In the City

Below you will find more evidence that I am (1) a country girl, (2) terrible with machines, and (3) likely to one day have an interaction on the street not go so well.

My housemates let me borrow their car for the afternoon, so yesterday I ventured down to Brattleboro for a day of shopping at the co-op and generally eating too much.

I know how co-ops work. Nothing at all strange there. Unless you want to count the men in skirts and lipstick doing their grocery shopping as strange, but I call that fucking awesome.

The general situation gets slightly more embarrassing and interesting as I stand in front of the "pay and display" meter at the public parking lot, baffled for all I'm worth as to how it works.

This is the part where a friendly stranger steps in to help the visibly incapable girl who JUST WANTS TO PARK WITHOUT GETTING TOWED, OK?

Used to lots in Minnesota where you get a ticket, stay as long as you like, then return the ticket and pay for the amount of time that you've parked, the name "pay and display" passed straight over my head.

You pay first. Then you get a ticket and display it on your dashboard, the friendly stranger explains.

This leaves me with mental palm to mental face. The obvious always escapes me.

They say you never know who you'll meet in Brattleboro. It's full of artists, organic hippy nutters, graduate students, and, in the warmer months, people without tops on. (There are apparently a distinct lack of public indecency laws in the town.)

The friendly stranger turns out to be Boxcar Jim, a semi-itinerant, sometimes-musician who was just kicked out of his on-again-off-again girlfriend's house last night and could really use any spare change you might have.

Will 30 cents do? I just spent all my change in the meter.

Sure. It was nice to meet you.

Somewhat wide-eyed and with my culturally conditioned damsel in distress instincts switching on, I walk away thinking about how little I really know about living in a city.

Boxcar Jim wasn't actually dirty or rude or threatening, as city people often characterize the less fortunate. He was kinda cool.

Did he "take advantage" of me by asking for my spare change after helping me? No more than the friendly stranger as the service counter earns their wage by helping you.

It all makes me wonder whether I could live in a city. Maybe I like to keep my eyes wide.