Pick pockets among us

By Juli

Way back when, after my husband and I had only been dating for a few months, he made the surprising commitment of a road trip halfway across the country to visit my family. I don't remember much of the trip, or the visit itself for that matter, but I do remember he got hit with his first wave of midwestern cultural awareness.

After twelve hours of driving, we stopped to get gas somewhere just over the border into Michigan. Now, in Michigan, gas stations aren't just a couple of pumps and a register hut like that can be out here in the east. In Michigan, they're THEME PARKS. What seems like dozens of pumps with protective shelters, video games, heating lamps, jukeboxes, a grocery store, rides for the kiddies. Gas stations sell alcohol in Michigan. If you can't do it or buy it at the gas station, it can't be done or bought.

My brave boyfriend jumped out into the world of the supersized everything, pumped the gas, and went off to check the park map for where to pay. I sat in the car vacillating between excitement about being "home" and nagging worry about this man's first glimpse behind the curtain of the Oz that was me.

Who knows how long he was gone, a long time that's for sure. When he did return, he looked really, really agitated. Oh no, this basket just got its ticket to hell. I could see it in his eyes. And he hadn't even met my mother yet.

"Omigod, what's wrong? What happened?"

He sat there silent for a moment. Opened his mouth, and let it spill.

"Well, I went in and stood in line. I was only the third person. But it took forever. Everyone in there was looking at me, talking to me, smiling at me. Like they were planning to pickpocket me or something. It was soooo weird."

He went on, throwing up his arms in the air and slouching back in his seat, exasperated.

"Then I finally got up to pay, said 'How are ya?' to the guy, and handed him my card."

He looked at me hard, suspiciously.

"Juli, he stopped what he was doing and spent the next five minutes telling me all about his morning, his breakfast, his family, his customers. Juli, he told me about his ulcer. What the hell? He just wouldn't stop. . ."

I smiled, pinching my leg hard so as not to laugh.

"Honey."

"Yes?"

"You asked him how he was doing."

"Yes?"

"Well, you're in Michigan. He answered your question."

He stared at me for a moment. Maybe questioning the love match with someone outside of his geographical species. I saw the gears working, trying to make sense of it all.

"Oh," he said. And he put the key in the ignition and started the car.