These Here Folks

SLEEPY EYE: An Owner's Manual
second in an interminable series

Chapter Two: Local Characters, or A Sampling of Individuals With Whom I Have Interacted Over the Past Two Days

1) The Good Samaritan

The Good Samaritan appears in many guises, but the one I met yesterday afternoon was an elderly gentleman - perhaps seventy - clad in blue jeans, a t-shirt of a slightly more faded blue, and a tan cowboy hat (because despite Minnesota's proximity to Canada, a good many people still believe that Iowa is the deep deep south and dress accordingly). I first spotted the Good Samaritan from a distance as I was out running in circles on the track located behind Sleepy Eye Elementary/High School (my thirteen-year haunt). Across the street, he traipsed through Eagles Park with his little black-and-white fluffball of a dog. In the time it took me to run a mile, he made it about three hundred meters, wandering through newly-mown lawn and over hot asphalt and back onto grass just outside the chain-link fence that divides runners and spectators. He meandered toward the school, stopping to look at the landscaping around a sign and to watch a distant softball practice. I thought he was moving rather slowly even for a leisurely fellow, but didn't pay much attention as I was instead focused on distracting myself from the effort physical exertion requires by blasting some Whitney techno remixes over my iPod.

Finishing the runningness, I reached for my water and headed toward school, intent on venturing into the weight room for a bit. As I neared the parking lot, I noticed that my path was going to directly intersect with the Good Samaritan's. Headphones still on, I slowed my pace a bit, hoping to avoid an awkward head-nodding interaction. But the GS was not to be deterred; he halted his fluffball at the gate and looked expectantly in my direction. Because I have not been hardened by five years of "city" living, I of course removed my headphones to enter into conversation with a complete stranger.

"You're really pushing it, huh?" he said.

Now, I hadn't been running for thaaaaat long, so I knew he wasn't referring to my mind-blowing powers of endurance. But the day was sticky, offering neither dry desert heat nor the oppressive humidity of so many recent afternoons. It was more of a claustrophobic warmth, the air temperature matching body temperature so exactly that the two seemed to melt snugly together. So I commented intelligently, "It's a hot one."

"What'd you do, three, four laps?"

"Four, yup." With each statement, I took a stutter step, moving slightly toward the school.

"Don't get heat stroke."

Now, how, in polite conversation, do you reply to such a statement? I offered, "I won't," a bit wary to be tempting fate so. (Would, "You too," have been more appropriate?)

"I guess you know how to watch out." And with that, the Good Samaritan and the Fluffball walked away, having imparted enough unsought advice for one day.

2) The Faceless Woman

The Faceless Woman is, for obvious reasons, difficult to describe. I most often come across her at the office of Dr. B, chiropractor extrordinaire. She is faceless only from my point of view, for whenever we meet I am facedown on an adjustment table, my eyes and nose tucked amongst leather cushions and tissue paper. She is in charge of running ultrasound waves about my spine in order to make it easier for Dr. B to crackle (appetizing, I know).

Interacting with the Faceless Woman is very awkward for a couple of reasons. First of all, I am never sure who she really is. Is she the woman who greeted me at the desk today? Is she the one that pointed me toward the correct exam room? Who's to say! Secondly, it is always unclear as to whether or not we're supposed to make small talk for the ten to fifteen minutes she spends smearing gel over my back with a metal rod. Shall we discuss the weather? Talk about school? Dissect my love life or lack thereof? (A sample question from earlier this summer: "Had any boyfriends in this life?" No, really.) Or shall we sit in complete silence, listening to the melodious stylings of Oldies FM? All in all, I prefer the latter.

3) The Moronic Motorist

I will share with you two varieties of the Moronic Motorist today:

3a) Mr. "I Rule the Highway; What Do You Mean, There Is But One Lane Going In Either Direction?"

Consider, my friends, the plight of the above motorist. Unfamiliar with less-than-urban terrain, he tools about in a deceptively speedy white boat of a car. Upon driving into a small town, he notes the width of the road and determines that there is enough space for two cars to drive abreast. And so, lack of white lines notwithstanding, he pulls into the right-hand "lane" and zips along merrily, slowing at each corner to read the street signs (after all, he is from out of town). The thought that his independently-created lane might, in fact, be intended for parking never occurs to him.

How to handle this type of motorist: drive behind him, not wishing to pass because you can never predict when a parked car will impede his progress.

3b) Ms. "Certainly You Wouldn't Mind Waiting At A Stop Sign Whilst I Check My Messages, Read 'Dear Abby', and Generally Zone Out."

I encountered this woman today on my way to the chiropractor. First Avenue runs through Sleepy Eye north to south without a single stop sign; motorists on it have complete right of way until they reach the highway that bisects town east to west. I guess Ms. "C &c." decided that today was the perfect day to take a nap at the corner of Walnut and First. When I pulled up, I was most perplexed: a red car with its left turn signal on was blockaded by a large black SUV. As far as any onlooker could tell, the SUV intended to go straight, but it was doing nothing in the way of moving, despite the total dearth of oncoming traffic. So there the red car, the black SUV, and I (the grey minivan, as I am a soccer mom) sat, stalemated. Of course, in Sleepy Eye no one actually uses the car horn for anything other than offering congratulations to wedding parties driving around town. I turned on my left blinker, hoping to jar the driver into some sort of action. Didn't work. An eternity later, Ms. "C+" decided that her manicure was dry, and pulled through the intersection.

How to handle this type of motorist: sit and wait, giving her a disapproving head shake when she finally decides to drive on.