I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
I have realized, lately, that I am, at best, a third cousin once removed from my own definition of self-awareness.
I like to think I’m savvy and a smooth operator, most of the time, but I had a bit of a bitter pill to swallow yesterday, when, on my way back from Scooba (perish the thought!), I had to stop and get gas.
This is hardly a new thing for me, but unlike my usual stop-and-gos at the Scooba Junction gas station, I had neglected to look at my gas gauge until I was in Brooksville, about twenty minutes north. I had no choice but to pull in at the only other gas station on Highway 45 between Starkville and Scooba.
I can’t remember the feebly-attempted witty name it had (Kountry Korner, or some other god-awful collective rape of the alphabet), so I shall refer to it as a vortex of evil. But, that’s as far as I’ll go because, oddly enough, I’m not here to talk about the gas station itself, other than this last thing: they overprice Every Thing.
No, what I’m here to talk about is the elderly black man with his walker pumping his own gas, which he somehow did by propping the pump itself in between the upper and lower handles of his walker. He left it there, and got back in his car.
I swear I need to get a digital camera.
I had finished pumping my gas, at this point, and as I drove away, he looked up at me.
So, I smiled the same smile I’ve been giving all people-I-don’t-know-but-I-want-to-appear-like-a-decent-human-being for years. He returned my smile with a look that was, if I do say so myself, dismissive and impolite.
I need to frame the rest of the story first, though.
No snake eyes for me.
I have a tendency to turn the rearview mirror onto myself when I drive. It’s silly and a bit narcissistic, but it also makes me feel less alone when I’m on the road. I’m not much in the way of this world, but I can be a fun traveling companion.
Also, I like looking at myself.
And, I’m not one bit ashamed to admit it.
I’m not gorgeous, it’s not that, I just like to see someone I respect looking back at me on my sojourns.
I say that to say this (a lovely phrase for so many cliched reasons), when I offered my smile to this man, I was actually able to catch my own reflection of said smile, in the process.
I’d never noticed this before, but as I drove past him, mulling over his look of disapproval, I, for the first time in my entire life, actually saw the smile that I gave him. The same smile I have given to thousands.
And boy was I in for a shock.
What I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles (but only the King James’ ones) was a sweet, how-do-you-do smile was in fact, a smirk.
I saw it, myself. A bona fide, certified smirk.
To be honest, the big one on the bottom scares me.
All this time, all these years, I thought I was giving a kind, acceptable and welcoming smile and instead, what was coming across my face was a holier-than-thou-even-if-there-could-be-a-week-of-Easter-Sundays grimace of sorts.
I looked as if I were a snooty man whose sole purpose was to drive through evil gas stations and through nothing but the sheer force of my facial expression alone moderate comeuppance to others.
I couldn’t believe it. I hated that look on my face, and above all, certainly because I wasn’t snooty.
Or, was I?
Because the little niggling doubt in the back of my mind is that I have a somewhat solid foothold in the belief that there’s a direct line of truthful communication between your subconscious and your face…even your head.
The Japanese hold to a belief that the head will always tell the truth, no matter what the voice is saying, that’s what Makoto told me.
So, I tried it, and it worked. Try it, yourself. Next time you ask someone a question, like, Do you think I look fat in this? Watch their heads. They may say No, but their heads will nod yes. Afterwards, jump down their throats for not telling you the truth.
Time and again, U.L. has said, Be mindful of your face. It’ll often say what you won’t. Head, face, it doesn’t matter. I need to get better acquainted with them both.
The horror is I think I was doing just what U.L. said, yesterday. God knows, I don’t mean half the things I must subconsciously think, but it’s hard to escape an upbringing. It’s hard to get away from your “home culture.” And part of our “home culture” in the Deep South is thinking, to some degree, that we’re a little bit better than other people. At least, those people at the end of the street, right?
And, who knows, maybe I was thinking that yesterday, without realizing it. Offering what I believed was a smile, saying, in effect, Hey, sir, we both get gas at the same place; we’re not so different, after all. But, my mind was apparently saying, I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas. Ha, ha.
Thus, the smirk.
Would you trust this man?
I’m a bit upset by this. But, my only alternative would be to show my pearly-whites from now ’til kingdom come, and that just won’t do.
I’d look like an idiot.
That’s what I said to Siciliana.
She came back with, ”Yeah, but at least you’d be an honest one.”
Can’t argue with that.
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Comments
2 Comments on I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
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Di on
Sun, 13th Dec 2009 6:51 am
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Brad on
Tue, 29th Dec 2009 7:28 am
I’m my favorite person to road trip with, and I never even thought about adjusting my mirror. What a thought. I actually rarely use mirrors; even when I happen by them, I don’t look. Hmmm wonder what that means….
Such a poignant blog…made me think about what my face has been doing without my knowledge!
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