Dear fellow Kingstonites or Kingstonians,

I’m writing to offer an apology for my behavior at the Farmer’s Market on Saturday. Truthfully, I guess it’s more of a half apology because I’m not really feeling all that contrite about it and I can’t honestly say I won’t do the same thing again in the future, but the English language fails to provide a word that means “sorry, but not really." Maybe demi-mea culpa in the original Latin? My guess is that focusing on my lack of remorse takes a little zip out of the old atonement two-step, but half an apology is at least a third better than a non-apology which puts it well above never mentioning it at all. I guess what I’m saying is this non-apology is the bird in hand. Everything else is in the bush as it were. I’m not really sure where I’m going with this, but I think the meaning is clear. I’m apology adjacent.

But you’re probably wondering what is bringing about this apology-lacking apology in the first place. Surely, you’re asking, “What could he possibly have done wrong? He’s so great all the time.” While I appreciate, and devour, the adoration it’s important for you to remember I am just a human being after all. Even Springsteen has an off night every now and then. (He actually doesn’t). Maybe it would help if you think of me as the Bruce Springsteen of Kingston Wire columnists but again, I’m not sure this is helping convey my mild penitence. Your well-earned faith in me aside, I too find myself in situations that other, more pessimistic people, might define as “making a mistake.” This may, perhaps, be one of those moments, which is why I thought it important to clear your air a bit.

The incident in question took place where all drama and excitement take place in our community, the Farmer’s Market. While standing in a very long line for one of the produce vendors I noticed a good friend queueing up behind me. There are two things I should clarify about that last sentence. First, when I say that the line was “very long” I mean that it snaked back around itself creating a loop that from above probably resembled all those copper pipes in the back of your refrigerator. If you need to go to the kitchen to see what I’m talking about I’ll be happy to wait.

The second bit of clarification needed is that when I say “friend” I mean someone who I only see at the Farmer’s Market. Our entire relationship exists within that narrow and purely serendipitous sphere. We were introduced by a mutual friend while waiting in line for fingerling potatoes one summer Saturday a few years ago. From there we continued to run into each other on any given Saturday. For the first few months we acknowledged each other’s presence with nods, waves, and smiles but the regularity of contact eventually led to quick jokes as we passed and eventually commiserating on the lack of decent baguettes or how the arugula was always sold out. From there our relationship escalated to quick hugs for greetings and the occasional, “Oh you’re waiting for sunflower shoots? Mind if I join you?” In the Tree of Meeting, we’d grown a few branches and leaves were starting to appear. All exclusively at the Farmer’s Market. That’s not entirely true actually. We did run into each other at a Holiday party one time. It felt awkward to interact outside our normal confines, but this party had three Christmas trees and two kinds of meatballs so we managed to find something to talk about.

At this point you’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this and why I’ve strayed so far from the apology that I was setting out not to give in the first place. It was this FMF (Farmers Market Friend) that got into the back of the line that I was already over halfway through. I immediately motioned them over to join me in line. FMF stepped over and gave me a quick hug before stating, “I can’t cut in line with you. That’s rude.” I made that noise with my mouth that’s hard to spell but it might be “phhisssss” and then proceeded to state somewhat loudly, “I wasn’t sure you would make it in time, honey.”

And thus began a series of statements, pantomimes, and improvised dialogue intended to give you, fellow Kingstoners, the impression that FMF and I were actually a couple, thus proving they were not the “Cutter Cutter Peanut Butter” that they seemed. To complete the ruse, I loudly reminded FMF that we’d promised the kids chicken noodle soup for dinner and that we’d need plenty of carrots. I may have even mentioned that the dog needed walking or some other such domestic morsel, anything to keep the feint alive. While I’ve had better improv partners, FMF managed to not blow the deception and sheepishly take a spot in line with me.

So there it is, in black and white. I fooled you, dear neighbor. Fooled you for no other reason than I was interested in a happy bit of small talk while waiting for scallions. You deserve better than that and I feel some modicum of shame. If it makes you feel any better FMF and I exchanged phone numbers for the first time while waiting in line, which means in some small way you’ve contributed to our friendship moving up a level. I’m happy to have provided you with that opportunity.

I hope this letter will clear the air between us, fellow Kingstonizens. I would hate for this to become an issue, though to be clear, I may do this again if the moment presents itself. The line was exceptionally long after all and I do treasure a chat.

Yours,

Bruce Springsteen