As I've mentioned before, Alaska is a place that is strangely accessible. An oft-repeated maxim holds that the state, which consists of just 740,000 people spread across an area twice the size of Texas, is "a big small town." It's not unusual for barriers of power and authority to be permeable here in a way that would be unthinkable in the East, and one ought to get used over time to an openness and lack of pretension that gets downright disarming. But still.
Yesterday afternoon I had about five hours to kill as I waited for the 9:30 p.m. flight that would take me from Alaska to the East Coast, so I decided to wander around downtown Iceport and see if anything interesting was going on.
I was enjoying the particularly heavenly weather--Iceport has had highs in the 60s during the last week, with pure sunlight that shines until midnight--when an elderly man sitting in the open bed of a pickup truck called out to me.
"Hey," he said. "You look like you have a strong back."
I pondered the beaten-up old couch he was leaning on, briefly pondered walking away while dancing to non-existent music in my headphones, and finally walked over to where he was perched in blue jeans and a green plaid shirt.
"We'll see," I smiled.
Together, the two of us and one of his friends were able to get the moth-eaten thing onto the street, and then he and I picked the sofa up from either end and maneuvered it through the open door of a street-front store.
"Wait, wait," I called, repositioning myself so we could fit the mustard-yellow monstrosity into the building. "Turn it."
"Oh, right," he said. "This way."
We basically dropped the thing just opposite the store-front's bay window, at which point I noticed a strange number of people milling about this deserted place of business and greeting my new buddy with a level of enthusiasm one would not expect for, say, the mover. People were congratulating him on a job well done, thanking him for "keeping [his] promises," even praising his bravery.
From my point of view, it wasn't even a nice couch.
"Thanks for your help," he said, smiling over my shoulder at another person who was demonstrating inappropriate gratitude for unfashionable parlor accents.
"Sure," I replied. "What are you guys doing, anyway?"
"We're having a cookout!" he answered, grass-green eyes glinting brightly. "You should stay a while. Have some watermelon."
"I would," I said. "But I have to get to the airport. It was nice meeting you, though. I'm BB."
He clasped my hand tightly. "I'm Old Green Eyes."
And then it clicked. That name. That face. The well-dressed people and the weird amount of deference they were affording the Guy Who Brought the Couch. I'd been so stupid I could have kicked myself.
I stayed a few minutes longer, making some rounds and telling an inquisitive Old Green Eyes about my time as a teacher out in the bush. Before long, though, it was time for me to head out. I shook a few hands, said a few thanks, made a few jokes, and then left the Governor of Alaska to entertain his friends.
