The way life should be.

- from the "Welcome to Maine" sign, Kittery, ME

Mere minutes after I crossed the Piscataqua River Bridge, which is the official terminus of the New Hampshire Parkway section of I-95 North and the beginning of the Maine Turnpike, I stopped at the Kittery Shittery. The Shittery is a rest stop popular with people From Away because of the bracingly clean facilities and because - let's face it - the less time spent in New Hampshire, the better, for it is a hole. I got out of Orhan and nearly teleported into the facilities, wherein I attended to my unspeakable needs. As I was walking out to my car to buy a Pepsi from the hideously overpriced vending machines, I noticed that there was another car in the lot where previously I had been the only person in attendance. An aged couple leaped out of the Lexus SUV and lunged toward me like I was the last chopper out of Saigon.

Aged Gentleman from away: Are you from around here?
Me: "Yes."
AGFA: Where's the Weathervane?
Me: The what?
AGFA: [growing agitated] The Weathervane. Where is it?

{As an aside, I knew perfectly well what, and where, the Weathervane is. There is one in every largish town in Maine. It's New England's version of Red Lobster, and, considering that the last Red Lobster closed in Maine in 1997, it is often the only place tourists know about. This is OK with the locals; it means that the little out-of-the-way lobster pound won't ring with the dulcet tones of Connecticut-ese. Because damn.}

AGFA: [talking really really slowly like I am seven and profoundly developmentally challenged] I..AM..LOOKING..FOR..THE..KITTERY..WEATHERVANE..RESTAURANT..
WHERE..I..CAN..EAT..SOME..FOOD..{pantomimes eating a lobster; smacks lips and pats stomach}
Me: [opens mouth to allow a ribbon of drool to snake down beard] GuuuhHHHHHHH!
AGFA: Did we miss it? Can we catch it from the next exit?

(I glance at their license plates. Massachussets. Ayuh.)

Me: Nope. You can take the next exit and you should be fine. [picks nits out of hair]

Now: the next exit is for the Yorks and Ogunquit, and is, uh, nowhere near Kittery. With any luck, their bodies will be found flash-frozen like two little fresh imported strawberries in the spring thaw. The flannel-clad Mainer who will pull their vehicle out of the ravine will light an Old Gold cigarette and tut softly about the ridiculous flatlanders in their L.L. Bean pullover fleeces pathetically clutching their jumbo-sized bottles of Poland Spring water before rifling through their shit. We may be aloof but we're resourceful.

It's a game that's as old as time in Vacationland. Tourists come and they treat us like rustic, yet retarded, servants who have been placed on this earth to serve their filthy and wanton needs. When the trees have dropped their last golden leaves, they scuttle away like gravid roaches under the fridge when you turn the lights on in the kitchen, leaving the locals to the cruel, icy embrace of the unforgiving winter. When the opportunity arises to eff some of them over really really hard, we rise to the occasion with nearly orgasmic pleasure. I've sent a couple from Vermont to Old Town, ME, to "see some moose": Old Town is known primarily for a paper mill, which produces a stench so strong it makes carrion-raptors disgorge the contents of their gullets. I told a man who insisted on "eating some real chowder" where he could get some; while I am sure that the Bangor Greyhound depot serves Fritos out of a vending machine, their chowder probably leaves something to be desired. And the eager young Rhode Island woman who hissed "Where's Stephen King's house?" out her Camero's moon-roof probably spent about two hours driving around near the dank Kenduskeag canals downtown, whereupon Pennywise the Clown - if there is a God - consumed her with some tangy cocktail sauce.
Even after the nuclear holocaust, out-of-state bacteria will sidle up to the Maine-spawned ones and ask how to get to Acadia National Park.

"Well, yeh can't get theyah from heyah", they'll smirk, pointing due north towards what remains of Aroostook County.

A half hour later I pulled in to a gas station and got out of my car, swiped my card and pressed the button for the grade of gasoline I wanted. As I was about to walk towards my car with the pump, I became aware of presence to my left. When I turned, a man was standing there, staring at me.

"Can I help you?", he asked. I stood there with the frozen little pump clutched in my mitts and looked the man over. Bib overalls with flannel underneath, Timberland boots and a jacket with his name embroidered on the chest - and he was staring at me like I'd pulled down my pants and duked right there on the median strip. "I'm pumping my gas", I replied slowly. "Uh, don't you know this is full service?" he replied, his eyes widening slightly.

I'd been away for so long that I'd forgotten that most of Maine's gas stations are full-service, which means that a winter-worn gentleman sits in a little heated hut and waits for people to come. He then leaps forth, pumps your gas and then collects your money, all while you sit in the heated comfort of your vehicle. It's really something - and it doesn't cost any more than the other gas. When you think about it hard enough, one comes to two conclusions about this phenomenon.

1) Mainers, a hardy and eager folk, pump gas for customers as a lovely service.
2) Mainers don't trust anyone.

It's probably a little bit of both.

Oh hell, it's the second one. Can you blame us? C'mon, tourist bitches. We will kirr you. Actually, we will kirr your kids with a soup-can lid in front of you, and then kirr you.

Did I say that out loud?

Until later, I remain,

Domonic