I live in a small town, but the cabin on the beach that I share with my brothers a couple hours north across the Mackinaw Bridge is in a much smaller village. The whole of the business district is confined to a single street consisting of a gas station, a bait and tackle shop, an antique store, a weed store, a dive bar, a pizzeria, another dive bar, an ancient grocery/liquor store, and a dollar general. And some churches.
I had always found the locals hostile and intimidating, but as I’ve aged I’ve made efforts at getting to know folks there. There is something about them I find preferable to the folks in my own town. Village rednecks in these remote corners of the world can have awful attitudes and worldviews, but they don’t spend any time in the mirror. There’s no performance of image, no social persona vs real persona. People in these tiny towns know one another on a level that people in cities often reserve for family. So there’s no way to hide, no way to fake who you are. Your reputation is known, and guarding it becomes important.
It’s hard to make friends. In general, and especially up there as an outsider. I am an outsider everywhere I go, however, so I can relax into my role with rehearsed calm. I have a few rules: don’t talk too much, don’t look right at people unless speaking to them, and don’t flinch if I get surrounded or heckled. And always tip generously, in cash.
There was a guy I was almost friends with, who worked as a cook at another bar, even more remote than town- but he split before I could get his number. Ed. His sister in law still works there, and I ask about him anytime I’m in. He does something that involves driving a truck now, but I miss him in the kitchen. Like me, he was unable to do anything but his absolute best in all things, and his food was top notch no matter what it was. I caught him changing a customers tire in the parking lot one morning just because nobody else volunteered to do it. He had a hard scary edge to him, though. We just looked at each other for years before we spoke. And it was him that spoke first, asking me where my car was once- and mentioning something about my boat, letting me know he’s noticed me- what I ride in on. After that we’d chat during the afternoon lull when I’d come in, and he’d be sitting at the bar watching an old western on daytime TV, the sun kind of coming in high and straight to the floor through the windows.
Nick, a the son of Frankie who was good friends with my Dad (both dead), I wanted to be friends with as well, but we haven’t been forced into some kind of male ritual sufficient enough to generate that bond. Men need a little more than just conversation I fear. Not a complaint, but a small reality. One day I hope we get an opportunity. I almost installed a radiator for his insane wood boiler that he runs out of his father’s old workshop that has underground pipes that heat the house across the yard as well, but I couldn’t get my act together enough to execute a winter job that far away from home base.
I think the one legitimate friend I have in town is the couple that runs the bar full of 1 star yelp reviews about how mean the owner is. She was solo for a long time, but recently took a new beau and work helper- a super guy, large, teddy-bear, nice fellow. She’s only mean if she doesn’t like you, and she doesn’t like anyone- especially tourists from out of town, and most of the people in town while we are at it.
“She likes you, she’d do it for you I know for a fact” the cook told me when I mentioned that I wanted my meal made a certain way that wasn’t on the menu (remember, this lady is the soup nazi of the area- you eat what you get and you like it, or you leave). “She’ll do anything for people she likes. Notice the one day you came in when we were slammed and your breakfast came right out? She heard you were here and bumped yours in front of everyone else.”
I am finally a regular somewhere.
cue the Cheers theme
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