The Jig Is Up by Peter Christopher January, 2002

Her question was "What do you do for work?" It was anything but innocent.

She was about 35 years old and had short hair. I knew her type. She was upper-middle class, with two kids. She had a master's degree, a volvo and a dog.

I wanted to impress her. I knew my odds were slim, but I was up for the challenge. I wanted her to turn her material world on its head after meeting me. I wanted her to care that I helped save the topsoil in a Burmese cotton field by overwearing my wrangler jeans. I wanted her to change her mind about the world and let me in. I wanted her to see that a well-rounded human doesn't need a Volvo, or even two kids.

It was just taking me a while to get started.

After five seconds of my delay, she started to look nervous, so I knew I had to begin.

"I apologize," I said, "It is going to take me a bit longer to answer your question than you might be anticipating."

She seemed willing to go along. "But I'm happy to answer," I said, "I do a lot of things."

"Let's start with homesteading. I have a garden where I grow about a third of my food every year. I like to spend time cooking that food too. Stews are a favorite - and this is winter in Vermont, so potatoes are a key ingredient.

"I'm also in the process of slowly finishing my house - it still needed a lot of work when I bought it two years ago. So far, my greatest accomplishment was redoing the top floor.

"I cut the firewood to heat the house, and I fix minor things on my cars when they go wrong. In fact, I just fixed the turn signal for my Subaru. You see, there was a short somewhere in the left side, and every time I tried to indicate a left turn left, it blew a fuse."

At this point, I noticed her take a quick look left and right for an escape route. Time was short.

"But I do part-time computer work from home," I said. She still wasn't impressed.

"I'm a writer, too. I write autobiographical short stories and essays. Sometimes my stories are entirely true. Sometimes they're a little fantastic!"

She made her move, cutting out towards the nearest door. I followed her out the door and into the parking lot, explaining as we walked.

"And I love to travel, about three one-month trips a year," I said. "But should we talk about that next time?"

"Where is my Volvo?" she said out loud. Then she saw it and without pause broke into a jog for the driver's side door.

Halfway there, she reached into her bag and pulled out her keychain. The car beeped. The dog stood up in back. She opened the door and flew into her seat.

The volvo started right up, and she eased it out of her spot and towards the road.

I waved goodbye. But she didn't look back. And neither did the dog.

I guess I wasn't in their league.