people watching

I don't want to use a framing device for this blog, I just want to write about Oliver. Dear Oliver, foolish, smiling, wrinkled Oliver, with his soup and ice cream. The only thing that deters my waitress's heart on it's path to becoming as burnt and bitter as the coffee I serve is this man. He doesn't show up every day in the bakery, but his attendance is something that I eagerly anticipate for days at a time.

Oliver was good enough to come in for lunch on the first day I ever worked (which was, by the way, a catastrophe). I was sweeping up shards of my second broken mug when he peeked into the shop, and quietly sidled into his spot at the counter. He strongly reminded me of a basset hound. Aaron took his order without even asking.

I'm settling in to dinner life. I get in at 7:00 AM when there's hardly anyone there - just Bob, but he's already eaten by then, I just take his plate and refill his coffee. He always tries to startle me as I emerge from under the counter with a coffee mug. He'll jump at me and go "WAAAZAAHHHH!!" and I have to pretend to be scared for a tip. That first morning hour is the scariest for me, not because of Bob- but because the woman who runs the kitchen (and who owns the place with her husband) is always out front talking to people. Her name is Pearl*. She doesn't like me.

Pearl is about 65, with sparse, poofy, freshly dyed brown hair and a face that has been personified by the smoking of, likely, millions of cigarettes. Bright red lipstick, which wears off by nine, and is never reapplied, and also about the same amount of eye makeup as our other waitress, Aaron... who is about twenty seven.

During my three month absence from the blog (sorry!) I've discovered the joys of flavored toothpaste, learned how to French braid, had a violent allergic reaction to Bounce dryer sheets, and begun to re-read all of the Harry Potter books in order. The most recent change in life has been the transition from school to summer job. As far as people watching goes, I hit the jackpot. Am now savvy, witty waitress at Bakery, working 7am -3pm serving the Colchester regulars and wayside sailors.

The girl who is training me is real sweet. She's about thirty, with two kids an ex-husband, and a little dog that she has to run home to let out every two hours, but none of that depresses her. Her name is Aaron. She's no taller than me, with a jaunty little pony tail and loads of eye makeup. She is very tan, chews gum constantly and calls you hun no matter who you are.

Being in the National Honors Society at our school means you have a GPA of 3.6 or higher and you probably live in one of the nice neighborhoods. You are probably in the advanced placement classes because your parents called and made a fuss, and you probably are a college application whore. I am more than willing to admit to being an app whore, but not so much to the other things.

My friend, Foster, is... well, he is a giant. By the time his heart pumps blood to the tips of his fingers and toes, it is icy cold. I figured this out one day when he was holding my hand and I had an AP biology hangover. Now, Foster cannot help that his hand-holding is a tundra experience, however, I have never been able to help being critical of his technique in general.

I always feel guilty writing about the musicians I play with in the Vermont Youth Orchestra. I feel like it is cheating in my people watching endeavors, because I know them so well. It is like going through a deck of multiplication flash cards and taking particular pride in answering two times two when really the hard ones are the nines times tables. But in these days when senioritis is rampant, readers will have to excuse me lazily falling back to my favorite subjects.

Last Friday evening was spent at the Krumholz family holiday party (see THE KNOTTY TREES blog for more on the Krumholz). For minors like myself, there is really no purpose in attending this party, because the true purpose for 95% of the guests is to drink Glug, a delightful warm beverage that is 50% wine 50% vodka and 200% alcohol.

A man saved my life today at the bus stop. I had just crossed the street from the new bakery with a bag of cookies in my hand (40 cents each - not bad). It was snowing lightly, the same way it snowed when I had my first kiss three years ago (but that is neither here nor there). A man with a blond beard and glasses and a stripped cap crossed the street, also coming from the bakery, and joined me at the bus stop. The hat was kind of ugly, to tell the truth, but men can often get away with ugly hats... not that they should. He called work to say he would be late. I kept daring myself to talk to him, a total stranger, and get some stories, but always chickened out, thinking, maybe he is just a cereal killer or grumpy. But then, unbeknown to be, a sidewalk plow came hurtling down the sidewalk, driven by a small and undoubtedly evil smelling man, who obviously did not care that I was in his way, or that I couldn't hear the rage of his machine with my ipod on. The man with the stripped cap and the blond beard pulled me back not a moment too soon, literally snatching me from the jaws of death. After I recovered, I decided it was safe to ask him for some stories. It was the very least I could have done for him.

They call us grown ups now that we're seniors, but I never saw any difference until today. I've grown up with this kid, all through high school. He has sat in my classes for four years, teased me, argued me to death, encouraged me, surprised me, promised me, and loved me. That was all in the beginning of course.

I am going to tell you about this marvelous human being so that hopefully, you will be reminded of a friend that might share her personality. If you do not have such a friend, you can pretend that this girl is your friend, and imagine what she would say to you in certain situations. She is most helpful.

People just pass you by on the street, and you never stop to think of what could happen. What if you looked up at the same moment or if you all reached for the same lucky penny on the ground? Could that sketchy man you just passed become infatuated with you and stalk you for life? Scary, but not boring. Could that little old lady ask you to help her with her groceries and then turn out to be a millionaire and leave you her entire fortune as thanks for your one kind deed?
It’s strange to think that people want to remain isolated, heads to the ground looking for stray coins when the real treasures are behind the faces above.
I spent this morning on North Beach in Burlington. It’s kind of a smelly place, with the occasional hobo camping out, no romantic landscape to be sure, but if you keep your eyes out on the water and concentrate on the wind, you can pretend well enough. There were only a few others there since it was so early and too cool to swim.

I made sure to wear my red flowy skirt so it would fly in the wind as I waded half up to my knees in the water, and I could pretend I was from a Victorian novel. Later I would lean against one of those beautiful knotted trees and look pensive and turmoiled.

Before I get to the tree part, though, I’ll tell you about the rather magnificent boy there. He himself was leaning on a tree, looking out over the water. I don’t want to guck him up and say he was looking out determinedly, or desperately, or hopefully, because I really couldn’t tell from my distance. All I knew was that he was tall, and much too skinny (almost goofy); his hair was straw colored, and had gone a little wild. He was too freckled to be devastatingly handsome, but “dashing” might do it.

This blog is part of a Special Writers project by Burlington High School senior, Zoe Senecal. She will be among a dozen or so writers who will be featured this year on this Web site. To see her other entries, click the keyword, "people watching."

The back to school season is always a prime time for people watching and meeting strangers. Especially at Burlington, where there are always transfer students, and teachers you never see until you are in their class, and then just legit weirdos.