Sweet and Sour

One of the best conversations I’ve ever overheard took place some years ago at my town’s coffee shop during these Friday open-mic nights that were hosted by a local musician. I am not a musician anymore, but my then-boyfriend used to insist, after a grueling week of workin’ for the man, on spending his Friday nights home alone, getting stoned and strumming his own guitar, a ritual I was not sad to be excluded from. I genuinely understand the impulse to do one’s own thing, but I was at a point in my life where I wanted to force myself out of my introversion and into the world to socialize more and try to do all the stuff “normal” people supposedly do. I’d spent a few years dealing with a health issue, and I not only didn’t get out much, but I basically lost all of my social connections during this time—“friends” can prove amazingly fickle when the chips are down. So, now that I was feeling better, I felt like I should make the most of it and get out to see what I’d been missing . . . if anything. (Spoiler alert: I wasn’t missing much.)

Anyway, I dragged myself to things like open mic nights in town to socialize, but mostly to people-watch. My inner anthropologist can’t help but study people. And on some level, I think this is my natural role. I was never destined to “go native.” But I enjoy taking it all in.

One night of people-watching paid off particularly well.

There was (is?) a music school in town, and the instructor was an accomplished musician who not only gave lessons to locals and played in a decent band but also apparently took on interns. Two of these interns came to an open mic night to play with everyone else. One was a fiddler and the other played accordion. They were a bit of a folk duo, and not too shabby. I happen to be partial to that sort of thing, and it was a welcome respite from hipster poetry set to guitar strums and girls being cutesy with ukuleles, which one typically encountered at such things.

But more than the music they played, I remember the bizarre biography the accordion player shared when he sat at the table next to mine. Or, rather, the remarkable way he tried to chat up some girls at that table.

You see, this young man already faced an uphill climb, being an accordion player. While it is true that we women often fancy musicians, I will admit the accordion is not the first instrument that comes to mind when we imagine the soulful or sexy musician stereotype that makes our bathing suit areas tingle.

Talented though he was, and sweet though he seemed, I imagine the young man knew this, so he decided to lay on the charm double-thick by launching into his origin story. Apparently, he was also the heir to a culinary empire.

You see, his father was a pickler (I assume that’s the correct term). He made and sold pickles to a bunch of big city delis. Accordingly, I envisioned childhood scenes in which his babushka-wearing mother (who in reality is probably very glamorous) would scold him: “You’re not leaving this table until you clean all those pickles from your plate! Now wash your hands and go practice your accordion.” When he became a man, the pickle prince dutifully tried the family business. However, instead of following in his dad’s footsteps and taking up the tongs of the pickle trade, he ultimately decided to pursue his dreams and become a professional accordionist.

Why, the ladies might have been wondering, would he give all that up? Well, here is where he revealed his sensitive, vulnerable side: He simply couldn’t live up to the pressure, he confessed. “Pickle Merchant” wasn’t as simple and carefree a career path as one might think. People were always complaining about the quality of the cukes. Not big enough, they lamented. Not firm enough. No snap. How to face the hordes of insatiable lunch-goers who find your pickles puny and flaccid?

Surely the ladies would understand how overwhelming such feelings of inadequacy must be? Best just to bow out of the high-stakes game of deli condiments gracefully and take up the accordion while one is still young.

I sat hunched over my chai, trying to stifle my giggles (yes, I am a jerk). I mean, here seemed to be a guy unselfconsciously confessing his fear of not being able to live up to his father’s . . . pickles. To having no thrill in his dill, no perk in his gherkin. It had to be the most Freudian thing ever said in real life.

But when I looked up, the young ladies were smiling and listening intently. If anything about the tale left a sour taste in their mouths, they didn’t let on. After all, the young man was following his bliss. The young ladies today love that sort of thing, don’t they? And they don’t read, so they’d probably never even heard of Freud.

I left before I could learn how this little scene played out. Hopefully, there was a happy ending, whatever that might have looked like. But if there is a moral to this story (and I’m not sure there is) maybe it’s just this: the odds may be against the oddballs among us; whether it’s in relationships, writing, or any other venture. Kudos to the ones who put themselves out there anyway, despite the jerks smirking in the corners. As my dad liked to say, there is an ass for every chair.

I jumped the gun and moved my seedlings out to the greenhouse too soon. Then the temps dropped, and most of them shriveled and died. I had big plans for those cucumbers!, and it made me think of this story.