Queue Conversation
Yesterday, at Portland State's bustling Saturday Farmers' Market, I happily waited in line fifteen minutes to order a breakfast biscuit. That may seem a long time to the uninitiated, but folks nearby assured me that this was the best breakfast biscuit: worth the wait, they promised.
Gabriel, munching on a homemade cookies & ice cream sandwich, paced contently nearby. His uncle and cousin kept him company while I talked with my new queue pals.
We traded lineages. The woman immediately behind me line grew up in Iowa; the woman behind her, Arkansas. Each offered her story of gravitating toward the Portland city center. I confessed my California childhood (after throwing in the born-in-Colorado caveat). Slowly, we shuffled forward.
An initiative gadfly buzzed beside us. Iowa towered over him, questioning him, but signed nothing. I shooed him away, keeping to my year-long-and-going refusal to sign any of these things.
Iowa and I discussed politics further as stubble-faced Initiative Man moved on, grumbling. The people we hire to represent us must come up with comprehensive solutions to complex problems, I insisted; initiatives, by statute, are forced to fail as overly-simple, single-issue measures.
Our conversation stretched to health care policy. Iowa shared her experience; I, mine. Under cover of tall trees and speckled sunlight, our lively conversation bounced back and forth. We engaged, paused for response, grew animated and engaged again. I basked in adult, political discussion: stuff Janette and I do all the time, but not something I find regularly in the more subdued suburbs.
Despite us, the line continued to move forward. Gabriel finished his ice cream sandwich and tugged at me. I introduced him to Iowa and Arkansas as I shuffled forward to the front of the line. My brother put in his order through me, and I ordered an egg and cheese biscuit sandwich.
"We're baking fresh biscuits," the order-taker said. She frowned. "It'll be another twenty minutes before they're ready. That OK?"
"Sure," I said, setting the timer on my cell phone. "We'll swing back in a bit."
Patience came easy with the diversions of downtown. Twenty-five minutes later, my brother and I collected our fresh biscuit sandwiches. We unwrapped them. Buttery flakes trailed behind us as we explored the campus. The breakfast biscuits were just as good as promised, worth the wait and queue conversation.
-- Dad
