Author Archive: Christopher Waldrop

Don’t Tip Your Driver.

It doesn’t happen often, but when I’m the only passenger on the bus I like to pretend I’m riding in a really big but really cheap limousine. I’m returning from a bookstore where I had people laughing so hard they wet themselves and then when I was done there were so many lined up I sat signing copies of my book for seven straight hours. And the limo driver is a nice guy who’s new to the area so he doesn’t exactly know his way around and I’m afraid he’ll get lost if he has to go down all those side streets to my house. So I wait until we get sort of close and tell him, “Thanks, this is good enough.”

Reality bursts this little fantasy bubble when the driver looks at me funny for trying to give him a tip.

This is a trolley you can catch in the Ybor City neighborhood of Tampa, Florida.  If Raphael is your driver ask him about his dog.

This is a trolley you can catch in the Ybor City neighborhood of Tampa, Florida.
If Raphael is your driver ask him about his dog.

Who Are You?

Who is the artist? What did they mean by this particular work? I know I’m going out on a limb treating graffiti as art, but I don’t know what else to call it. And some of it I find just as fascinating as something I’d see in a museum–maybe more so.

012013Who made this? Is Medusa a specific artist or is there a Medusa gang? Do members have to get stoned? Joking aside, what does the logo underneath the name mean? I see something like this and I want to know more. It stops me in my tracks.

medusa2

For Him The Bell Tolls.

bell“And your total is $77.16. Would you also like to contribute to pediatric disease research?”

Naturally I was tempted to paraphrase a line from The Addams Family and say, “Yes, we need more pediatric diseases.” Instead I found myself stuck. Everyone was staring at me and I could feel the judgment, even from the kid bagging my groceries who I felt would look down on me even though I’m not the one stupid enough to drop a gallon of ice cream on a couple of bell peppers.

It’s not that I’m against giving money to charity. I have given money. I’ve also given my time and material things like food and clothing. Around the holidays the grocery store has pre-filled bags of food, usually with non-perishables because things like butter or eggs or cartons of milk would get smashed when the kids who fill the bags drop the jar of peanut butter in last. And I feel uncomfortable about doing this too. What happened to the good old days when you could buy a few jars of peanut butter and discreetly–and carefully–place them in a box by the door? That’s what we do in the office where I work. The box is left in the break room so you can slip in and drop that can of navy beans you can’t remember why you bought into it. Sometimes I walk by that box and think, hey, clam chowder, that sounds better than what I brought for lunch, but I know those items are for a whole different kind of needy person.

It’s not just that I think giving to charity should be a private thing that we do of our own free will and not because I hate feeling pressured to do anything, even if it’s the right thing. Even if it’s something I want to do I hate feeling like I’m being pressured to do it. And at the grocery store checkout the pressure is especially intense because when you give the cashier rings a bell. From the moment I stepped in I’d been hearing ringing. It was like a tiny fire alarm was constantly going off. Pavlov’s dogs would have gone nuts. In fact they probably would have gone for someone’s nuts, like maybe the meat counter guy who smells like raw beef anyway, but that’s another story. I don’t mind being the center of attention as long as I have time to put on some greasepaint and memorize my lines, but I don’t want to stand in the checkout line being the center of attention because the cashier is ringing a bell. “Whoo hoo! Mr. Generosity here just gave a dollar!” Actually they have set amounts starting at five dollars which is even worse. How are people who are barely getting by and can’t really afford to put aside five dollars supposed to feel? My problem really is minimal by comparison, but I won’t deny that if my wife gave on an earlier trip through or if I gave last time I feel uncomfortable saying that.

“I gave already.”

And they smile and move on, but their eyes say, “Sure you did you cheapskate bastard.” And they’re not going to ring the bell for someone who gave already, even if you pull out your last receipt as proof.

So, yes, I contributed to pediatric disease research, because I wanted to and not because I felt I had to. And the cashier rang the bell. Then, as I was walking out I heard the bell at the register where I’d just left. The guy behind me had just been buying a six-pack of beer, but I guess he gave a little as well. I hope he didn’t do that because of me.

Think Pink.

006These earbuds were a free giveaway. I picked them up partly because I can’t resist anything free, but also because I’d left my regular earbuds at home, and sometimes I like to sit back and listen to things while I ride the bus. It’s one of the advantages of riding the bus. I can devote my full attention to whatever I’m listening to, at least until I get close to my stop.

The earbuds sparked a mini-dialogue in my head.

Should I wear these?

Why not?

Well, they’re pink.

So are your ears.

Good point.

It also sparked a memory of when I was four and told my mother pink was my favorite color.

“Oh no,” she said. “Pink is a girls’ color.”

At the time that colors having a specific gender was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. I also didn’t put it in those terms. “That’s dumb!” was what I thought but didn’t say. And I became hostile to any mention of favorite colors. There was a show on the local PBS station called Jellybean Junction. The host Fran Powell sang about how you could be any color jellybean you wanted. Any color, I thought angrily, except pink.

I don’t blame my mother. It was the conventional thinking at the time. It’s thinking that’s persisted. I had a college roommate who happened to be gay. Our room’s previous occupants had, for some reason, painted half the room blue and the other half pink. It was a coincidence that we were put in that room, and we laughed about how oddly appropriate it was. We could joke about it because it seemed like things were changing, but according to an Atlantic article from December 2014 toys are becoming more divided by gender. Color is an easy divider: “Rigid boundaries segregate brawny blue action figures from pretty pink princesses.”

Pink has also become the color of breast cancer awareness and support for both IBEATCANCERthose lost to it and the survivors. I’m opposed to breast cancer, and, for that matter, any other form of cancer, but I resent the fact that pink as a way of showing support for those dealing with breast cancer seems to have made it okay for guys to wear pink. I’m against all forms of cancer because it’s a terrible disease that’s killed some of the people closest to me. If I’m wearing something pink it’s because I just happen to like pink. Or because it was free.

I Saw The Light.

mylampBlackout. The house is eerily quiet. A flashlight casts shadowy illumination that makes everything unfamiliar. I’ve twisted the switch on a lamp, but I can’t be sure whether it’s on or off. I twist it a few more times then lose count. Was it an odd or even number of twists? Will it come on when the power comes back? There’s nothing to do but sit and think about lamps.

As a kid did you ever read the story of Aladdin and see a picture of his lamp and wonder what was wrong with it? It didn’t have a shade or a bulb, and where were you supposed to plug it in?

In second grade I’d b e even more confused when I read the story of Diogenes who took a lamp out in broad daylight. The story said he was looking for an honest man. I thought he must have been looking for outlets because you can only carry a lamp so far before the cord runs out. Later I would understand that he was making a point that an honest man is so hard to find that one must be sought with a lamp in the daylight. When I first read the story I thought the honest man he was looking for would be the one who’d ask, “Why are you carrying a lamp in broad daylight? Are you trying to sell it or are you just some kind of idiot?”

I think Diogenes would have been impressed by what a wise child I was.

genie

 

Have A Seat.

003See that note? Not the advertisement–it’s below that. Here’s a close-up.

haveaseat

It’s so small it’s almost unnoticeable, and when someone’s sitting there it’s invisible. When are the police supposed to see it? Strolling by on their beat, I guess. I don’t think it’s really there for the police, though, but rather for those who might be thinking about using the bench not to wait for a bus but simply for a rest.

I’m talking about homeless people. The police are supposed to prevent them from using the benches for just resting. The design helps. The benches are uncomfortable and the bars prevent anyone from lying down.

This seems both mean and unnecessary to me. Most bus benches are unused. Public transportation is also a community service. Homeless people may be considered a problem, a nuisance, a black mark on the city, but they are people and part of the community. And I’ve never encountered a homeless person preventing anyone else from using a bench, even at the crowded bus depots.

Sometimes it’s even nice to share a bench with someone. Once I sat down next to a guy who, as much as I don’t want to judge, I think was homeless. His hair and clothes looked like they hadn’t been washed in a long time. He held a CD player and had on headphones. When I sat down he took off the headphones and told me he was listening to “the finest music of Styx.” I asked if that included Mr. Roboto and he laughed. Then he gave me directions to a place where I could buy some meth. Two blocks over and on the right. “You tell ’em you’re only gonna pay fifty dollars. They’ll ask for four hundred. If you agree to pay that they’ll know you’re a cop.”

It’s not advice I’m likely to use, but it’s interesting. When the bus drove up I offered to let him get on first. He said, “Naw, I’m gonna sit here for a while.” The doors opened and the bus driver yelled at him. “Hey man, I ain’t seen you in a while! You doin’ okay?” He replied, “Yeah, I been in jail for thirty days.” After that he deserved a place to sit.

The Failure of Inspiration.

I’m sure it’s happened to every person who does anything creative: inspiration hits, you can do no wrong, everything that you’re about to make is going to be worthy of a Nobel prize, and then, just as quickly as it came on, it dries up.

I think that’s what happened here.

010

I feel for the artist. Sometimes you spread your wings, leap from the perch, and fall flat on your face.