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2003-08-01 - 7:20 a.m. The Pink Duck Tag Sale No, I'm not packed. No, I'm not caught up at work. Yes, I wish I was home packing. Yes, I'm still stuck at work. Hmmm. Let's move on to something more entertaining, like the continuation of yesterday's story. One fine June, Theodora and Roland traveled to the far reaches of Connecticut to attend the wedding of their old college friend, Laila. Mark had snagged a ride along to the wedding, and we had picked up our fourth companion (victim), Francesca in New Jersey on the way to Connecticut. After the Antler-Woman experience, the four heros had drifted silently off to bed. I mean, what more was there to say after seeing Giselle? It is now Saturday morning. The wedding isn't until 3 pm, so we must find some way to amuse ourselves, always a dangerous proposition. We begin with a foray for breakfast. Now, we are in the middle of *nowhere* in Connecticut. So, wisely, we ask the desk clerk for suggestions. She says, Hmm. About the only place close is either the pizza place or Rest'N'News. We veto pizza. I mean, sure, if there's cold pizza in the fridge, I consider it breakfast food, but I'm not going to *order* pizza at 8 am. So we opt for the Rest'N'News. Whatever that it. What the heck, what else are we going to do until 3pm? The directions went something like this. Turn left out of the parking lot, go abouts two miles until you come to the traffic light. Turn left onto main street and the Rest'N'News will be on the left. Note, she referred to it as the traffic light. That should've warned us. Still, three turns seems straight forward enough. On the way there, we pass a yard sale. Now, at least, that's what I've always called it when you clean out your basement, dump the stuff on tables in the front yard and hope passersby stop and buy it to take home to their basements. But, apparently in New Jersey, these events are called tag sales. Ah, how travel always broadens your horizons. In the brief instant we pass it, we all note this hideous PINK duck prominently featured on the front table. I don't know if it's marble or plastic or what, but it is PINK. Is it a decoy or a decoration? Are ducks colorblind? My thought is to just nip by quickly, and try to forget it ever happened. But, I did not reckon on Francesca's presence. You see, Francesca is from New Jersey, and, among her other endearing qualities, she has a fatal attraction to tacky things. She pleads with me to stop. In fact, she eggs Mark on until they are swaying the back seat, chanting Pink Duck! Pink Duck! Pink Duck! like a pair of five year olds. Roland looks like he is considering defecting to the enemy. I ignore them. I am an adult. We are NOT stopping to ogle a pink duck. No, I don't care. No! This quickly brings the chanting to a halt to be replaced by pouting. I ignore this too. I am a more mature person than the three idiots in my car. Ah, but we have reached the traffic light. The turnoff to breakfast. I am saved. We turn onto Main Street, and park at the end of the block. Notice, again I say *the* block, because could see both ends of town from the middle of Main. We park in front of the liquor store. Across the street from this booze-n-bait-while-you-wait establishment is a deserted building, the kind that is the stuff a ten year old's dreams. A one story warehouse or factory, built of old brown-red brick. The windows are floor to ceiling with panes of glass, some broken, some swung open. It is sits invitingly a couple hundred feet from the road, on a wooded, overgrown lot spanning a several acres. And, just to top off the childish temptation, the entire thing is surround by a beautiful, iron wrought fence, slightly rusted. There are sharp spikes on top and honeysuckle entwined with poison ivy covers patches of the fence. Steven King could not top this place. It is wonderous and lush, just inviting exploration. At least, Mark and I think so. Perhaps I'm not necessarily more mature than the three idiots in my car. Roland and Francesca are being fuddy-duddies and want to eat breakfast instead of trespassing on private property. So Mark and I are dragged off to the Rest'N'News, squalling like ten years old deprived pulled out of the treehouse. We go through the entrance and stop dead in startlement. Abrupt scene change. You are traveling through space and time, in a dimension of thought and sound - you have now entered the 1950s. The walls are fake wood panelling. There is still a soda counter. The tables are cheap formica, surrounded by metal chairs upholstered in that shade of burnt orange vinyl that was ever so popular with Beaver's mom. Specials are written on the chalkboard on the back wall. It is obvious that we are the third wave - the hunters and fisherman must have come in around 6am, followed by the crowd on their way to work about 7ish. Welcome to a place where everyone knows each other's names, and blueberry pancakes will be 50 cents extra if you don't mind, thank you kindly. Judging by the menu, this place also never received all the news about grease, red meat, and cholestrol that came out after 1950. I'm not sure what the 'News' portion of the name means, all the printed material available seems to be tabloids. (We choose to read up on the latest Martha Stewart expose. The Star's crossword puzzle is hideously easy by the way.) But, the 'Rest' part certainly holds true- the food is excellent, the waitress are easy going (no waiters in the 1950s), the chairs are comfortable, there are three kinds of syrup on the table, and you can stay for as long as you wish, just rest yourself right there. We polish off breakfast and push back from the table with a long sigh. It's now 9am. Six hours to kill until the wedding. We walk back toward the car, but Mark and I cannot overcome temptation. We keep walking, edging our way along the fence, looking for a gate or convenient climbing spot to explore that deserted building. Roland and Francesca are yelling at us to stop, if we get shot it serves us right, and, no, they are NOT bailing us out of jail. Ah, ignore the old fuddy duddies. But, common sense does suggest that climbing the fence facing Main street, no matter how deserted it is, is just asking for trouble. So, we follow the fence around the corner and wind up on the rail road tracks. Another abrupt scene change. Think of that defining moment in the film Stand By Me, where the four boys first climb onto the tracks and stand there, facing their destiny. The wind blows softly in our faces. The sun is warm and dry, and the tracks stretch out before us chasing away towards infinity, fraught with every possibility a ten year old (or those of equivalent mental age) can contemplate. Mark and I look at each other. There is only one thing to do. We draw ourselves up shoulder to shoulder, link arms, and belt out the 'Stand by Me' theme music as the top of our lungs as we stride down the tracks, looking for a place to climb the fence. A thought occurs. Mark, you know this means we're going to find a dead body. I don't want to find a dead body today. I'm sorry; it's in the script But we have to get to a wedding. Too bad, it's fated. Well, if its inevitable, I suppose we must. We start singing the next verse. Roland and Francesca are standing behind us at the intersection of main street and the railroad tracks, in that pose your mother gets when she's tapping her foot. Arms crossed, faces flushed with anger, yelling about no trespassing, getting ourselves shot, and pointing out that they have the car keys. That is a definitive argument. Brakes. Reverse. Fine, mutter, stomp, we will get back in the car with you boring people, but we only have half the Star crossword left and five hours until the wedding! Mark and I stalk towards the car. What else are we going to do? Slam the car door open. Watch Discovery Channel? Slam the car door closed. Cause we all need another taste of Giselle's great moose adventures! I start the car and we retrace our journey to the hotel. Of course, the problem is we must again pass the Pink Duck Tag Sale. Again, the chanting starts from the back seat. Now, I want to pause for a second here and point out that (a) we have now proven Mark is always on the side of evil, (b) they wouldn't let me trespass and now they all want to stop at the Pink Duck Tag Sale, and (c) this entire morning is running like a series of Saturday Night Live skits. But we are not safe yet. In a fit of madness, with the chanting seeping into my brain, I stop at the Pink Duck Tag Sale. Now, I want you all to know up front that, AFTER ALL THAT FUSS, Francesca had an attack of good taste and refused to buy The Pink Duck. And, I want you to know it was, in fact, painted wood. And, that the owner wouldn't disclose its original purpose nor would he discuss whether it could float. However, we did consider purchasing the 18" tall corkscrew that was wound into the ground (Mark saw great potential for this involving duck sauce. Twitch.). We spent a good ten minutes speculating on what it was and what it could be, until the owner icily pointed out that it was a dog post. (Wind it into the ground and attach the dog leash.) We did acquire a bumper sticker for my in-laws stating "I'm out spending my kids inheritance." Hey, it was worth the entire quarter it cost, and it's a gift, so its not going in my basement. Finally, having exhausted the gambit of burnt orange afghans in burnt orange and lime green baby booties, we gave up and got back in the car. An anticlimactic return to the hotel to read the second half of the Martha Stewart expose and learn she is mean to dogs and pool boys. The wedding went quite smoothly after all that. Though, strangely, the happy couple had been married for months and hadn't told any of the guests. And the wedding cake was shaped like a Japanese animee dragon. And, the next morning, after we finally got Mark to the supposedly nearbly train station (HA!), that he supposedly had directions to (Double HA!), so he could get the train to Jersey, where his boyfriend could pick him up and they could get back to DC to Dulles to meet Mark's ex-boyfriend who was flying in from Oxford that afternoon (and BOY is that another story altogether), the remainder of us ended up having a nice brunch with the bride and groom. At the pizza place. One block from the hotel. They have omelettes. Hum along with me now - we're on the final chorus of Stand By Me. � � � 
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