Year's resolutions, but this year I will:
In 2005, I will go about less carelessly.
In the next story, Postmodern Sass remembers her cat, Beaker, who parachuted off the thirteenth floor balcony. Without a parachute. In April, Sass is called upon to remember her resolution.
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