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Rites of Spring

Ah, the annual rites of spring. My favorite rite is hearing the peepers call from the swamps. When I hear them for the first time, I roll down my car window, slow down, and take a deep breath as I listen. Relief. No matter what happens now, winter is over.

Another rite is the annual March trek to get a Guinness. It’s St. Patrick’s Day. Faith, begorrah, and beer.

As I’m sipping my drink a handsome man approaches. This is another rite I look forward to every year—handsome men coming out of hibernation. “So, you gotta Guinness there?” he says to me.

Not the best opening line but certainly not the worst. Believe me, on previous St. Patrick’s Day outings I’ve heard far worse.

“Yup,” I answer.

“Yeah, me too.” He pauses. Looks me up and down. “Where’s your husband?”

Here we go.

“He’s at home,” I answer.

“What’s he doing there?”

“Well...he’s mowing the lawn. Doing the dishes, laundry, vacuuming.”

“All-ah that? Why doesn’t he come down here?”

“Aw, he’s too busy! He doesn’t have time to come down here. Too much work to do!”

This guy should realize I’m completely joking but the next thing he says is that he’s been drinking since noon. It’s now six o’clock. He asks me my name, then asks more questions about my hard-working husband. Finally he gets that I’ve been fooling with him when I tell him that I’m not really married and that I’ve been fooling with him.

“Oh so you’re funny, huh? Did you even tell me your real name?”

Of course I did. However, I reply, “Sterling. Simone Sterling.”

I’ve watched too many James Bond movies.

“Simone Sterling. That’s a great name! Hey wait, is that really your name?”

“No. I told you my real name before.”

“Aw, now you’re just messing with me.”

“Yeah, I am.”

We clink glasses.

“You’re like, some kinda jokester aren’t you?” he says.

“Today, yes. Irish sense of humor. I’m honoring my heritage.”

“What kinda car you drive?” he asks.

Why do men always want to know what kind of car you drive? Does it actually matter?

“One of those...um...SUVs. I’m into those.” I’m formulating a fib but haven’t quite gotten it to jell yet.

“Oh yeah, me too! What kinda SUV?”

“It’s a Hummer.”

“A Hummer. Whaaaa—cool! What color?”

“Yellow. And it has the wheel rims that spin and red flames painted along the sides. It’s boss.”

I’ve been watching too much Better Call Saul, which recently featured a ridiculous vehicle like the one I’ve just described.

He squints his eyes. “I don’t buhlieve you,” he says. Then he turns to my friend Cola who’s sitting near us.

“She have a Hummer?” he asks her.

“Yeah,” Cola says.

“What color?”

“Canary yellow.”

Cola has great hearing.

“Aw, now! You’re joking, too! You both—you.” While pointing a finger he notices his empty glass. “Awwww, I need another Guinness!”

Another Guinness poured and delivered to the man whose been downing them since noon.

“So whaddaya, um, like, a vegetarian?” he asks out of nowhere. I suppose he’s asking because I’m pale. Winter in New England does that do a person, gives that look. Not healthy vegetarian, pale vegetarian.

“No. Veggies are for wimps,” I answer.

“So, whaddaya only eat meat?”

“Yup.”

“Throw it on the grill or somethin’?”

“No. Raw.”

“Raw?” He pauses. Takes a drink of Guinness. “Whaddaya slice it thin or what?”

“Sometimes.”

He takes another drink of Guinness. “You all paleo or what?”

“Totally paleo.”

Where in the world can this conversation be going?

“You only eat raw—waitaminnute, are you messing with me again?”

“Noooooooo. Yes.”

We clink glasses. His is empty. “Am I going to see you again?” he asks, smiling.

Spring and all of its annual rites have arrived. As I write this up, the weather people are threatening snow. Not to worry. Like a post–St. Patty’s Day hangover, the snow won’t last long. Then the peepers will return, throwing out mating calls like men with bellies full of Guinness.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com.