EXPLORE BLACKRIDGE
Some people in Blackridge need more room than a comment box.
Here, the town’s residents get a little space to tell their side: late-night observations, questionable advice, bar stories, family grievances, and opinions nobody asked them to put in writing. Some entries might explain a few things. Others might start an argument.
Pull up a chair. Somebody has something to say.
By Sebastian Cross
Things That Are Not Omens, You’re Just Being Stupid
By Lucien Vale
A Few Small Requests Before You Ruin the Evening
By June Mercer
Things Nobody Tells You About Growing Up in Blackridge
By Benny Wren
A Sandwich Is a Perfectly Reasonable Plan
By Sebastian Cross
Before we start: if you’re reading this while driving, put the fucking phone down. The title includes you.
Blackridge gives people plenty to be nervous about. Fair enough. I live here too. I also know that once you’ve decided the universe is sending you warnings, a loose belt under the hood becomes a personal message from the dead.
Get the belt checked. The dead can wait their turn.
We’ll start with fog, since apparently a cloud at ground level is enough to make some of you forget how roads work.
Slow down. Use your low beams. Leave more room. If you can’t see far enough ahead to drive safely, find a safe place fully off the road and wait. You are allowed to arrive late. Bring coffee and make being late somebody else’s problem when you get there.
What you should avoid is staring into the trees while your vehicle continues moving. Yes, that shape looked peculiar. Lots of things look peculiar through wet glass at midnight. You can be curious about the woods once you’ve stopped trying to park in them.
And wipe the inside of your windshield properly. There’s a lovely dramatic glow around those lights because you’ve been breathing on six months of fingerprints.
Now. The crow.
A crow sitting on a fence, watching you, has excellent taste in cheap entertainment. Give it a minute. You might drop something edible or trip over the curb. Either way, its morning improves.
You don’t have to count its friends. You don’t have to tell me which direction it was facing. If you want to spend twenty minutes interpreting a bird, do it from the sidewalk. Some of us would like to get through the intersection before winter.
I’ll make you a deal: check the actual road first. Then you can assign the wildlife whatever administrative duties you think it has.
Speaking of warnings, your dashboard comes with a useful collection. Little pictures. Different colors. A whole book in the glove compartment explaining them. Remarkably considerate system, considering how hard you work to ignore it.
A warning light deserves attention whether it appears outside the cemetery or outside the grocery store. Learn what it means. Deal with it. Covering it with a receipt is a repair method I would describe as ambitious.
And if the car has started making a new noise, turning the music up gives you a louder car with the same problem.
I like keeping things running. I’m willing to put up with ugly repairs, mismatched parts, and a vehicle that’s seen better years. What I have very little patience for is somebody waiting until a problem becomes expensive enough to feel supernatural.
That also applies to the porch light.
If it flickers, have somebody qualified check it. Leave the wiring alone if you don’t know what you’re doing. Standing under it whispering, “What do you want?” might eventually get you an answer from the neighbor trying to sleep.
There. Several mysteries handled. We’ve still got time to eat.
And before somebody decides this means I think you should ignore a bad feeling: pay attention. If a place feels wrong, leave. You don’t owe a dark doorway an investigation. You don’t have to wait for proof before deciding you’d rather be somewhere else.
Just keep looking at what’s actually in front of you. Where you’re standing. Who’s nearby. Whether you have a clear way out. Fear can make you stare at one thing until you miss everything beside it.
That part matters.
I’d rather hear you were cautious over nothing than hear you stayed to take a better picture.
So check your tires. Keep your phone charged. Quit taking photographs from the driver’s seat. When someone asks why you’re leaving early, “I’m leaving” will do.
You can make it sound mysterious if that helps. Lower your voice. Look toward the trees. Have fun with it.
Then get home in one piece.
And pick up your food wrappers. The crow’s got enough work.
By Lucien Vale
Let’s begin with the coat.
If you’ve come out tonight wearing a coat you love, excellent. Stand up straight. Enjoy it. You spent money. You made a choice. For once, let’s see some commitment.
If you’re standing in the doorway waiting for the room to notice, move.
We can admire you while other people get inside.
I like an entrance. I like someone who’s decided to enjoy themselves and dressed accordingly. There’s pleasure in that. A little anticipation. You’ve left the house because something might happen, and you’d prefer to look good when it does.
Some of you, unfortunately, arrive determined to look as though nothing could possibly interest you.
Then go home.
No, really. You’ve paid for a drink, found good company, and now you’re leaning against a wall performing disappointment. Do you know how many people can do that? There’s a whole line of them outside the bathroom.
Smile at someone. Listen to the music. Have an opinion you didn’t borrow on the way over.
And please, stop describing every black shirt as “dark and mysterious.”
It’s a shirt. I liked the cut.
This was going to be about clothes. I had several excellent points about fit. Apparently we have more urgent problems.
For instance: conversation.
You see someone you’d like to speak to. Good. Walk over. Say hello. This has survived remarkably well as an opening.
What keeps surprising me is the number of people who get through “hello” and immediately demand a performance.
“You’re a vampire? Show me your fangs.”
Why? Did you bring a trick?
I’ve barely heard your name, and already there’s an examination. Next you’ll want me to turn sideways and stand beside a height chart.
Ask about the music. Tell me something funny. Disagree with me. I can enjoy disagreement. I’d enjoy it more if you were better at it, but we can work with what we have.
What I’m less interested in is your theory that every courtesy conceals some elaborate scheme.
Perhaps I offered you a chair because you were standing.
Perhaps I’m enjoying the conversation.
Yes, I might have other reasons. You’ll have to pay attention. That used to be part of the fun.
Now. The clothes.
You don’t need to dress like me. In fact, I’d prefer you didn’t. Wear something you can sit in. Wear shoes that let you walk across a room without making your friends negotiate every six feet.
If the jacket requires you to remain perfectly still, you’ve bought furniture.
And don’t spend the evening apologizing for what you’re wearing. You liked it enough to leave the house. Give it twenty minutes.
You’re allowed to be pleased with yourself.
I manage.
There is, however, a difference between being pleased with yourself and snapping your fingers at someone bringing you a drink.
Put your hand down.
The bartender has seen you. So has everyone else, which ought to concern you more.
If you want to impress the person beside you, learn their name and remember what they just said. I promise you, humiliating someone over ice has never rescued a dull conversation. You’ve simply made it unpleasant as well.
You were doing quite well until then. That’s the irritating part.
I actually like a lively room. I like people laughing too loudly because something was genuinely funny. I like the moment a careful conversation gets interesting and someone forgets to check how they look.
Even a bad joke can help. You’ve risked something. I respect the attempt.
I may still tell you it was a bad joke.
Look, have your evening. Wear the ridiculous earrings. Dance if you want to dance. Order what you like without delivering a little speech about how unusual you are for liking it.
Let someone surprise you.
And when the night’s going well, resist the urge to improve it by becoming the center of every conversation in the building.
Some of us have put years into that.
Now, about the fit of that coat.
By June Mercer
People say growing up in a small town means everybody knows everybody.
Cute. In Blackridge, everybody knows your car, your dad, your coffee order, and an embarrassing story about you that they have been saving since you were nine. You can become an adult. You cannot become someone who didn’t once do that thing.
Nobody includes this in the brochures. Assuming we have brochures. I haven’t checked; somebody would ask why I was leaving.
So, a few things you should know.
1.
Your parents don’t need location sharing.
You can leave the house, stop for coffee, and get a text asking whether you’re still at Ruthie’s before you’ve taken the lid off.
There’s always somebody who saw you. Somebody who saw your car. Somebody who didn’t see either but has a strong feeling and would like to contribute.
Driving a yellow Beetle probably doesn’t help. I understand that. I would still like people to give me the dignity of pretending I could be somewhere else.
2.
Your usual order is permanent, but your business is public.
Change your coffee order once and people want to know if you’re all right.
Actually have a terrible morning and somebody will ask whether you’re seeing anyone while you’re trying to find your keys.
At Ruthie’s, “How have you been?” can be a greeting, a genuine question, or the opening sentence of an investigation. You have to listen for the pause.
Also, if you lower your voice while I’m standing right there holding the coffee pot, I can still hear you. The apron doesn’t do that.
3.
Apparently, graduating means you should have a five-year plan.
I have shifts. I have bills. I have a car that requires money even when I haven’t bought it anything nice.
This feels like plenty to be getting on with.
But say you’re working and figuring things out, and people get this worried little face. Then come the suggestions. College. A different job. Somebody’s cousin who knows somebody.
I know they mean well. Mostly.
I would just love to finish answering one question before my entire future gets passed around the table with the sugar.
For now, I’m paying for my own things, putting some money aside, and learning how many times you can say “I’ll be right with you” before your eye starts twitching. Skills. I’m developing skills.
4.
“It looks clear” is how the weather gets you.
You check the sky. You make a reasonable decision. You leave the jacket.
Then you’re standing under an awning with damp hair and a bag you’re holding shut because apparently everything you own needed a rinse.
Bring the jacket. Put the lip balm somewhere you can actually find it. Don’t put a receipt in the same pocket as anything wet unless you’d like to spend the evening peeling your purchases off your keys.
You’re welcome. I wish someone had told me.
5.
You can notice something without making it your evening.
If somebody’s standing in the rain looking intensely at a building, maybe they’re waiting for a ride. Maybe they’ve forgotten which door they need. Maybe they’re having a day.
I don’t know. That’s allowed.
Blackridge is very good at giving you half an explanation and looking offended when you ask about the other half.
I’m allowed to find that annoying. I’m also allowed to take my coffee and go home. If something genuinely feels wrong, I’m calling someone. I’m not walking over for a better look because a person in a comment section thinks I should.
6.
You’re going to care about these people. It’s inconvenient.
Because the person asking too many questions might also notice you haven’t eaten. Somebody you were avoiding will hold the door when your hands are full. A familiar face comes in on a rotten shift and you feel yourself unclench before you’ve even said hello.
You can be tired of everyone knowing you and still be glad somebody does.
I like that part.
I would like it even more if we could all agree that “just getting coffee” is a complete explanation for what I’m doing with my life.
And Dad, if you’re reading this: yes, I have my jacket.
By Benny Wren
There's a particular sort of optimism involved in packing food before a bar shift. You wrap the sandwich, put it somewhere sensible and imagine the version of yourself who will eat it at a reasonable hour.
He's a promising fellow. Organised. Apparently has time to sit down.
I rarely meet him.
I meet the other one, who remembers three orders, notices a glass with a chipped rim, finds the pen everyone has borrowed and then discovers he's been hungry for rather longer than he'd intended. This is usually when somebody asks whether I'm all right. I say yes, because nothing is actually wrong apart from several entirely avoidable things.
So, before anyone decides this is advice from a man with his life beautifully arranged: I have eaten dinner standing beside my own sink. I don't recommend the venue. The service was poor and the person responsible wouldn't stop looking at the washing-up.
Working at Lazarus gives you plenty of opportunities to observe other people's evenings. Mine generally involves trying to remember where I put my tea.
Across the counter, there'll be somebody dressed for an extraordinary night, checking their phone every few seconds. Beside them, somebody in an old coat has found a person willing to discuss a noise their car makes. The second conversation can go on for a surprisingly long time. It requires sound effects. I rather like it, until I'm asked to diagnose the noise. My qualifications extend to owning a car and occasionally worrying about it.
Then there's the person who says, “I haven't eaten all day,” with the pleased expression of someone announcing an achievement.
I know that expression. I've worn it. You get busy, carry on, manage one more thing, and eventually a cup of coffee begins to look sufficiently substantial to count. It isn't. I have checked this fairly thoroughly.
Blackridge encourages a certain amount of carrying on. People arrive with things to discuss which apparently cannot wait, then spend ten minutes deciding how to begin. Someone watches the door. Someone else insists they weren't watching the door. Meanwhile, the person they've come with is looking for a charger.
I don't always know what any of it means. I do know what it's like to be the one with a shift to finish while everybody else's evening gathers momentum. There's still a wet counter. Something needs replacing. My sleeve has caught on the same inconvenient edge twice, and I'm starting to take it personally.
Those are the moments when I remember the sandwich.
A proper break improves things. Sit down, if there's somewhere to sit. Unwrap what you brought. Discover you've been carrying a perfectly adequate plan around all evening while making much less adequate ones in your head.
I like ordinary food when I'm tired. Something I can put on a plate without turning the kitchen into a second shift. Toast is useful. Eggs are useful. Anything involving six pans had better be making a very strong case for itself.
There are evenings when I do enjoy cooking. I like having enough time to taste something and decide what it needs. I like the small, private satisfaction of getting it right, and I can be quite annoyed when I don't. There's no audience at home to impress. I still resent disappointing a potato.
I suppose that's what I'm getting at. After hours of attending to everybody else's glass, it's pleasant to make one small decision because I'm the person who'll enjoy it.
A plate. A chair. My phone where I can't see it light up.
The washing-up can have a short wait. It has proved very reliable about being there afterwards.
If you're reading this while telling yourself you'll eat later, you have my sympathy. I'm probably halfway through precisely the same argument.
I'm going to see whether I've got any bread.