Derelicte

Jaime and I went for one of our long neighborhood walks yesterday. Our turnaround point is the Salvation Army, and we wandered in because one of us had remembered his wallet for once.

When we moved to Kansas City, Jaime and I decided to continue our habit of buying almost exclusively second hand clothes. It was easier in Barcelona. I'd moved there with one checked bag but quickly pieced together a wardrobe perfectly suited to the absurd and unsustainable life I created there.

My most treasured items came from a suitcase left by a mystery woman in my apartment, the flea markets held along the beach in summer and in the train station in winter, the street and the "B" piles my friends moving to other countries couldn't cram into their bags.

Jaime operated the same way. We looked fucking amazing and cool as shit almost all of the time.

But somehow our lewks don't translate well to the Midwest.

People squint incredulously when Jaime or I explain what he does for a living. They never say what they thought he did based on his appearance, but I imagine it's something to do with wood or raising hippogriffs hither-hind Hogwarts.

I do get a fair amount of compliments, but they're almost always superseded with a version of, "but I could never pull it off." I stop myself from asking if that means I'm pushing it on, but I don't want to know the answer, so I just respond like a humbled valley girl.

Others have been more blatant in their interpretations of our clothing, and I admire their honesty.

When we lived closer to Costco, Jaime had a habit of walking to the warehouse with a large backpack to carry home a bag of bananas and net of avocados. "It's a bulk store!" I wanted to scream. "Take the van and fill it to the ceiling, so I don't have to go grocery shopping every other fucking day!" But I let his European ass do his European ass thing without much protest.

After one trip, he came home excited to tell me about a woman who'd offered him a ride. She'd unknowingly taken pity on a postdoctoral fellow carrying a bag filled with the most expensive fruit with the shortest shelf-life by choice. He was wearing a brown paper boy hat a neighbor had given him, an old rugby pull over, cut off jorts and unrelated socks. He hair was down and uncombed, and his wiry beard matched.

Then there was yesterday. While at the Salvation Army counter buying cropped polyester bell bottoms from the 70s for me but not the scuba goggles Jaime wanted from the same decade (he deemed them too breakable), a woman entered bringing in bags of donations.

She looked us up and down and thrust a black plastic bag in my direction. "It's towels! You should take these towels! It's your last chance to get them for free. If I put them in this pile, you'll have to pay for them!" Our bougie hearts and minds cringed at the thought of wicking water from our bodies with this woman's used towels, and we politely declined. Nevertheless, she persisted because we really did look like we spent our towel money on drugs.

I laughed about it again while I was in the shower this morning. I got out and dried off with a rough towel from a set my parents bought at least three sets ago. Then I wrapped a striped beach towel around my head and sat down to write this blog post.

Oh Goddamnit, Louis.

I'd say my main hobby right now is listening to a podcast called My Favorite Murder. It is about murder.

And what I like about it other than murder is that it reminds me to always be vigilant but also that my vigilance doesn't matter because I'll probably be murdered someday anyway due to my off putting demeanor and attraction to slightly unsafe situations.

Vacations really bring out the loose cannon in me, and even though I travel with a man who could play a Dothraki extra in Game of Thrones, Jaime is a mere mortal human man, and I'm just a little squirt who doesn't intimidate anyone except Jimmy John's employees who are taking too long to make my sandwich.

So I guess I had that old I'm in unfamiliar territory and therefore invincible feeling when I suggested to Jaime, my brother-in-law and his wife that we pick up a stranger in New Mexico.

In my defense, I thought he was a member of the First Nations. He wasn't. I also knew he was sashaying away from his trailer with a gas can in hand towards a vast expanse of desert in August, and the gas station we'd just left was at his back.

He really was a dead man walking, and besides, I was being safe because he had to sit in the backseat of the van next to Alfredo and Rene which was a good 8 ft. behind me and separated from the front by loads of crap. Call me Sister Prejean.

Louis (French pronunciation) acted grateful enough as he slid in next to Alfredo, and Jaime turned the van around.

I couldn't hear what was being said, but I knew it was good stuff because every time I looked back, Rene had a nervous but amused smile on her face. Hurrah! I just couldn't wait to talk to Louis!

We came up on his trailer, and I tried to peer in on his alleged wife, but I somehow couldn't see past the gigantic confederate flag and "Secede now!" painted on the front and side.

Oh goddamnit, Louis.

Jaime of course saw it too, and we passed our silent screams and saucer eyes back and forth all the way to the blessedly close gas station.

I let Goddamn Louis out, much less interested in talking to him now, and escorted him to the pump, as Jaime reluctantly slid his debit card into the machine. Five gallons of gas have never trickled out more slowly than while Goddamn Louis was educating us about pre-Vatican II Catholicism, the government pumping hormones into our veins, secession from the union being the only answer, vinegar and the Lady of Fatima. Also, he was from Illinois but lived in Arizona.

Jaime, who usually drives like a grandfather, sped all the way back to the trailer.

I opened the door for Goddamn Louis the final time and put the gas can in one hand and a gallon of water in his other, so he couldn't stab me and wished him well verbally.

I was told by my traveling companions that he'd also painted "End sodomy!" on the back of his trailer. I have mixed feelings about missing it. Goddamn Louis didn't murder us on that day, but I'm pretty sure he has murdered someone on some day.

Alfredo pulled up the Miracle of Fatima on his phone as we drove away laughing and feeling icky, but as he read, I understood a little of what Goddamn Louis was saying. I mean it really made me think about butt sex and how wrong it is.

I'm just kidding. What a crock of fucking bullshit.

Good luck to you, Louis. I hope none of your dreams come true.

I am sorry...where are Illinois and Arizona?