Camouflage
3/16/06
I order my Fumi Salad from the new man behind teh counter and notice his clear white skin and dark eyes. He looks Polish or Russian or Estonian with short dark hair a wide face, high cheekbones and a slightly Asiatic nose. I smile as I request my usual pound and he scowls as if he doesn't quite understand and he walks away to get the containter. I notice that under his white chef's coat he's wearing huge camouflage pants, outsize protectors of what I imagine to be strong, muscular soccer legs. He takes his task very seriously and I wonder if he's new to this type of work. I place him as a Rumanian med student newly immigrated or a dancer just defected; can't tell from his voice if he has an accent and his body language is saying "not interested in talking, lady," so I turn away and mull over the Irish Soda Bread which looks really good today. Heavy with its oats and raisins and carraway seeds I almost get some but then remember I'm the only one who will eat it, the rest will spoil so I put back the loaf. Maybe I'll bake some on this rainy sunday.
Mystery man completes his task with the utmost serious demeanor and now I think perhaps he's a chemist, teh way he weighs the container and seals it with precision. I smile and request the Ginger Beets and he again turns back with an exasperated look and I"m convinced he's probably the dis-owned heir to a goat farm in Hungary, had ran away with an American tourist who dumped him when they arrived state side. But no, I see through his plastic glove a wedding ring, so perhaps he's blissfully married, just tired at teh end of a long day, waiting to get home to his PhD. thesis on 17th century Italian Slang. I turn now to the fresh bread and grab my Seeduction loaf, knowing I'm the only one who will eat this too, but at least I'll finish it, sopping up the juices of tonights dinner, whatever that will be. I return to the counter and am surprised to see him now looking straight into my eyes as if just noticing me. I thank him and he looks at my left hand as he smiles a beautiful white toothed welcome. "So how has your day been?" he asks as he notices my wedding ring. "Not bad and yours?" He has no accent and his face has completely changed from the cold cipher to a man now trying to make contact for whatever reason. I smile as he responds, "Good, thanks." I take my beets, "take care," I say and walk off, marveling at how well we can hide ourselves in broad daylight, under difused fluoresence or close-up in candle light. What prompts us to shed the camouflage, to come out of hiding, share a moment? What makes us cover up in the first place?
I order my Fumi Salad from the new man behind teh counter and notice his clear white skin and dark eyes. He looks Polish or Russian or Estonian with short dark hair a wide face, high cheekbones and a slightly Asiatic nose. I smile as I request my usual pound and he scowls as if he doesn't quite understand and he walks away to get the containter. I notice that under his white chef's coat he's wearing huge camouflage pants, outsize protectors of what I imagine to be strong, muscular soccer legs. He takes his task very seriously and I wonder if he's new to this type of work. I place him as a Rumanian med student newly immigrated or a dancer just defected; can't tell from his voice if he has an accent and his body language is saying "not interested in talking, lady," so I turn away and mull over the Irish Soda Bread which looks really good today. Heavy with its oats and raisins and carraway seeds I almost get some but then remember I'm the only one who will eat it, the rest will spoil so I put back the loaf. Maybe I'll bake some on this rainy sunday.
Mystery man completes his task with the utmost serious demeanor and now I think perhaps he's a chemist, teh way he weighs the container and seals it with precision. I smile and request the Ginger Beets and he again turns back with an exasperated look and I"m convinced he's probably the dis-owned heir to a goat farm in Hungary, had ran away with an American tourist who dumped him when they arrived state side. But no, I see through his plastic glove a wedding ring, so perhaps he's blissfully married, just tired at teh end of a long day, waiting to get home to his PhD. thesis on 17th century Italian Slang. I turn now to the fresh bread and grab my Seeduction loaf, knowing I'm the only one who will eat this too, but at least I'll finish it, sopping up the juices of tonights dinner, whatever that will be. I return to the counter and am surprised to see him now looking straight into my eyes as if just noticing me. I thank him and he looks at my left hand as he smiles a beautiful white toothed welcome. "So how has your day been?" he asks as he notices my wedding ring. "Not bad and yours?" He has no accent and his face has completely changed from the cold cipher to a man now trying to make contact for whatever reason. I smile as he responds, "Good, thanks." I take my beets, "take care," I say and walk off, marveling at how well we can hide ourselves in broad daylight, under difused fluoresence or close-up in candle light. What prompts us to shed the camouflage, to come out of hiding, share a moment? What makes us cover up in the first place?
posted by Barbery at 9:26 PM
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