Yet another adventure of the scope of communication:
Recently I was met with an occasion to tell a man what kind of car I drove. He was selling me a drill, being nicely helpful, not at all patronizing, had just pointed out that the $29 model would serve my needs adequately. I eyed this much-cheaper-than-I-had-expected-to-have-to-pay item with doubt. (Being pleasantly surprised, as it tends to do, would come later).
“What’s the difference between this one and the $69 one?” I asked.
“It’s like the difference between cars, um, say a – ” he hesitated.
“A VW and a Lincoln?” I chirped in.
He looked a bit startled at this comparison but recouped with a laugh, “More like a VW and a Buick.”
Now, I was betraying age because nowdays a VW is not considered a cheap(er) car. And I thought Buicks and Lincolns shared equal poshness but learned something from this gent about car hierarchy.
Anyway – it occurred to me a paragraph or so ago that this was NOT the occasion when I had to identify my car but having started recounting the incident I felt I had to finish it.
The car identifying; this time I’m pretty sure I’m headed in the right direction.
I was trugging driftwood up from the ocean, both arms engaged, purse swinging from elbow and threatening to trip me. Having made it up the incline from the beach I reached the sidewalk. My car was about ten cars along the roadway. The load under my left arm was shifting and I stopped to do a one arm wriggle to re-establish it without having to lay down the two longer pieces I was dragging with my right hand.
Several people passed me and smiled. I had on my “No, really, I’m fine,” look. One can perfect such a shield of independence.
But I must have quirked an eyebrow in the facade – or perhaps he was used to such tactics and realized the worth of sidestepping them – for a man stopped and asked if he could help while making definite motions to relieve me of the two pieces of wood I had been dragging. I gave them up gratefully.
“Which car?” he asked as we started along the row. (cont…)