I Spy Message Board
The lovelorn messages posted in Vermont’s 7 Days newspaper are commonly referred to as "personals" or "personal ads." Additionally, there is a specific section known as the "I Spy Message Board."
Man at Mehurons:
You had on a Joe’s Pond hat in the liquor department. Your basket was scantily clad with North Country smoked hot dogs, cheese puffs, and Cabot Salsa Grande Dip. Your shining silver hair didn't distract me from the six pack of Heineken bottles you picked up. Call me Debbie, cause I won’t be late for dinner.
When: Monday, March 29, 2021
Where: Mehuron's
I saw a: Man
I am a: Woman
Freddy, the Fresh Guy:
Debbie downer, classroom clowner always there with a chip to dip,
I saw you staring, couldn’t help comparing your pink flip-flops to the hot blacktop.
I want you. I need you. Only time will tell if there’s any justice left in this comedy of a hell.
Rise up like an angel, unite our burning soles. Bring garlic, onions, perhaps some egg rolls.When: Friday, June 18, 2021
Where: Mehuron's
I saw a: Woman
I am a: Man
When Freddy logged in and posted his response he hoped it would catch her eye, make her smile. Now you know that I know who you are Debbie, he thought as he swallowed the last bite of a Banana Crème Pie Pop-Tart. He grabbed the paper sack containing his liver-sausage sandwich, and a thermos full of hot coffee. Wonder Bread is back and so am I, he thought.
It was a safe job in the pandemic. He had been issued his own personal suit, assigned to a 4-way traffic stop on Main opposite the gas station at the Slow Road entrance to Mehuron’s Market. It was less than a 10-minute drive from Waitsfield. He remembered to snatch the mini-cooler on his way out the door. Two cans of Diet Coke should suffice, he thought.
Freddy parked his primer-black, stretch-cab, ‘92 Chevy in the side lot and pulled the brightly colored red, yellow, and blue canvas duffel bag out of the back seat. He decided to keep his outfit neatly folded after each day of work, less wrinkled, and easier to slip on.
He peeled off his tattered-cuff, 50% cotton/50% polyester blend, charcoal-heather Carhart zip-front hoodie, and tossed it on the front seat along with his Joe’s Pond cap, embossed with a floating duck. They landed among a collection of other rubble in the cab; the last three shredded issues of 7 Days, one folded open to a half-finished Sudoku, the green Northfield Savings Bank pen, two crushed empty cans of Narragansett Lager, a well-worn pair of G&F cowhide leather-palm work gloves with holes in the index and middle fingers, and his rusted fishing knife.
It had been a long and lonely winter. The ice on Joe’s Pond had been nearly three feet thick. He missed winning this year’s Ice-Out Contest by less than a day—the closest of his ten guesses coming in at just 18 hours and 23 minutes short of Galina Mesko’s winning ticket, April 10, 4:59 pm. He briefly imagined what he might do with the $5K she took home.
I’d fill my freezer with Red Baron Classic Crust Pepperoni pizzas, the 12-inch size and I’d get them with my employee discount, he thought as he slipped his legs into the bottom holes of the loaf. His white shoes and pants were spotless. He opened the cooler and took out two of the frozen gel packs and inserted them into the pockets of the body liner. It was going to be in the upper eighties today and he didn’t want to roast inside the bag.
“Hey mister, are you the bread guy?” Two kids on bikes circled on the pavement and rolled to a stop at a safe distance away.
“Get the fuck outa here,” he snarled and blamed it on the hangover, “I’m not Mr. Nice Guy. Can’t I have a little privacy?”
He pulled the helmet and four fiberglass rods out of the duffel, inserted each one into the four corners of the bag’s top and then affixed the lower end of each rod into the bracket on the helmet. The kids continued to watch as he bent over to place the helmet on his head and tighten the chinstrap. When he stood up, he instantly become three feet taller as the bag draped nicely into shape. Inside the enclosure, he put on the white gloves that he had tucked into his belt.
“Wow! That’s so cool,” said the boy in the blue Keep Vermont Weird, t-shirt. “C’mon Mr. Breadman, we only want some selfies,” his pal said as he took out a phone.
Now in costume, Freddy felt coolness both in body and spirit as the gel packs began to function. OK, now it’s official. I am Freddy, the Fresh Guy, he thought. He searched inside the bag for the arm holes and extended his white-sleeved arms into the open air, gave a slight bow to the boys on bikes, and extended his gloved hands toward them, his fingers making a pair of Vs.
“Sorry,” he said through the face grill. “Yeah, sure, glad to be in your TikTok or whatever.”
“Way cool,” they said simultaneously as they dropped their bikes and took turns standing beside him.
“I was just a bit on edge,” he said. “Trying to be on time, just getting used to this new gig. How do I look?”
“You are awesome Mr. Breadman.”
“Call me Freddy,” he said. “And don’t forget to tell your mom to look for the bread with the red, yellow, and blue balloons on the wrapper. Wonder Bread helps build strong bodies 12 ways,” he shouted as they pedaled down the sidewalk.
Now he was alone. It had been more than an hour of standing around, occasionally dancing, waving at cars from the corner of Main Street and Slow Road when a red Ford Taurus made a right turn off Main and rolled to a stop. The tinted window glass rolled down to reveal a smiling, tan, salt-and-pepper haired driver.
“Hi Mr. Breadman. I’m Debbie Downer. What are you doing after work?”