The Midsummer Mash, Part 1

"Somewhere there is an ancient enmity between our daily life and the great work. Help me, in saying it, to understand it." -Rainer Maria Rilke

I wanted to tell you about Moab Utah and the Fourth of July. This bit of ancient history might cause your eyes to roll, and if so, I apologize. Bad blogger. Lost audience. No biscuit.

But here it is: I was scolded, or perhaps scoffed at, by a strange, longhaired small-town Ute for saying to him, and his curious family, upon the conclusion of the fireworks we watched from the patio of the bed-and-breakfast (delightful place called Adobe Abode, if you're ever in Moab) we shared: "Happy Fourth of July."

This man, whom Tara and I first glimpsed through a pane of glass in his underwear as he watched us unload our bags from the rental car. Staring at us he was, rubbing his hairy torso, his head-cape of wispy, back-length hair about his shoulders, and in that underwear: a manboy pair of briefs, with thick crossings creating the Byzantine fly.

Perhaps he didn't realize he was visible to us, I thought, scrutinizing the new arrivals from the safety of his room. Perhaps he was European, it somehow occurred to me, of a kind less skittish about their naked boldness. Perhaps, it was a bad sign. I can't say what other kind of sign an underwear clad man watching you from his room would be, but I suppose it doesn't have to be bad one.

So, it follows that this man belonged to a party of three: a young male of ambiguous age, maybe twenty, with a shaved head and early moustache, and a woman, meek and plump, in that oh-so American way, were his companions. The younger man had a slight German accent when he spoke, and the woman, who didn't say much, also returned our pleasantries. The man, however, said nothing. Twice during the weekend I emerged into the common room and, when seeing him in all his hirsute glory, offered a nod, a good morning or a hello and received nothing in return. Though eye contact was made, this man, with a slight nostril exhalation in the manner of farm animals, would turn away and say nothing.

I always find this remarkable. An active, even aggressive, disregard to the most common of salutations. That's not easy to do! With some people, I might've assumed he was terribly shy. But with this man, I sensed it wasn't that.

We arrived on Friday July 3rd. That party of three, and Tara and I, were the only guests at the Adobe Abode all weekend. So on Saturday night, when this "family" joined Tara and I, along with the B&B owner and his lady friend, on the porch for fireworks from the town below, we weren't necessarily enthusiastic. Great, I thought. He comes the creepy S&M couple with their German whipping boy. But, in the manner of B&B relations, we did our best to adjust porch chairs, mutter greetings and welcome them to the viewing. This was, after all, the Great American Fireworks Exhibition symbolizing our break from Britain.

Needless to say, there wasn't much interaction. The arrival of the family snuffed out what was left of the light banter Tara and I had going with the owner and his friend. We concentrated on the town of Moab below, our vantage from this outskirt perch optimal, and waited for fireworks. When they appeared, the occasional "ooh" was offered by one of us, overcome with bonhomie. I believe one such outpouring was offered by the woman of the family.

After the finale's aftermath was given its proper waiting period, I offered, "Good night, all," and stood, indicating it was time for this swell party to break up. But, after a pause, and these people still lingering on that section of porch near our room, I added, "Happy Fourth of July." To which this odd, taciturn longhaired man replied, "You mean: 'Happy Independence Day.' You don't say 'Happy December twenty-five,' do you?" Everyone laughed politely. He chortled.

Inside the room, the echo of his comment bounced around my brain. Was I miffed? Did I care? I considered interactions it reminded me of, times when the silent ones finally pipe up. Often, it's a stoic male revealing his inner monologue, one which, more often than not, appears ugly. The stunting matter-of-factness of insecurity. Men whose reticence might betray a thoughtful soul instead, with their piping up, outs their inner arrogance. I remain quiet while you fools jabber around me. They think they're powerful, but no one recognizes it.

If you cannot tell, I have a problem with men like this. And it's almost always the men. I have a problem with impertinence. Someone who thinks they have a right to "place putting" when no opening, or call for such is necessary. Especially when the intended meaning, one extended to include you, my brother, is of general goodwill. Exactness is not required. Exactness is hardly the point.

But the next morning, Sunday, I was up early watching the finals of Wimbledon. By my early rising, I had wrested control of the TV from this family, which had dominated it all weekend, though each room was equipped with its own. When the family slowly emerged and noticed me, there in their living room watching tennis with the sound off, they were unsure how to proceed.

The young man, who, though shy, had at least returned our hellos and good mornings, was the first to encounter me. We exchanged a nod and he lingered around before finally deciding to sit. We exchanged another nod, and a little conversation. Then the woman came out and milled about, getting ready to leave I suspected, but she wanted to sit a minute, too. Finally the man came out, doing what was now his familiar strut, his head slightly forward of his body, his eyes darting around, his trailing mane of hair imperious as a lead singer's.

At other times, I may have harbored a bad feeling for him, feeling somewhat censured as I did by his comment of the night before. Instead, I just watched him. I've let these guys go. I assumed he didn't mean what he said to be confrontational. Suddenly, he stepped into the space between the coffee table and TV, but not blocking the screen, and he started to talk to me. Two days of no interactions, and now he's asking where I'm from. Go figure.

From this unexpected bit of conversation, I learned these things: it turns out the young man is the longhaired man's son, who has been living in Germany for sixteen years. He is now in the military there. The man and this woman, not the boy's mother, live five hours from Moab in another part of Utah. On numerous occasions they have visited the Adobe Abode, a show of good taste I'm obliged to acknowledge. When they left, Tara and I had the entire place to ourselves for Sunday night, and Monday morning I walked down the opposite wing of the property where they had stayed. There, three nice rooms are found, and I saw that in the room in which this family stayed there was an extra twin bed for the young man. That is, my Tarantino-esque master and servant fantasy was quickly debunked.

In the end, much of the mystery was removed, and the underwear flash was not, after all, a bad omen for our stay. It turned out these folks were just small-town, somewhat awkward people, and our only companions for the July 4th...um, Independence Day weekend.

There are so many people out there. Though my ache for common ground and understanding goes on, unabated, I realize, again and again, that assumptions are dangerous and people are unique. I wish we could always remember that, even after interactions we don't, at first, understand.

Check out this fun picture from our trip!