Category Archives: Writing

When life hands you tomatoes…

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We still have twenty minutes to go. That should be enough time for the sun to go down behind the trees and allow me to look at the stage without squinting. I lie back in my rented picnic chair and grab another cracker. I meticulously spread the goat cheese, and then put the last of the smoked salmon on top. I savor this delicacy; smoked salmon and cheese on crackers are synonymous with a picnic.

“What did you think of the smoked tuna?” I ask Bill. He doesn’t like it. Too gummy, he says. I have to agree. It was worth a shot but I’m not buying that again.

I wipe my hands on the already wet napkin. I should have brought more paper towels; it annoys me to run out of napkins. I look around at all the people. Most are picnicking like us, a few are reading, some are sleeping. The volunteers in their bright green T-shirts are making their way haphazardly through the crowd, some handing out programs, some requesting donations. It’s a great thing, this Shakespeare in the Park. I’m glad Bill and I are attending again. I remember last year, we saw MacBeth. Oh no, he says, handing me the program. MacBeth was three years ago, see right here?

Good grief, he’s right! How can that be? It feels like only last year! Is this what getting old feels like, I wonder. All those memories are just compressed, they are so vivid and immediate. I reach down and grab a Roma tomato. I pop it into my mouth.

Oh, my God! I can’t believe this. The tomato just spurted three feet in front of me. On the woman seated in front. Oh, no, she’s got tomato pulp and seeds on her arm. Did she notice? Crap! There’s some on her lap. She’s turning around. I can’t believe this. “Excuse me! I am so sorry!” This can’t be happening. It’s alright, she assures me. Oh that’s so polite. I would be pissed. Maybe she’s pissed. Her dad is seated next to her. Is he going to get mad? No, he doesn’t react much.

I should help her clean up. A napkin. Where’s the napkin? Oh here it is—the used, wet napkin. I offer it feebly. It’s all I have, I say. She takes it and dabs her lap. And she’s got some tomato pulp on her arm and back. Should I pretend it’s not there? She can’t see it. No, it’s too embarrassing. People behind me can see it. Oh, the people behind me! Are they laughing at me? How could they not be? No, no laughter. Maybe no one noticed? No, can’t be. They’re all being more polite than I would be. Note to self: don’t laugh at the misfortune of others.

But the stuff is still on her. She turns back and hands me back the limp scrap of a napkin. “Here, you’ve got some on your back.” I reach over and dab her arm, and the back of her tank top. Oh, my God, what am I doing. I’m pawing a woman, a young girl I don’t even know. It’s sexual harassment! She’s probably a minor. I’ll go to jail. I can see the headlines: “Gay man arrested for fondling woman in the park.” It’s not what you think! I’m not a creep! But I can’t not wipe my gastronomic disaster; I’d be a jerk! I’m just making it worse. “It’s alright,” she says, with a polite smile. No, it’s not! I want to scream. I just inconvenienced you and I don’t know how to make it up. I apologize again and slink back into my chair. Obviously, it’s my turn to be the Obnoxious Stranger Everyone Talks About on the Way Home.

“Apologize profusely and offer to pay for the dry cleaning,” says Bill in response to my query: what would Miss Manners do? Yes, I suppose that is the right thing to do. I did the apology bit. It sounds lame, and repeating it yet again won’t help. And it’s just a cotton top, it can be thrown in the wash. It seems awkward to offer to pay. Right? Or am I finding excuses? All through the play I’ll have those tomato seeds stuck there, taunting me. I wipe the sweat off my brow. So much for being cool.

Oh, look, they’re getting up. Are they offended? Are they taking a break? Moving their chairs? They just walk away. Well, at least I don’t have to see my tomato spurt victim. I catch my breath. “Man, that was as embarrassing as it gets.” I keep eating, more gingerly this time. The next tomato goes into my mouth, the whole thing. Fine. I can handle this. It’s over, move on.

Five minutes till curtain. Here they come. She’s wearing a long-sleeve T. “Shakespeare in the Park,” it says. Oh, good, she changed. I don’t have to feel bad that she’s uncomfortable or dirty. That was a nice way to handle it. Should I offer to pay for the new shirt? It’s a souvenir. They would have gotten the souvenir anyway, wouldn’t they? Or not. She glances at me briefly as she sits back down. I offer her a grimacing smile, as if to say, “I am so embarrassed I wish the ground would swallow me whole.” She and her dad continue talking. I focus my attention away.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Commonwealth Shakespeare Company’s production of The Taming of the Shrew. Please turn off your cell phones and refrain from flash photography.”

Showtime!

The Yellow Bracelet gets on my nerves

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I support cancer research. Really I do. Like many people, cancer has touched my life on more than one occasion. Inasmuch as I follow sports (which is hardly at all), I also support Lance Armstrong; his record is impressive and his comeback from cancer inspiring.

Nonetheless, the Yellow Bracelet gets on my nerves. I see it on half the people around me and I think “conformity.”

Think about it: why not send a $10 donation to the Lance Armstrong Foundation instead of buying a $1 silicone bracelet? You’d be contributing a more meaningful amount (which would probably not break your budget). None of the money would have to cover manufacturing costs for the bracelets. As an added bonus, you’d have one fewer doodad to clutter you wrist, your dresser, and (once the fad passes) a landfill.

In order for the Yellow Bracelet to work as a fundraising gimmick, it must rely on economies of scale: the cost to manufacture thousands of the bracelets must be negligible, and to justify the effort, the money raised by the sheer number of people signing on to the fad (oh, the landfills!) must be greater than what would have otherwise been raised by fewer but more substantive contributions. In other words, the campaign relies on peer pressure and conformity.

The Yellow Bracelet is “cool.” It is, if not conspicuous consumption, certainly conspicuous philanthropy. It shows you care (at least at the $1 level). It makes you feel good (with minimal effort). It proclaims (quite loudly) your involvement (no matter that it’s a non-controversial cause; who isn’t in favor of cancer research?).

I’m not one to pine for the halcyon days of yore, but I can’t help but wish we lived in times in which subtlety was, at least, considered an ideal. One can support causes without making a big production of it; some people have even been known to do it anonymously. Could we not use our compassion, our money, our attention, and our time to further cancer research without turning our support into a facile consumer commodity?