[Sidebar] The Worcester Phoenix
February 13 - 20, 1998

[Tales From Tritown]

Cupid's arrows

True love in Tritown -- fact or friction?

by Sally Cragin

Illustration by Michelle Barbera

[Tales From Tritown] Romance in Tritown is often a singly splendored thing. It's not uncommon for high-school sweethearts to marry, and often love emerges as early as grammar school. Several factors are responsible for this trend: Tritown's geographical isolation (surrounded by hills and rivers, the train comes but once a day), and the tendency for Tritownies to stay put. There are just enough local businesses to keep the majority of the population in work, and just enough educational institutions to instruct the remainder.

In such a secluded environment, the gene pool is understandably shrinking. It's not as severe as the situation in Iceland, where families have intermarried for a thousand years, but given enough time, it probably will be. Hollis the Mountain Man likes the cultural quarantine, but Delia Ellis Bell the Partial Yankee (there was a questionable great-great-grandmother) finds it dispiriting. "We met everyone who was going to be on our life raft for the next 12 years in first grade," she complains one afternoon at Happy's Coffee and Qwik-Stop (30 kinds of doughnuts, 20 kinds of lottery tickets, one kind of coffee).

"Brother, no kiddin'," remarks $erena the waitress (Happy's indentured daughter). She was busy topping off their coffee, and stays to overhear a fragment of conversation. Valentine's Day is fast approaching, and $erena had pasted a few red foil hearts to the window. "Like, where's the romance, y'know?" Her voice was resigned, the gravely, breathy murmur of a career smoker. She isn't much out of her teens but seems of indeterminate age. Her shape is vaguely matronly, yet she wears a bright red ponytail and pink pompom earrings on chains so long they swung against her freckled cheeks.

Since she started as a waitress, she's had a long-standing association with Hasky Tarbox Jr. of Tarbox Automotive ("Collisions? A Specialty"). It's a relationship as stable as oil and vinegar, and as enduring. Shake-ups are always followed by genuine harmony, but the shake-ups could be substantial.

Delia stole a glance at $erena's hands. Nothing but a burn from the Bunn coffeemaker between her thumb and forefinger. This is not a good sign -- $erena loves jewelry, especially the baubles she's received from Hasky through the years.

Hollis is, of course, oblivious to the look passed between $erena and Delia. He contentedly drinks his coffee and chews on his Creme Horn.

"Well," begins Delia, in her best Sunday school manner. "You've certainly made an effort toward romance with these decorations."

"Huh," snorts $erena. "Somebody's gotta do something. I swear -- "

She continues, shaking her head. "There's no romance in Tritown -- just routine."

She wheels away smartly. Her high rubber boots emit a damp squeak and a trail of footprints, which didn't bode well for the state of the kitchen.

"What's with her?" Delia wonders aloud.

"The usual," Hollis responded.

"Two households, both alike in indignity . . . " he begins.

"Oh, come off it," she says. "What's the true dope -- besides Hasky, of course."

Hollis titters, a low gurgling, and then raises an oil-stained index finger to his beard-braced lips. "More drama," he hisses. "Notice she's not wearing her `pre-engagement' engagement ring?"

Delia flicks a glance at $erena, but she's busy behind the cash register. "You mean that bent silver spoon ring?"

"The very one. But, we can't talk here," he says slyly, pulling down his woolen cap. "Let's hit the road."

THIS YEAR, HOLLIS'S TRUCK -- perversely -- runs best in rotten weather. For a man without romantic attachments, he therefore has had to anthropomorphize the items from his daily life. His love for his truck rates high on this list.

Light snow begins to fall after he and Delia have paid for coffee, leaving a 40 percent tip for $erena. Hollis, contrary to his usual miserly ("Frugal!" he yelps) self, actually gives her a whole dollar on a $2.50 tab, so Delia knows something was afoot. Hollis's truck hems and haws but finally starts up. "Where to?" asks Delia.

"Automotive Discounters," Hollis mutters. He pulls out onto the road, while Delia fumbles with her safety belt.

The roads are clear as they rattle along. Delia waits for Hollis to start speaking, and then couldn't resist. "You know," she begins, "in high school, it seemed like I was always the one with the good story -- how is it you have the scoop on me here?"

Hollis's face creases in his jack-o'-lantern grin, as he pulls into the parking lot.

At the store, he pretends to open the automatic swinging door for Delia, a performance that never fails to make her giggle. They drift toward the accessories department, and then Hollis tells the tale.

"Just a case of putting two and two together," he begins, fingering a sheepskin car seat. "Eighty bucks!" he yelps. "What kind of sheep are they, cashmere?"

"Get on with the story!" Delia urges, examining the dangling fragrance trees.

"Eew, coconut!" she says. "Couldn't live with that without thinking I'd spilled a Margarita somewhere."

"The story," Hollis intones dramatically. "Is that awhile ago, I happened to be buying my lottery ticket at Happy's, when I saw $erena filling out a form. And I know it was too early for taxes." He moves down the aisle. "Hmmm," he says. "Zebra stripes. Very convincing."

Delia turns the car seat cover over. "Genuine acrylic polymers. Same stuff as Astroturf," she snorted. "Comfy -- now what form?"

"Ah," says Hollis, moving on to a seat cover in tufted blue the brightness of a gas jet. "Now that's interesting -- it was for a cosmetology school. Somewhere in Rhode Island."

He runs his hand along the fake fur. "What do you think of this?" he asks.

"Are you color blind?" Delia asks.

"It's pretty intense," she says, and then, "in Rhode Island?"

"Yeah," says Hollis. "Little Rhody."

"Kinda far to drive, don'tcha think?"

Delia meets his glance. "Especially in her Volvo that Hasky still hasn't fixed the manifold on," she says.

Hollis holds the seat cover behind his faded dungarees. "I could live with this," he says.

But Delia's mind is racing. "Why cosmetology school," she wonders. "Why now? Weren't they planning a wedding?"

"Now that's all part of the story," says Hollis. "I happened to notice driving by the Tarboxes, that the downstairs window was lit up like the Tritown Drive-in on a moonless night. Turned out it was an Advent TV. See, $erena and Hasky had secretly made a date for the wedding again, and he managed to blow the money they'd saved on an Advent TV. The Olympics, y'know? Particularly the snowboarding women. He can't resist all those Ludmillas and Helgas."

He puts the seat cover back and selects a crimson number. "I like this," he says, holding it behind his backside. "Super-saturated Red. I could live with this, and it wouldn't show the blood stains if I am in an accident."

Delia shakes her head. "That's a completely disgusting story," she says. "Even more disgusting than buying a Valentine seat cover for your truck."

Sally Cragin edits Button, New England's tiniest magazine of poetry, fiction, and gracious living, in Lunenburg.


The Tales From Tritown archive


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