Nurse the Hate: The Triumph Of My Maps

 

I picked up a couple of maps that I had purchased in France which had just been framed.  They are maps of semi-obscure wine regions with my thinking being that if I have them on the wall near where I work, maybe I can remember key details of the region.  I am trying to compensate for what might well be rapidly diminishing mental acuity.  I think I might have maxed out details that I can remember in life.  For example, I can remember that Steve Vai played guitar on Pil's 1986 "Album", but I can't remember "the name of that one wine producer from that one village in France that's sorta south of that other one".  I think I have to let go of something to allow something else in there.  Maybe I can see if I can forget the chronological order of Dead Kennedys LP releases to see if I can squeeze in fermentation temperature of Port wine.  I think my brain is a hard drive that has just maxed out on storage.  I might be a guy that repeats the same stories to people over and over and I don't even know it.  In fact, I should check to see if I wrote this down last week.  I might be speaking in some sort of banal loop and have no idea.

So I loaded my maps into the car and I saw a coffee place nearby.  It had the feel of a doomed business, one of those ones where later you say "What was the name of that coffee place that was there for about six months?".  It was one of those locations in a strip plaza that had no vibrant businesses nearby, limited foot traffic and only street parking.  I always wonder why people open businesses like these.  They must be delusional, just wanting it to work so badly they ignore the obvious.  "OK, here's my vision.  We open a tiny coffee shop that sells $4 drinks in a location with expensive rent, no place to park, no food, and limited hours.  We will also name it something that doesn't indicate it's a coffee place just to make sure no one wanders in from curiousity.  Let's take the space next to the dentist and the small accountant office just to make sure no one that works nearby comes in.  We can put some crappy local art on the wall.  That is pretty much all we need.  We are going to kill it!"

There was a woman working at the register from central casting.  She was in her early 20s, dyed black hair, thrift store sweater, and a regrettable tattoo that seemed like a children's drawing on her arm.  A temporary menu was still up from last week advertising special St Patrick's Day inspired items.  All of the drink names sounded vaguely like names of deviant sex acts.  Example, The Salty Irishman.  "So I'm in Lyon France at this restaurant eating alone, right?  This woman walks in and we get to talking.  Next thing I know we go back to my hotel, and she gives me a Salty Irishman.  I was like, whoah!  I don't even have a tarp.  What a mess!  Between us there's no way we have enough to tip out the maids, ya know?".

It's interesting that certain businesses are acceptable for The Cool Kids to work in while others are not despite being the same business.  For example, Tattoo Piercing Pink Hair Girl will gladly work in Whole Foods, but would never consider the same job in Giant Eagle/Wegmans.  Tattoo Piercing Pink Hair Girl will provide disinterested hipster service at Starbucks, but would not under any circumstances do the exact same job at Dunkin Donuts.  The marketing effort of those enormous corporations like Starbucks and Whole Foods of greenwashing their organizations has paid off by being able to attract overeducated young adults with attitude while Giant Eagle and Dunkin focus more on the pissed off hillbilly labor pool.  Everyone stays in their lane I suppose.

I knocked back my espresso and drove my maps home flush with the satisfaction of having successfully getting them framed before they were destroyed by strangers en route.  I had the cafe employee in the Beaune train station that tried to spill beer on them.  There was the Eastern European guy on the train to Dijon that tried to smash them with his backpack as he pontificated a confusing narrative about Putin, his friend that stole a car, a sexual indiscretion with that same friend's sister, and the misbehavior of his child that appeared to be from a third woman all as an effort to perhaps impress the brutally unattractive French woman that was his audience.  I almost then lost the maps as I paid for a Metro ticket in Paris when I leaned the flimsy tube on the billet machine, but remembered as I stepped away.  

All was secure with the maps until I placed them in the carry-on bin on the United flight back to the USA.  As the airline charges for anything possible to pad profit margins, all passengers now carry as much personal baggage on them as a sherpa scrambling up a mountain.  I watched helplessly as a dim looking man with his mouth slightly open continued to jam in his oversized suitcase into my map tube and backpack in the bin, optimistically pounding his square peg into a round hole.  The tube must have slid underneath his suitcase as the only victims were my headphone case (dented) and emergency Cliff Bar (smashed).  That man spent the entire flight doing two things.  1.  Watching Harry Potter movies and 2. farting on me.  It wasn't great.

I hauled the maps inside my house.  What an achievement.  This what Robert of Flanders must have felt like snug in his castle after the First Crusade.  I can now nestle in with the satisfaction of looking at the brown paper encased blocks leaning on the couch, comfortable with the knowledge that I won't summon up the effort to actually hang the frames for weeks.  It's an embarrassment of riches.  What plunder have I.  In my head I try to mentally run down the villages on the maps.  Fuck.  What's that one on the bottom?  It starts with an "R" I think.  Dammit.  Better get those maps up.