Fun Curly Haired Teacher Guy

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

I’m sitting in my Church Street apartment in Burlington, contemplating the end of another summer while the afternoon sun paints my maroon living room walls with the golden colors of its slow, yet far-too-quick descent to the other side of the horizon, where it will rest while pondering tomorrow’s fate. As I try to recall all of the activities of this past summer (read: all the reasons why I’ve slacked off on my blog), I’m reminded of the “What I Did on My Summer Vacation” papers that Loser Cruiser passenger Fun Curly Haired Teacher Guy was busy grading on the ride home from work last fall. When I was growing up, I used to dread writing that paper as much as I loved it. I dreaded it because it was my first homework assignment of many; I loved it because I got to talk about me. In that sense, and serving as a perfect closure to the introduction of this long-overdue entry, all I can say is that some things never change.

It’s only fitting to mention that infamous elementary school assignment when you consider that summer is the season when most of us are finally able to reacquaint ourselves with our inner child (mine was hiding out in my Inhibitions and Social Anxiety Closet). With the fine exception of Mama Benchly who, for various reasons, prides herself on being unremittingly in touch with her inner child, most of the rest of us adults corrupted by society’s cynicism and realism are only truly able to interact with this exuberant, whimsical, passionate, and youthful spirit when summer is in season.

It seems that only when the summer sun has come out to play for a few months do we see grown and overgrown men shrug off their aching muscles to return to a baseball diamond, and mothers fiercely compete against their adult offspring at any of those barbecue/picnic-friendly games (croquet, badminton, bocce, etc.), and grandfathers challenge their grandsons in cut-throat amusement park video game rides, and 30-year-old women plead like Nieces #1–3 to set off “just one more” firecracker, and 20-something friends return to the playground to have a go at the swings after throwing frisbees around all day, and a young couple see just how fast they can travel together on a jet ski.

Needless to say, I’ve had a really rewarding summer this year, and the summer began, as many successful summers often do, with a great new romance. After describing the last few months as rewarding, it was no surprise for me to realize that my courtship with Freckles began to take shape about the same time the official first day of summer came to pass. And while I’m thankful for Freckles for a number of reasons that I won’t delve into in this entry, I must acknowledge how incredibly grateful I am for having her in my life because if it were not for her, I wouldn’t have experienced half of what I did this summer.

The summer began with not one, but two summer beer-drinking softball leagues on Bad News Bears teams that threatened to break the long-standing record 6% winning percentage set by the Giants, my Little League baseball team. We couldn’t hit, we couldn’t field, we didn’t know where to throw the ball, or when not to throw it, and at the end of each game, the official boxscore resembled the betting odds for a Kentucky Derby long shot. But like most men given the opportunity to play the game they love, we had fun. With beer.

Thanks to Freckles and her unbelievably generous family, I was fortunate to spend a few summer afternoons and evenings at a camp on Lake Champlain where the aforementioned croquet and jet skiing took place. And as a too-good-to-be-true encore, I was also given the opportunity to accompany Freckles to her cousin’s Florida wedding in August. The only question that remains is how to properly thank people who, without hesitation or second-thought, gave so freely and so much? Needless to say, I’m still working on that one.

The rest of the summer was filled to the brim with disc golf with Montana Girl, The Virgin Mary’s birthday party celebration campout on a lake, canoeing, hiking with friends, time spent with the nieces, and all the other activities that make you feel young again, even if your 28-year-old body has a different opinion.

And then, just as I started to believe that I had recaptured the innocence I lost far too long ago, I was reminded that I can never go back to the world I once knew because as the summer sun began to set on this great season once again, I was assaulted with the kind of news only the sheltered Nieces #1–3 could have possibly overlooked: my company laid off nearly one-fifth of its workforce so that it could “continue to stay competitive”; Hurricane Katrina destroyed the way of life for hundreds of thousands of people; and gas prices soared to levels only Europeans ever thought were possible. And while I found some solace in one of the most powerful images of my short life (a seemingly infinite line of my fellow citizens ready to donate food and supplies to the hurricane victims), I can’t shake the reality that my childhood has left me, and in its place now stands an unforgiving and stressful world of pain and sorrow.

A. Bartlett Giamatti once wrote that baseball was a game designed to break you heart; that “you count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive and then, just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.” And now, as I prepare to face the chill rains of fall in this terrible, wonderful world, I think the same can be said for summer.

Mr. Benchly Rides to Work, Parts 1-4

Mr. Benchly Rides to Work, Part 2.

As I was seated today near the back of the Loser Cruiser bus to Montpelier, a sudden and saddening thought crossed my mind: I’m one of the last remaining Loser Cruiser regulars from the Fall.

Al Bundy – moved to St. Albans and plans to use the St. Albans to Burlington Loser Cruiser. I know this because he told Sarah the L on one of the days I left her alone on the bus to fend for herself.
Cute Rainbow Belt Lesbian Biker Girl – no longer rides for whatever reason; maybe because she can’t ride her bike in the snow?
Helen – hasn’t been seen since mid-November. I’m worried about her. They say the suicide rates increase during the holiday season and let’s face it, she never seemed stable.
Duck Girl – I know Sarah the L will contest this statement, but I don’t think she ever existed in the first place.
Make Out Woman – I’m guessing she married her make out partner and has been on a prolonged honeymoon.
Siskel and Ebert – Though they never sat together, they used to ride every day. Now I’m lucky if I see Siskel once a week.
Stonecutter’s Way Girl (we used to exit the bus and walk down this road together) – Missing since before Christmas.
Sarah the L – Now works near Burlington and no longer needs to use the bus. There are no words.

And last, but certainly not least:

Cute Washington Plates Girl – For a few days, I thought she and Cute Red Hat Girl were the same person, but when CRHG removed her cute red hat the other day, I realized they were different and that I hadn’t seen CWPG in many months.

For those of you keeping score, that leaves the following regulars:

– Fun Curly Haired Teacher Guy; Mustache Man; Road Rage Man; National Life Guy

Although I’m somewhat comforted by the fact that there are new regulars sharing the ride with me (the aforementioned Cute Red Hat Girl [self-explanatory]; She Totally Wants Me [because she obviously does!]; Scrabble Girl [because she plays computer Scrabble but never asks me if I want to play!]; Soon-to-be Mid-Life Crisis Girl [you can just see it coming]), I miss the old regulars. Maybe one day we’ll have a reunion.

Mr. Benchly Rides to Work, Part 3.

After exiting the Loser Cruiser and transferring to the city route that takes me within a block of work, I sat next to Redheaded Bearded Flannel Guy, and across from a blonde haired woman in her late 30s. Halfway through our trip, RBFG started talking to himself. He said things and then laughed to himself. Then he looked around the bus smiling to see if anyone else got the joke. I didn’t laugh though because I didn’t hear the joke. As someone who often tells jokes, I know that I prefer people to laugh only if they hear the joke clearly, understand the joke, and think it’s funny.

Soon enough, RBFG began talking in my direction. What followed was this semi-awkward conversation:

RBFG (pointing at Late 30s Woman) – “She looks like my friend Rhonda. Rhonda’s sister is Peggy.”
Me (first smiling at RBFG and then looking in the direction of Late 30s to give her the “I’m sorry, I really am” look) – “Oh.”
RBFG (now addressing Late 30s) – You look like my friend Rhonda. Her sister’s name is Peggy.”
Late 30s – “Oh. Thank you.”

I mean, seriously, how do you respond to a statement like that? Both Late 30s and I were teased with the silence that followed before RBFG finally spoke up again to compliment Late 30s on her hairstyle: the always-difficult-to-master ponytail. After another “thank you,” Late 30s pushed the Stop Requested tape, quickly exited the bus, and ran away. I imagine I’ll never see her on the bus again.

Mr. Benchly Rides to Work, Part 1.

With only music and my thoughts to keep me company on the ride into work this morning, my mind drifted back to a San Francisco trip I took last year and specifically, an early-morning walk on the Pacific Ocean beach that inspired me to write a page of thoughts. What I ended up writing doesn’t exactly convey what I wanted to say but nevertheless, I couldn’t throw it away and here I am offering it up to you:

“I’m sitting on the beach among a genocidal grave of sea creatures desperately in need of the ocean’s breath, which becomes faint as the tide calls its water home. Fruit flies pick at the dead like ungrateful grandchildren at a wake, begging for their morning inheritance. The ocean, having shed part of itself in its daily ceremony, recedes in a parade of olive green topped with white curls to live a day of blue. This is the ocean’s life. Each day, it is buried, mourned, killed, and reborn again. There are no surprises. There are no lies. Or betrayals. There is no guilt and there is no shame. There is only life and death told in a cycle as true as the ocean needing the moon. One day, I will die, be mourned, buried and born again but until then and even then, I will be as impure as an ocean without tides in a life of unexpected love and unforgiving heartache in a world without the ocean’s cleansing touch.” © 2005 Mr. Benchly

Mr. Benchly Rides to Work, Part 4.
An embarrassing side note: the other night, on the way home from work, I fell asleep on the bus and nearly missed my stop so yes, that’s right, folks, I am officially a Loser Cruiser Snoozer.

Beeps and Jeeps and General Creeps

This past June, on a semi-hot, terribly muggy, infamously miserable Thursday, I climbed into the driver’s seat of my beloved vehicle of 4 years, Inga Beep the Jeep, and proceeded to drive her to an early grave. For the metaphorically challenged out there, that’s my way of saying I overheated her to the point where smoke came out of her, fluids sprayed all over her, and she stunk up the whole neighborhood. The friendly mechanic and his trusty sidekick were able to bring her back to life but you could tell right away: she wasn’t the same. Part of her died that day. Maybe it was my betrayal of her trust. Maybe it was her Jeepish pride. We’ll never know. Regardless…

To prolong her now painful life, I decided to take advantage of Vermont’s public transportation system and ride the Loser Cruiser bus as much as possible. Burlington to Barre and back for $6. Considering the round trip covers 100 miles total, that’s a hell of a deal.

Riding the bus most mornings has introduced me (and fellow passenger Sarah the L) to an incredibly eclectic universe of environmentally-aware, politically-conscientious, and down-on-their-luck individuals. There are the regulars:

– Al Bundy (picture the Married With Children patriarch, and you’re picturing this passenger).
– Cute Rainbow Belt Lesbian Biker Girl (self explanatory)
– Road Rage Man (the guy who went postal on me on Interstate 89)
– Helen (If only because she reminds me of the grandmotherly woman who taught one of my college courses [she’s the one with the mic])

– Mustache Man (again, self explanatory)
– Duck Girl (Sarah the L will have to elaborate on this one because I wasn’t there when the “Duck Conversation” happened)
– Make Out Woman (so named because she was seen making out with her [presumably new] boyfriend while waiting for the bus to arrive

And the not so regulars:
– Cute Washington Plates Girl (cause she drives a car with Washington plates)
– Fun Curly Haired Teacher Guy (often seen grading the homework of his elementary school students. Recent assignment, I kid you not: What I Did on My Summer Vacation)

I can only imagine what the regulars call Sarah the L and I. “Gay Girl and Gay Boy”? “Rockstar and her Handsome Friend”?

Anyway, today, on the ride into work, Al Bundy was his usual self and what we polite folk politely call “ANNOYING AS ALL HELL!!!” He talks to you when you’re trying to read; he talks to you when you have headphones on; he talks to you when you pretend you’re talking on your cell phone; he talks to you when you walk away from him; he talks to you when you’re talking to someone else.

As most of you can attest, I don’t do well when strangers talk to me. I can think of a hundred different uncomfortable situations I could be in every day, and having to talk to strangers always tops the list. So essentially, Al Bundy is like the kryptonite to my Superman Commuter World. I can have a great ride into work if I can just get by him. But like Superman, I know I can’t attack him straight on so my sneaky defense lately has been to hide in the back of the bus with my headphones on, my head planted in a book, and my cell phone attached to my ear.

But today, without headphones, and with my book making me carsick, the kryptonite of Al Bundy got to me. He sat in the front seat and talked so loudly I could hear him all the way in the back. Because of all the negativity I associate with him, I pretty much now equate his voice to the moan of a dying mule muffled by styrofoam being rubbed against a chalkboard. Trapped in the back of the bus, I tried to escape but my Superman Commuter World powers were no match for his kryptonic voice. I was defeated. The bus ride ended and I dragged myself down the steps to the sidewalk below as Al Bundy said, “have a nice day.”