Parvaze Bashir - Habitual line stepper

The first time I ordered biscuits and gravy at Cracker Barrel , I thought there had been a small but serious misunderstanding in the kitchen. In Scotland, a biscuit belongs beside your tea. Occasionally you dunk it, if you’re prepared to lose it. This one arrived buried beneath something that appeared to have been invented to help farmers survive February. “You ever had these before?” the waitress asked. “Not in this condition.” She laughed, then stayed beside the table for my first bite. “Well?” I took another bite. Partly to consider my answer. She nodded and went to refill someone’s coffee. When she came back, the plate was empty. “Guess we’ll be seeing you again.” I’d spent years wondering how Americans could eat biscuits for breakfast. Now I was wondering what time they opened.

At a cookout, a man handed me his tongs and said, “Watch these a minute.” Twenty minutes later, I was still turning burgers. People were placing orders. A woman brought me a plate of cheese slices. Someone asked when the next batch would be ready. Eventually I spotted the man sitting under a tree, eating. “Any chance of getting you back over here?” He came over. “Sorry. You looked like you had it handled.” “Lovely party,” I said. “You’ve got a beautiful home.” “Oh, I don’t live here.” I looked at the tongs. “Then how did you end up cooking?” “Same way you did.” He nodded toward a man approaching with an empty plate. “Careful. That’s how he got me.”

I told a man his barbecue was “not bad at all.” His wife put her fork down. He’d been tending the smoker since before sunrise. There had been discussions about temperatures, wood and something called “the stall,” which sounded worrying but apparently was part of the plan. At dinner, he watched me take my first bite. “Well?” “Not bad at all.” His smile weakened. “What would you change?” “Nothing. It’s excellent.” “You said it wasn’t bad.” “Yes. Not bad AT ALL.” I gave the last two words a little more weight, hoping he could hear the distinction. His wife started laughing. “He’s Scottish. I think that means he likes it.” I explained that where I grew up, “not bad at all” could carry considerable enthusiasm. “I’ve had worse” was also available, though I could see we weren’t ready for that yet. He shook his head and passed me the sauce. Later, I asked about the peach cobbler his wife had made. He took a spoonful, looked straight at her and said, “I’ve had worse.” She turned to me. “Look what you’ve started.”

A young man chased me across a Kroger parking lot carrying a loaf of bread I hadn’t paid for. “Sir! You forgot this!” I checked my bags. “No, I’ve got mine.” “You get another one.” “Why?” “Buy one, get one free.” I’d missed the sign. I told him not to worry; I was already at the car. He looked at the loaf in his hand, then at me, puzzled that we might abandon the operation this close to completion. “But it’s yours.” He’d come all the way from the checkout, past three rows of cars, to deliver bread I didn’t know I owned. “Thank you,” I said, and took it. “Have a good one!” He jogged back toward the store. I stood there holding both loaves. I’d gone in for a few things and somehow acquired enough bread to require a plan. That evening, I took one to the couple next door. “What’s this for?” she asked. “Apparently it’s yours.” She looked puzzled. I understood. There’d been quite a bit of that already.

The woman at the SunTrust drive through window knew my friend’s dog by name. I still had to show identification. I was staying with him and had borrowed his car to run a few errands. His dog came along, having got into the passenger seat before I’d finished explaining the plan. At the bank’s drive-through window, I handed over my check and driver’s license. The woman leaned forward. “Well, where’s Cooper?” Cooper stood up. “There’s my boy!” She opened a drawer and produced a biscuit. He accepted it with the calm assurance of someone whose financial affairs were in excellent order. “Are you visiting?” she asked me. “Yes. From Scotland.” “Oh, how lovely. And you’re staying with Cooper?” I looked at him. He was eating his biscuit on my seat. “Apparently.” She processed the check, counted out my money and wished me a wonderful visit. Then she leaned forward again. “See you Friday, Cooper.” On the way home, I began to understand why he’d been so keen to come. I’d thought he wanted a drive. He had an appointment.

I ordered a sandwich, the woman behind the counter asked if I wanted it “dressed.” I looked down at it. “What does that involve?” “Lettuce, tomato, onions. Whatever you like.” “Right. Yes, please.” Then we discussed cheese, pickles, peppers and several sauces. She waited patiently while I considered decisions I hadn’t known were part of buying lunch. In Scotland, I’d often bought a sandwich whose previous owner had already made these choices. My role was to read the label and agree. Here, I appeared to be the architect. “Anything else?” she asked. I looked at the sandwich. We’d put quite a lot of work into it. “No, I think we’ve got it.” She folded the paper around it, cut it neatly in half and wrote on the wrapper. I took it outside and sat in the car with the air conditioning running. It was excellent. I ate the first half feeling rather proud of myself, then remembered that my principal contribution had been pointing at things.

A waitress in Georgia once refused to accept that toast was my entire breakfast. “What else, honey?” “Just toast, thank you.” She held her pen above the pad, waiting for me to recover. “Eggs?” “No, thank you.” “Bacon?” I shook my head. She looked at me for a moment. “You feeling all right?” In Scotland, two slices of toast and a cup of tea had got me through quite a few mornings without anyone requesting a medical history. “I’m fine. Just not very hungry.” “All right,” she said, in the tone of a woman agreeing to something against her better judgment. She brought the toast, the tea and a little dish of peach preserves. “These are good,” she said. “Try them.” She was right. When she came back, I asked for another two slices. “There we go,” she said, and wrote it down. I’d thought I was ordering breakfast. Apparently we’d been negotiating.

The first time I saw a twelve-foot skeleton in somebody’s front garden, I assumed the rest of him was still being delivered. Then his head moved. In Scotland, we carved faces into turnips. They looked dreadful, but so would you after somebody hollowed you out with a kitchen spoon. This fellow had glowing eyes and appeared to be watching traffic. The man arranging things beneath him explained that there was also a fog machine. “For Halloween?” He nodded. “And the little graveyard?” “That lights up.” Of course it did. I told him about the turnips. He stopped working and listened with the serious expression of a man being introduced to an early prototype. Then he asked whether we put candles inside them. “We did.” He smiled. “Same idea.” I looked up at twelve feet of illuminated death surveying a California cul-de-sac. Technically, yes. Although our turnip never needed a Bluetooth connection.

Somebody told me we’re getting an extra hour next Sunday. He said it with the satisfaction of a man who had arranged it personally. “Extra hour in bed.” A lovely idea. Except the phone will change itself, the oven will require negotiations, and the clock in the car will remain on its own time until approximately Easter. I know how this goes. You stand in the kitchen holding two buttons simultaneously, accidentally set a timer for seventeen hours, and discover the appliance has a child lock you’ve never previously encountered. Somewhere, breakfast is getting later. A friend says his dog refuses to acknowledge the change. I respect that. The dog has reviewed the proposal, considered its effect on breakfast, and rejected it. Growing up in Scotland, I became accustomed to winter darkness. Moving to California improved that considerably. But apparently neither country has found a way to make the oven cooperate. I’m beginning to think the dog should run the whole thing.

I’m learning that “How was your weekend?” can be a deeply insensitive question here. Especially if you ask a Chiefs fan on Monday. I thought I was making conversation. He looked at me for a moment. “Did you see the game?” I admitted I hadn’t. He explained what had happened. Then what should have happened. Then what he had personally been shouting should happen, although nobody responsible appeared to have heard him. I nodded at what felt like appropriate intervals. In Scotland, I knew this conversation. Different football. Exactly the same wounded man explaining how eleven strangers had spoiled his tea. The remarkable thing was that, after several minutes, he thanked me. Apparently I’d helped. I hadn’t offered advice. I barely understood the problem. But I’d listened, which seems to be most of the qualification. Before next Monday, I’m checking the scores. I need to know whether I’m saying hello or conducting a welfare check.

At Home Depot, I met a man who was spending his day off doing something I would have taken a day off to recover from. His cart contained paving stones, bags of sand and a spirit level. “Nice quiet Sunday?” I asked. “Absolutely. Just putting in a patio.” Just. A small word doing an extraordinary amount of work. He showed me a picture of the garden. There were little wooden stakes marking the area where his afternoon would disappear. “Should have it done before dinner.” I admired his confidence. I’ve postponed changing a lightbulb because I had something on at four. Then he showed me where the chairs would go. “Gets the evening sun right there. Sit out with a beer.” Now I understood. He wasn’t spending Sunday moving stones. He was arranging every Sunday after it. I bought my lightbulb. It’s important to have a project.

I’ve discovered it’s National Tight Ends Day. Nobody told me football positions could apply for their own holidays. “He blocks and catches,” somebody explained. “Two jobs?” “Basically.” “And he gets a day?” Apparently so. I rather approve. Most people doing two jobs get an email about being flexible. The explanation continued. There were formations. Routes. A distinction between being eligible and actually getting the ball. That last part sounded familiar from trying to attract a bartender’s attention. I watched a few clips. These are enormous men being asked to move other enormous men out of the way, then run off and catch something while everyone tries to stop them. I’d want a day too. Possibly the Monday. With nobody asking me to help move a sofa.

The Cheesecake Factory has somehow become a political controversy. I’m still dealing with it as a reading assignment. The first time I opened the menu, I assumed the drinks would arrive before I reached the end. They did. So did the bread. “Have you decided?” “I’ve narrowed it down to a continent.” There were people at nearby tables ordering confidently. Regulars, presumably. People who had completed the necessary reading at home. I considered asking the waitress what she recommended, but she looked busy and I didn’t want to start a seminar. Eventually I chose something. Then she asked whether I wanted to see the cheesecake menu. “There’s another one?” She smiled. I’d arrived hungry and reasonably certain of who I was. An hour later, I was full and wondering whether choosing vanilla meant I’d wasted an opportunity. Politicians can argue about the décor. I’m waiting for someone brave enough to promise a one-page menu.

The first time somebody asked who “we” were supporting at a baseball game, I didn’t realise I’d already been assigned a side. I’d been in the seat four minutes. “We need a hit here,” the man beside me said. I nodded with the confidence of someone who had recently learned which direction the players would run. A little later, he explained something called a sacrifice. That seemed a substantial commitment from a man I hadn’t met. Then our player hit the ball. The man stood up. I stood up. He offered his hand for a high-five and I managed it without incident. “THAT’S what we needed!” We. I rather liked that. In Scotland, people would ask which team you supported, then spend the next twenty years assessing your answer. Here, a man had simply looked at my seat, included me in his troubles, and trusted that I’d catch up. By the fifth inning, I was worried about our pitching.

I looked at concert tickets on StubHub and discovered I’m much less fond of that band than I thought. Two seats. A perfectly ordinary evening out, provided we agreed never to go out again. “Those are good seats,” somebody said. At that price, I expected the singer to ask whether I could hear him all right. Possibly take a request. Possibly help with something around the house before he left town. When I was younger, you saved up to see your favourite band. Now you appear to need a conversation about which assets you’re emotionally prepared to release. I closed the laptop and put their music on. Same singer. Excellent sound. A chair I already owned. Halfway through, I went to the kitchen for a drink. No queue. No parking. The bartender knew exactly how much ice I wanted. I may have accidentally opened the best concert venue in town.

Apparently, having dinner with someone you disagree with now requires a public explanation. Bill Maher’s dealings with Trump have reminded me how fortunate I was that nobody televised our family meals. There were people at that table who disagreed about politics, religion, football and whether the potatoes were done. Nobody issued a statement afterwards. You passed the gravy to a man whose entire understanding of the world you had questioned six minutes earlier. “More carrots?” “Aye, thanks.” Relations restored sufficiently for vegetables. I’m rather fond of that arrangement. Here, I’ve sat at dinner tables where an argument became quite heated, then the hostess appeared with a pie. “Who wants some?” Every political faction immediately requested a slice. I’m not saying pie can resolve the country’s differences. But I’ve seen two men who disagreed about absolutely everything agree that someone should get the vanilla ice cream. That seems somewhere to start.

At an AMC cinema, I ordered a small popcorn and watched the young man reach for a container I would have described as “for sharing.” “That’s the small?” “Yes, sir.” I looked behind him at the large. It had the reassuring proportions of something you might keep emergency blankets in. In Scotland, I remember buying cinema snacks with the understanding that they might last until the film started if you exercised discipline. Here, I appeared to be provisioning an expedition. “Would you like to make it a large?” “I’m only seeing one film.” He smiled politely. He had clearly dealt with foreigners before. I carried my small into the dark, found my seat, and put it on my lap. For the next two hours, whatever happened on screen, I felt reasonably prepared. Car chase. Alien invasion. Collapse of civilisation. Terrible business. But at least we wouldn’t need to stop for food.

The iPod is 25 today. I’m still not entirely over being told it could hold a thousand songs. “A thousand?” “In your pocket.” I used to carry one record home in a square bag, protecting it from the rain as though I’d been entrusted with a minor royal. Then there were cassettes. You could record songs off the radio, provided everyone in the house understood that the next three minutes required silence. The DJ would talk over the ending anyway. Some of those men remain unforgiven. Then this little white thing arrived and offered to carry the whole collection. No shelves. No tangled tape. No lending someone an album and quietly monitoring the friendship until it came back. Now my phone can find almost any song ever recorded. “Anything you want,” it seems to say. “The entire history of music. Where shall we begin?” I play the same twelve songs. I spent half my life waiting for unlimited choice. Apparently, I wanted my old records back.

I went to Costco for toothpaste and found a skeleton staring across the aisle at Father Christmas. It’s October. The skeleton looked as though he’d only just settled in. Behind him were pumpkins, cobwebs and a small machine promising the sound of human suffering. Across from him, Santa was offering peace on earth. I stood between them holding toothpaste. In Scotland, I remember Christmas taking an age to arrive. You opened one little window on an Advent calendar and somehow another full day had to pass. Here, the shops are wonderfully impatient. Halloween hasn’t happened, Thanksgiving is still looking for a parking space, and Christmas has already plugged itself in. A woman beside me put a pumpkin and a box of ornaments in her cart. “Getting ready?” I asked. “Trying to.” I admired that. I’d come in to prepare for bedtime. She was preparing for the rest of the year.

I’ve just learned there’s a witch who takes children’s Halloween sweets away. After everything they’ve done to earn them. The costumes. The walking. The difficult conversation with a stranger dressed as a refrigerator. Apparently, children leave their candy out overnight and the “Switch Witch” replaces it with a toy. “Does she take all of it?” I asked. “They can keep their favorites.” “So there are negotiations.” In Scotland, we went guising. You performed a song or told a joke, collected your sweets, and took them home. The transaction was complete. Nobody arrived overnight to restructure the deal. I’m rather impressed by the children here, though. If somebody told me a witch was coming for my chocolate, I’d sleep beside it with a torch. These children are checking what toys she’s offering. They’ll do very well in business.

I’m still adjusting to living in a country where a sandwich can announce a comeback. “The McRib’s coming back,” somebody told me. He said it with the relief normally reserved for a missing relative. “Where’s it been?” “It’s only available sometimes.” “Why?” He didn’t know. But he knew we should get one. Back in Scotland, if the shop stopped selling your sandwich, you chose another sandwich. You might mention the disappointment for twenty years, but you adapted. Here, there are sightings. People exchange locations. A man will drive past several perfectly functioning lunches to reach one. And I rather like that. There’s something reassuring about a country where grown adults can still get excited because their favorite sandwich has come home. Even if nobody knows where the bloody thing’s been.