Verbal Scenery for Your Day

Venturing up to Hartford this afternoon for the Rock Star Brother's BIG show with Audioslave and Seether. We are trying to fool ourselves into believing this is a mini-vacation so that the insane logistics don't render us suicidal. Wish us luck on that one.

In the meantime, since I can't really post, I thought you might like to see one of my recent pieces.

And, not that you would, but don't even think about disrespecting me or my work by ganking it (see licensing below). That kind of insurrection will not stand ... man. That being said, enjoy. Or don't. It's up to you!

Crossing Paths at Cross Street Market

On Sunday afternoon at Cross Street Market, no one shops. The wide aisle dividing the building is usually crowded with bodies buying stargazer lilies, steaks, pies, and salmon. But on Sundays, the only part of the market doing business sells beer. Around wooden barrels and stools, crowds congregate—as diverse as the drinks in their hands. Watching football or not, Cross Street’s patrons occasionally collide, but they never intersect.

This particular Sunday concludes Cross Street’s grand re-opening celebration. Mayor Martin O’Malley ceremoniously cut the ribbon after the $1.3 million dollar renovation, but the market never actually closed.
The bar area is transformed; exposed duct work and beams make way for tin awnings over each refurbished bar. Brick tiles shimmer on the floor, though, judging by the crowd, they probably won’t for long.
The new Cross Street Market feels a bit more sashimi and bottled beer than crabs and kegs. A sushi chef in a Ravens hat rings a bell—order up.

A pony-tailed teenager flip-flops by, wrinkling her nose. “It smells weird in here,” she remarks loudly.

Eating a seaweed roll, a middle-aged man talks with his mouth full.

“It’s the younger generation’s appreciation for the older generation.” He nearly shouts, “You gotta like it. There’s a sense of fair play in the world.”

His blonde companion chain smokes and smiles. The cement bar around them is littered with empty Heineken keg cans and the market’s infamous four-dollar, 32-ounce beer cups. In front of the blonde sits a half bottle of chardonnay. It is empty.

The couple leaves behind only the bottle and two cigarette butts, lying in an empty oyster shell.

They walk past two round men in Ravens jerseys watching the game at the end of the bar. The older man’s bald head and hoop earring gleam. He laughs and slaps the younger man’s black jersey. The younger man hunches over. His fuzzy blond hair reminds no one of the man whose name he wears. Deion Sanders isn’t really here.

By another T.V., Ravens shirts hold plastic cups and huddle around an overturned barrel. A rumpled man in a flannel shirt interrupts the mass of purple. His enthusiasm is his ticket into this crowd. When officials call a penalty against the Ravens, he shouts disapproval the loudest. He stays.

A woman in a Steelers jersey and red lipstick stands at a bar looking lost. She is not invited to approach the barrel.

Farther down the bar, football does not exist. Poster-board signs declare, “We Need 1’s, 5’s and 10’s. No 20’s, 50’s or Fake 100’s. We Have Plenty.” Two women sit below the signs, drinking Coronas.

“This is what I mean about playing these mind games,” one says, mercilessly separating an oyster from its shell. “That’s the part that rises my blood pressure, and due to my unhappiness, I will not have good health.” She swears, “I knew better. I knew all along he was leaving. I felt it.” The other woman nods and sips her beer.

Also tuning out the game, grey-haired men with wrinkled jackets and puffy faces stand around a picnic table that holds no plastic cups. Drinking Budweiser and Amstel Light from bottles, they laugh as one man casts an imaginary fishing line. Somebody’s grandson looks on from his stroller.

Back at the magnetic barrel, a bearded man in a straw hat and Ravens golf shirt approaches. He holds a plastic cup of Guinness that is big enough to share. The circle widens to accommodate him.

Late-twenties men and women in baseball caps mill past the barrel, oblivious to the 16-3 Ravens score that could mean this season’s first win. They stay across the room.

The woman at the bar rages on, interrupting herself only to order six more oysters. “He said, ‘I did not purposely not call you back,’” she lowers her voice, then bellows, “But you’re not sorry neither? I was just sitting in disbelief. It’s the principle of the thing.” The silent woman excuses herself. She walks several feet behind her to kiss a man slouching on a barstool, watching the game and nursing a beer.

Half the room celebrates as Ray Lewis makes a tackle and pounds his chest. Although his shirt wanders around the bar, Ray Lewis isn’t really here either.

Blocking a T.V., the pony-tailed bartender wears a shirt that reads, “I see drunk people,” and shells oysters. She assures a patron that he is not eating live oysters.

“I kill them when I open them. When I cut the muscle, I’m actually cutting the heart.” She laughs a mock evil laugh, not noticing the man’s look of horror.

Once her friend returns, the woman at the bar finishes her beer and sighs, “I just gotta get some anger out right now. But not today.”