Friday, January 22, 2010

Fairfield Pet Food Pantry - Behind the Scenes

So, this is life in the Big Leagues. I have a story on pet food pantries in Maine this week for Downeast Dog, which means I'm actually traveling to a pet food pantry in Maine, to add some color to the article. It's an overcast Friday; I rush through work at the Postcard Shanty, then leave to pee the hounds before heading to Enterprise. It's just after twelve. I'm supposed to be in Fairfield at two, but I'm still not entirely clear where Fairfield is.

At twelve-o-five, I drop the Volvo at the rental place. Because so far I haven't hit the big time, and my credit is too shot from my misspent youth to get a car loan, I have a car that isn't quite up to crossing the county line.

Hence the rental.

I come out with a cute little silver number, and it's a relief immediately because the license plate is on straight and none of the tires need air and the door isn't falling off the hinges. It's not a Jaguar, but it will definitely do. I pop in my driving mix and crank it up high - Dierks Bentley and Gary Allan are the obsessions of late - and point the car north.

Once I reach Fairfield, I go the wrong way and end up at a convenience store in the next town getting directions. I get back in the car, and drive.

And drive.

Get lost twice more, before eventually coming to the Fairfield Grange Hall. Cars are lined up all the way down the street. I have to park in a church driveway across the highway, which of course makes me immediately certain that my cute little rental will be towed or stolen or vandalized (because vandals are known for hanging around rural church parking lots at three in the afternoon - I know, I'm insane). Nevertheless, I grab notebook and fast pen, camera and camera bag, lock my little silver number, and head for the Grange.

The moment I arrive, I experience that thing I always experience when I'm getting reading for an interview - sweaty palms and roiling intestines, and that flush of shyness that kept me reading on the swings during recess in grade school instead of playing with the other kids.

Little secret?

I hate talking to strangers.

So, good thing I chose a line of work where I would, of necessity, constantly be calling or visiting people I don't know to ask questions they frequently don't want to answer. Nevertheless, I persevere. In line is a man in an army jacket with an orange cat tucked in his arms; a rail-thin woman with a rail-thin Chihuahua straining to get out from under her jacket; couples and singles, families and friends. Everybody here for one reason: Times are hard, but they still have mouths to feed.

Once inside, I introduce myself to Alyce Pincoske, the secretary for the Pet Food Pantry. She's short and blonde, and funny as hell. Tables are set up with pet food as far as the eye can see, and there's an air of ordered chaos about the place. I get the impression that there's tension among the ranks, but I'm not clear on the source or the reasons. And since that's not the story, I don't try to find out.

For the most part, though, everyone is great. They know what they're doing, and they do it with speed and precision and a practiced hand: take information on the next person in line, fill their order, send them on their way. My camera dies before I can snap a shot, and I realize I forgot to get a new battery. Which is typical.

Robyn Dunbar is the one in charge of the organizational flow. She exudes efficiency - smiles brightly, knows where everyone is supposed to be and what is supposed to happen next. When people stand at the front of the room looking over the dog toys and clothing that have been donated, she's quick to offer advice in a kind, casual tone.

The volunteers - a dozen or so - are from around here. Married, mid-thirties at the earliest and most past fifty. One younger man stands out because, well, because he's younger. And, frankly, pretty cute. I catch his eye and realize it's been roughly two hundred years since I've had occasion to flirt with a cute boy.

I'm so rusty, I creak like the Tin Man.

Still, we strike up a conversation after a while. He's Robyn's son Dan, and I quickly realize that I'm probably a good ten years older than him. He tells me animatedly of his bike treks around the world; I forget I'm supposed to be a journalist working on a story, and we settle in and talk about the best spots to live and whether he should pack up and move to Boulder or stay where he is, in Chicago. I casually drop in that I lived in Oregon and loved it, he should check it out - not because I think Portland's any better than Boulder, necessarily, but because I want to make sure he doesn't think I'm just some Maine girl who writes for a dog newspaper and has never been outside New England.

Our little interlude is interrupted when we realize that we're both, um, holding everything up and there are people around us who are actually trying to do something here. It's one of those quick moments that's not really a flirtation (except to me, since I haven't actually had a conversation with a good looking guy younger than fifty in three years), but is close enough to be nice, and he's the sort of guy I would have dated back in the day, so I fall easily into the rhythm of pseudo-intellectual babbling.

Except, I'm supposed to be working on a story.

So, I pull myself back together and finish talking notes. Bid everyone a fond farewell once the food's been distributed and the crowd has waned, and truck across the road, back to my foxy silver rental car.

Which has not been vandalized, btw.