The Day the Sought-After Died

Saturday marked the conclusion of three years waiting to attend the Pioneer Valley’s most singular, self-congratulatory event. After learning in summer 2019 that Hadley, Massachusetts, is considered The Asparagus Capital of the World, Sue and I endured two Covid-cancelled years to celebrate the lone foodstuff capable of igniting curiosity about imbibing one’s own delicious-smelling urine. I’d told my boss about our plans, and he said that Hadley grass (as it’s righteously known in these parts) is only edible when served at a restaurant, as if sautéing or roasting the spear in one’s domicile should be outlawed due to fears that it’ll become weaponized after automatic firearms disappear.

Sue showed me her new carrot-themed Crocs adorned with vegetable Jibbitz, a fitting beginning to a day honoring crops. We drove north and engaged in our usual catching-up small talk, prompting me to inform her about the most absurd portion of Moore’s latest emails.

“Now what you’ve come for: impressions! Here’s Meryl Streep showing her disdain for her assistant’s choice of lunch delivery.

‘Evelyn, I’m not enjoying this Monte Cristo sandwich.’

I'm still working on it.”

Bursting into laughter, it became a goofy callback during the day’s Blebbzventure. Sure, you’ve read about these sequences before, but in the aftermath we both reported about nearly overdosing during our respective Blebbzhighs—be prepared to read choice nouns from the Blebbzicon—that fueled us through Sunday work shifts, the positive energy overflowing enough to be dammed for a swim in a Blebbzpond. (Just kidding. Sue would drown.)

A hippie with a ring of saliva around his dehydrated lips yelled while directing traffic in the free parking lot. I hate seeing people with unnecessary power going overboard and acted accordingly.

“You’re gonna need to back up a little bit,” Drymouth informed me.

“I think I’m gonna park in the road.”

“Bring it a little closer to me.”

“Should I drive into their van?” earned a blatantly fake chuckle.

“Do you think he’s being paid to do this?” Sue asked after he began irritating the next sedan owner.

“Yes. With fentanyl and Slayer tickets. And maybe a Dick’s Picks CD.”

Approaching the festival “gate”—an imaginary line with one elderly woman on each side shaming people into five-dollar suggested cash donations to attend the gratis festivities—it took only fifty feet before an unnamed stranger let his presence be known.

“Pink Hair!” he said.

“Dude, it’s Suntan Guy,” I told Sue.

“Oh, geez! What are you doing here?” Sue said to him.

“Good to see you,” he mercifully offered instead of answering the question (that he maybe misheard). “Have fun.”

When Sue goes tanning, she often sees the poorly named Suntan Guy, but we’d also run into him during a town wide tag sale a few weeks prior to this relocated rendezvous. Taking a loop around the common, we made a joint mental note about purchasing either asparagus pierogies or deep-fried spears, pausing so Sue could browse tie-dye clothing, ask if I wanted a radiant photograph of an owl, and determine which produce she’d claim before departing.

“These high waist shorts are killing me!” Sue whispered about a nearby hipster’s unfortunate sartorial choice.

“The worst,” I replied. “Look at that pale lady in the floral dress. Well, she’s more a girl than a lady.”

“Lady Girl Johnson?”

“She could be Björk’s neighbor.”

“Never mind her straw hat. What is this? The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and that guy from the movie? You know, the one who went on adventures.”

“Many movie characters have gone on adventures.”

“The one from the ‘80s with Harrison Ford!”

“Ohhhh, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom?”

“YES!”

Settling on a container of pickled garlic Hadley grass spears, two bundles of freshly mowed Hadley grass, and one quart of strawberries, Sue enjoyed a maple hibiscus lemonade as we shared the deep-fried spears with roasted tomato jam. A Spanish language band took the stage as the ninety-nine percent Caucasian attendees pretended to know what the fuck they sang about.

“I’m gonna throw the lead singer a capo and request ‘Wonderwall,’” I told Sue.

“What?”

“The Oasis song,” I said as I began singing it.

“Yeah, I know. Why that song?”

First, I’d lost Drymouth. Now, Sue. Appears I’d entered my own season in the abyss.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

We hadn’t expected the festival to occupy excess time and headed for the Amherst Farmers’ Market a few miles northeast. I expounded on an anecdote shared via text earlier in the week—a University of New Haven student named Carl that we’d met at a record store had visited The Outlet on Tuesday and, since I was playing Siamese Dream, mentioned that his band covered the album in full only for Billy Corgan to confirm he liked it, leading to their YouTube video garnering four million-plus views—as we walked to our second common of the morning.

There was no suggested shaming as we took a trademark loop (more a square, really) although I didn’t require a second chance to know I needed a potato onion sourdough loaf along with a spinach and feta croissant. When Sue lasered in on a morning glory muffin, I peered at a mysterious sugar-coated pastry called a gibassier. Loaded with anise seed and orange extract, we grabbed four baby bok choy bunches to accompany our decadent breakfasts. Devouring them during a short walk past the now shuttered Judie’s, a superb landmark restaurant, I decided to visit Mystery Train and recommended the vegan bakery around the corner once Sue finished inhaling her muffin.

I would’ve been happy enough to unearth a cheap ‘70s jazz album titled Synchronicity during my self-allotted fifteen minutes, but as I frantically scanned the Wall of Pricey Goodness, a half-covered Holy Grail smacked me in the peepers.

“Would you mind taking it down?”

“That’s a first pressing.”

“I thought so. No skips?”

“It’s VG. Some pops and light noise. We played it once and no skips. I’ll guarantee it if you buy it. Has the torso back cover too.”

“Sweet! I saw one with the censored sticker at a shop in Georgia recently. Wasn’t for sale. The guy in Florence has a few on his wall too, but none for sale. This is the first one I’ve ever seen in a store that’s actually for sale! How long has it been on the wall?”

“Over a year.”

“Really?!”

“We mainly sell folky stuff and jazz. Nobody even asked to look at it.”

We had a deal. I entered in search of Wendy Carlos and Caetano Veloso only to leave with Police-less Synchronicity and an original copy of The Velvet Underground & Nico.

Turning the corner out of the shop’s driveway, sun beamed on Sue in her lime-colored tank top as she sat with an open, grease-spotted paper bag on the table, fitting given she’d anointed the day with a theme: nonstop chewing.

“Found something?” she asked while smiling.

“Yeah. You did too, huh?”

“Didn’t you check your texts? COOKIES! Dude, I have major news!”

“Me too. You go first though.”

She affected a whisper, as if the proprietor might inflate the price post-chew: “They had the cookies for…a dollar fifty each!”

“Wow! What’d you get?”

“Two chocolate chip, one ginger molasses, and what’s that bread you like? Focaccia! Anyway, I got two pieces so we could each have one.”

“You like it too, silly.”

“I know, but I always forget about it, clearly. So…what’s your news?”

“Well,” I said while extracting Synchronicity, “I found another album named in honor of my favorite concept.”

“That’s awesome, Blebbz!” she said as if I were done.

“And…” I slowly pulled the plastic-covered white jacket out of the bag as I explained how I considered the forthcoming LP the ultimate record collector piece. “An original banana album!”

“Holy shit!”

“It’s cuz I wore the shirt,” I said while pulling on my Taylor Swift 1989 tour tee (hereafter known as Lucky 13).

We elatedly approached an elderly black man singing by a bus stop. He pointed at my shirt.

“Taylor Swift?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She’s written more great songs than that guy. What’s his name? Uh…Jjjaahh…”

“Neil Diamond!” I said for no reason while pointing back at him.

“That’s him,” he replied.

“I think he was about to say John Cougar Menstrual Cramp,” I told Sue. “He’d be right.”

Adrenaline won so we returned to the market for another muffin prior to a Target bathroom break. Fearing the car was lacking comestibles, Trader Joe’s (arugula, fennel, elote corn chips, and caramel peanut butter popcorn) and Whole Foods (salted cookie dough bites and lime mint elderflower spring water) filled the gap. Juanita, the Joe’s cashier, complimented Sue’s hair and rings then received an endorsement of her bright shirt in return.

“What about me?” I asked her and Sue.

“Another guy said that recently,” Juanita responded. “I was too busy noticing his wife.”

“That’s how we girls get when we like what one another is wearing,” Sue affirmed.

“Well, I’m fragile.”

“I like your hat,” Juanita told me. “Great color.”

“Aww, thanks,” I said while laughing.

A customer had highly recommended an Amherst nursery to Sue, which you can guess was our next destination. (Rich irony that we both travel far to visit competitors and shop for items we’re surrounded by when on the clock, huh?) For all the times I’ve dragged Sue to record stores—not that she dislikes them, but she doesn’t listen to vinyl—she’s only had me accompany her on limited flower finding missions. Petting yellow snap dragons, sniffing marigolds (and not comprehending why people abhor their smell), and admiring gorgeously cloud-capped distant oaks and pines allowed Sue the freedom to frantically search for gems her employer doesn’t stock, talking to herself and visibly mapping out where she’d plant them in her own garden. She settled on six plants—geeking out over perennial black-eyed Susans—and we took photos of one another in the perennial garden by the entrance-slash-exit, the peacock-colored mobiles flapping in the breeze to produce an iridescent BIV-blended color palette behind us.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Now in Northampton, Sue grabbed a bite or two of cookie and headed to Deals & Steals, a beloved discount store, while I figured Lucky 13 may help me discover another item I didn’t know I had to have. As I descended the final blocky stair into Turn It Up, a cozy and excellent record store, I saw a familiar face.

“Gaucho Rob,” I said to an Outlet regular previously called Cowboy Rob while extending my fist for a bump.

“Hey! I got your email. I’ll be in for those three Neil Young records on Tuesday.”

“Cool. I’ll be there. What are you doing in town? Got a concert?”

“Nah, my wife and I are going to Mulino’s. We had our first date there so it’s sentimental. We come up here every few months.”

“Ever been to Thai Garden? It’s only one of the greatest restaurants there is!”

“What restaurant did you say?” asked a bald middle-aged man using a laptop behind the counter. After I told him, he seemed a bit shocked. “I mean, Thai Garden’s good, but greatest ever?”

“I’ve eaten half that menu. I’ll vouch for the place forever.”

Rob said he had to run but chose to pay me the compliment Juanita never could’ve granted.

“The Outlet essay in your book is the best example of what it’s like to work at, shop at, and depict the appeal of the independent record store experience that I’ve ever read.”

“Wow!” I said in genuine shock as rain drops formed in my eyes. “Thank you!”

“We’ll talk about it more when I see you.”

“Okay. Next time: Thai Garden!” I was merely half-kidding.

“You talking about Music Outlet in Enfield?” the bald guy asked. “You wrote about it?”

Upon explaining how I work there along with it being where Sue and I met, I told him about my book and learned his name is Patrick. He owns the three Turn It Up stores, the one in Montague never turning a profit but kept open because the adjacent Bookmill is where he and his wife had their first date. Patrick proved to be an open book himself, explaining why he closed the Keene store, unveiling operational behind-the-scenes details about the excellent Brattleboro location, and even indulging more food hyperbole when he concurred that the Israeli restaurant across the street from his shop in Brattleboro has the best hummus around.

In an even more surprising turn of events, his co-worker patiently waited before divulging that he was Uncle Gary’s first ever Outlet employee! Mike helped Gary for his inaugural year in Northampton but couldn’t work in Enfield due to the travel distance. Too bad Gaucho Rob was likely swirling Italian bread in olive oil at the moment because his humbling comment had spawned a conversation for the record books (pun intended?/won’t confirm or deny)!

“I can’t pass on this,” I said about the Scott Walker Tilt LP I’d found. “It’s the first album I think of when someone asks if there’s anything that has no precedent. It sounds unlike all other music.”

Patrick and Mike expressed general agreement along with Patrick saying he’d kept Gary’s contact information for years but never had a reason to get in touch. Maybe the essay would be his skeleton key.

Approaching Sue as she investigated the sauce aisle, I was unable to contain my excitement.

“Dude! I just had the wildest ten-minute sequence at Turn It Up!”

Upon updating her, I quickly scored a jar of Grey Poupon along with boxes of latke mix and graham crackers. The self-important loudmouth who (presumably) runs the store obnoxiously shouted that they were closing in fifteen minutes, which he’s done on numerous occasions during our late afternoon visits.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” the cashier asked.

“I’d like to add another pronouncement from him,” I said about her nearby boss. 

No reaction except for Sue discouragingly saying, “Blebbz…”

The cashier scanned the Grey Poupon bottle, and I said, “Pardon me…” only for a second round of the silent treatment. Assuming she didn’t speak English—as a way to soothe my bruised ego—I nonetheless asked if she recalled the unforgettable commercial. She (of course) did not, saying she was in her twenties.

“This is what happens,” Sue said about one of my first experiences with being Culturally Old. “People too young don’t get our references.”

“I bombed at the Deals & Steals Comedy Store. Bombed! Kept going back for another and…bomb!”

“Gotta know your audience.”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Driving to South Hadley for dinner, The Eagles’ Greatest Hits played in the car. I mentioned how lazy assholes had come to abhor the band because of The Big Lebowski, irked that they pretended to hate jams like “Life in the Fast Lane” and “Take It to the Limit” solely because having the opposite opinion would be uncool.

“Or there are those cunts who say they hate Joe Walsh because of his politics!”

“How limiting is that?” Sue said. “Why base artistic worth on the person’s beliefs?”

“It’s something my generation’s guilty of. Seeing everything via a feminist lens or socio-political lens or whatever lens is popular this week. I mean, Michelangelo probably sodomized an eleven-year-old and it doesn’t make the Sistine Chapel any less of a masterpiece.”

“I can’t believe we got here because of The Eagles. Dammit, what’s the other song by them I love? Where’s the jewel case?”

“On the backseat.”

“Cuz why not? ‘Let me pop this CD in and toss the case behind me so I can’t refer to it,’” she said while I laughed at my idiotic decision.

Confused by the layout, we walked amidst a staircase-heavy plaza until Duro, a West African eatery, revealed itself. Having watched an episode of Atlanta featuring jollof rice earlier in the week, I told Sue how I’d wanted to try Nigerian food for a while. Although I didn’t plan it, the restaurant surfaced when I researched somewhere new to patronize in the area. Unfortunately, I wasn’t hip to the “call in advance to dine indoors” rule, but we ordered a feast to eat at an outdoor table a half hour later.

Perusing the exterior of the neo-gothic Mount Holyoke campus along with the library parking lot, no public bathrooms were in sight. However, a statue of a tiger with a confused look on its face sat beside a flower bed outside the library, prompting another round of photography. We critiqued the crisscross sports bra being worn by a mute girl outside the local cinemas, my confusion about how she likely had to purchase a crisscross bra to wear beneath her crisscross bra. Rich people buy the darndest things. And I told Sue—as we walked past a wiccan establishment—how a regular Outlet customer asked me if I’d ever “been with a witch,” insisting such an experience would change my life despite being unsure if occult coitus was an imperative part of the process. (“You’re putting the broomstick in THERE?!”)

As the server began setting the sturdy plastic containers on the lattice table, she disclosed that the bathroom was inside an unmarked green door feet from where we sat. Sue and I took turns eating jollof rice, pounded yams, egusi (melon seeds and leafy greens stew), dodo (fried plantains), and akara (bean fritters), all of which were outstanding, until an Asian lady approached the door.

“They’re not doing dine-in unless you made a reservation,” I told her.

“You can order it and eat out here like we did,” Sue suggested.

“The food is incredible!”

“Oh, okay,” the lady said. “Can I ask what you got?”

“The jollof rice is like their spaghetti and meatballs. I highly recommend it.”

We told her what else we ordered and eavesdropped on the awkward exchange with the server. Once the lady’s friend arrived, the owner appeared at the door.

“I’d like the jollof rice with chicken,” our new friend said.

“No jollof rice left,” the owner informed her. “Just ran out.”

“Oh, okay. Let us figure this out. Sorry.”

“So…I can do a jollof rice if you want just that.”

“Wait…uh…okay?”

“Bet she’s thinking, ‘Where’s the white girl?’” Sue jokingly whispered to me about the hostess.

Both women ordered the reappearing jollof rice and sat two tables away. The owner resurfaced to thank us for ordering our spread and asked that we write a review if we liked her food. On the way home, planet-saving philanthropy was a hot topic, Sue suggesting Warren Buffett stop talking about donating his life savings after death: “There’s no time like the present, motherfucker!”

Poised to watch an Atlanta episode to conveniently complete our day, Sue was changing in her bedroom closet when my inner asshole realized he had work to do after the day’s comedic shortcomings.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” I said aloud.

“What?” Sue yelled through the cracked door.

“Suntan Guy’s at your bedroom door!” 

She emerged laughing in a purple tank top and pink shorts.

“By the way, why is John B. giving the shocker in your wall calendar?” I asked about the Outer Banks calendar hanging above us.

“Ohmygod, is that what that is? Sheesh.”

“I can’t believe you’ve got a ‘two in the pink, one in the stink’ June happening in this house!”

Analysis of the episode ended our evening. I packed parsley, basil, and chives that Sue had gotten me from her workplace in my trunk, a lazy bee clinging to a basil leaf as I tried to shoo it off fearing an inevitable sting when I forgot its presence upon removing the containers at home.

Fading from the effects of digestion, her sleeping pill, and walking seventeen thousand steps throughout the day, Sue had one final bit of wackiness to display.

“There’s the moon, gotta go!” she said while pointing at the sky.

“Those are your final words today, huh?”

We hugged goodnight, I removed the Eagles CD and secured it in the case she’d rested on the passenger seat and headed home. When I got high hours later and finished listening to the Holy Grail, I emailed Mystery Train’s owner my Lou Reed impression.

“Jack, peel or no peel, thanks for not letting that one slip through the cracks.”

Still working on knowing my audience. And maybe myself.