Streetlights (2) I had been half-listening to Terry regaling us with Fay's latest smiling, back-stabbing event, and half eying the pitcher of beer, trying to calculate my blood alcohol level if I drained the rest of the pitcher. Marcus, the lab technician, nudged me and asked me what was wrong. I turned to him puzzled, and glanced around the table which had gone deathly silent. All eyes were on me. "What? What did I miss?" I asked, wondering if Terry had dropped a bombshell while I'd been musing, and wondering why Terry herself was looking stricken. "Helen, what is it? Why are you crying?" she asked, her face awash in concern. "Crying? Me?" I started to respond, but realized that my vision had been steadily blurring. I reached a hand up to my cheek. It was wet. Soaked, actually. I stood up, pushing back my chair and mumbling something apologetic about PMS. I stumbled out to my car, turned on the ignition, and drove home on autopilot. I pulled into my parking stall, killed the engine, and exhaled, wondering how long I'd been holding my breath. Good question, Terry, I thought. Why the hell was I crying? More to the point, what the hell was going on? I plodded up the stairs to my apartment and opened the door. Not for the first time I considered what it would be like to have someone waiting for me, thinking that maybe I should buy a damned goldfish or something. I ignored the flashing light on my answering machine, knowing it was Terry. I didn't have an answer for her yet. For all her gossiping and playing the part of the malcontented, put-upon employee, Terry had a kind heart, and I wasn't feeling able to deal with kindness right now. I figured the logical next step was to figure out the problem and solve it. We math majors are good at that. I sat down on the sofa, a singularly ugly-looking thing upholstered in varying shades of brown, each one duller than the next. I practiced sighing deeply. I'd been crying; I must be sad. "Good, Einstein," I muttered aloud. Maybe I needed a shrink. It was probably not considered normal behavior to cry without knowing one was crying. I didn't want a shrink; my budget didn't even extend to buying shoes unless I bought them at Pay-Less. I had a routine. I would wear my $9.99 shoes until I could see the side of my foot bursting through the seams, and then go and replace them with the exact same pair. On my way out the door, I'd take off the old shoes, throw them in the trash along with the box, and put on the new pair. Mission accomplished. I didn't know why I was thinking about shoes; I was supposed to be putting a name to the wet cheeks and rapid departure from the bar. I looked around the living room, unable to come up with any coherent thought, except to wonder why the hell everything in this room was brown. My bedroom wasn't brown. Well, it was brown, but I had a Monet print on the wall, one of those where you're not sure what you're looking at, but isn't it a lovely blue and aquamarine color? And I had my jovial little china leprechauns lining the top of the dresser. Contemplating my decor was not getting the job done, I decided. I stood up and paced. I'd have to come up with an excuse for my behavior at work tomorrow. Too bad they'd all decided on a Thursday to go out and have a bitch session. If it were Friday, maybe they'd have forgotten by Monday, and I'd be home-free. Maybe I could mumble something about still grieving over my mother. I could make up some connection about the conversation at the table triggering a memory of something my mother had said, and my suddenly being overcome with emotion. It wasn't true..well, yes, I was still grieving. I would always grieve. But Mom hadn't caused this. I felt certain of that. I was beginning to think the brown sofa had caused this. I wondered what my mother would think of me buying a brown sofa in the first place. Wondered if she'd be puzzled that I spent my days at a shared desk, sending out bills. Me, who'd graduated magna cum whatever from UC Berkeley, and up until the time she'd died..as far as she knew...I'd been working as a teaching assistant there, slowly plowing my way toward a master's. I missed her. Missed being greeted with her latest Zucchini Surprise experiment for dinner. Missed having her swat me with a kitchen towel when I teased her and said I was really more in the mood for a T-Bone. I missed her, and damn it pissed me off. -------------------- It had been just she and I for as long as I could remember. If I scrunch my face up and think hard, I can sometimes call up a cloudy memory of my father. But he left right before I turned four, and apparently died a couple of years before she did. I have no siblings, and Mom never remarried. And I had the feeling that the marriage was never a blissful union in the first place, and that his leaving wasn't much more than a blip on a screen. They'd met and married at age 19. By the time I was born a year later, the shine was more than likely off. I supposed my father loved me in his way; I really don't know. And I can't say that it was ever a concern for me. Sitting on my brown couch, I wanted to be able to slap a hand against my forehead and say, "Of course! I had a distraught childhood, abandonment. No wonder!" But it had never been like that. My mother worked in my school cafeteria. I had vivid memories of being the only child in line being told what to select. Every afternoon, from first grade through eighth grade, there she'd be, behind the serving trays, spooning out peas and macaroni onto my plate, and asking me how my history test had went, or if my on-again off-again best friend Marcie had decided to speak to me since our latest spat. Even around 6th grade when I reached the stage of wanting the floor to swallow me up if any of my classmates realized I actually had a mother, I was secretly glad to know she'd be there with her ladle and spatula, and cheerful chatter. In my more philosophical moments I'd see her as the end of a spool of thread, with me on the other end, even though the spool got bigger and bigger with each passing year, and the thread longer and longer. So, no..I could not blame my strange outburst on any sort of childhood deprivation. At her funeral service when I was urged to stand up and say something, I'd stood looking out to the sea of faces and said, "She loved me." I'd sat back down, the air around me telling me that I should have said more, should have come up with an extravagant eulogy. But she'd loved me. She'd put valentine heart candies on my dresser at all times of the year, picking out the ones with whatever sentiment she'd wanted to express that day. They ranged from Hey Sweetie when I was 5, to Cool Chick, the day of my high school graduation. She loved me. The telephone had interrupted my increasingly melancholy jaunt down Memory Lane. I ignored it, and went to bed, and had slept like a rock, surprisingly. Oversleeping the next morning, doing the inevitable mad search for my car keys. Taking my wallet out of my purse to fish around for my wayward keys in the lining of the purse. I'd absently opened my wallet to see if I had any money for the bus since it didn't look as if the keys were in the mood to be found. Stared at my picture on my driver's license. It didn't look like me. The woman in the picture looked haunted. Frankly she looked pretty damn ugly. There was no conscious thought as I carried my wallet into the bathroom, took the nail scissors out of the cabinet, and calmly and methodically chopped up my driver's license. I left the pieces in the sink, an oddly uniform mosaic of letters and numbers, and went back to bed. I didn't wake up until 3 that afternoon. I only woke up then because someone was pounding on my door. I looked through the peephole and saw Terry and Fay standing there. I opened the door, hoping neither of them had to use the bathroom. Hard to explain why one's driver's license is littering the sink. I listened to their chorus of "We were so worried! Are you ok?" I knew I was supposed to answer, but I was trying to restrain an urge to manually close Fay's perpetually smiling mouth. "I have the flu. I forgot to call in. Sorry," I finally managed. I ignored Fay's pointed look at the nylons and heels I was still wearing, and made an ominous sound as if I were about to heave. They made sympathetic noises, promising to explain to the boss, urging me to feel better, and then they were gone. I never saw either of them again. --------------------------------------------- I was jolted back to the present by the diesel smell of a passing bus, and the fact that it was starting to sprinkle again. My feet were tired, and my duffelbag seemed to have gained 10 pounds. I spared a fleeting regretful thought for the extra quarter I'd put in the dryer to dry my sneakers. I had 45 cents from the morning's pillagings, which wasn't enough to get me on any mode of transportation. I don't know why I'd walked so far; I was beginning to feel a little like Forrest Gump. Then again, so far from what? I remembered Nell suddenly and her absence this morning from her usual spot. I would head back and look for her. The rain was starting to gather up steam the way it does here, marshalling its forces for one of those pounding downpours that's gone almost before one's had time to register surprise at how sudden it was. I used to feel disappointed at how quickly these storms passed. I'd pull a chair up to my bedroom window, and deliberately wrap myself in my afghan, looking out at the deluge with something close to glee about the fact that it was out there, and I was in here. Now it just pisses me off. I was passing the Goodyear Service Center where I had taken my little Honda once or twice. They keep a coffeepot going for customers. Maybe they figure it softens the blow when they're presented with the bill. I wasn't sure if I could pass for a customer, but the thought of coffee pulled me in through the door. I silently blessed Yvonne as I walked up to the desk. I might look like the dregs, but at least I didn't smell. The elderly man behind the counter whose nametag identified him as Doug pulled out a work order and looked at me expectantly. "Hi, my husband is on his way with his Taurus. It's been idling roughly, and I'm just here to give him a ride home. Should be here in about five minutes." I put on my out-in-public smile for him. It felt pretty rusty, but it seemed to work, as he nodded, leaving the work order on the counter, and walking back out to the service area. I moved like a flash to the coffeepot, grabbed a styrofoam cup, and poured it in a frenzy, adding three creamers and five sugars, and stuffing a handful more of both into my jeans. There didn't seem to be any of those annoying little red plastic stirrers, so I grabbed the pen Doug had left on the counter and plunged it into the cup. I usually drink coffee black these days. Alex does, and assumes I do, too, ever since the first time he handed me a cup and I guzzled it down in seconds flat. I would never tell him the truth about my coffee preference, so I've learned to almost like the coal black brew he favors. It's hot, and it has caffeine, and I don't think a homeless person is supposed to ask for cream and sugar. Still, it was sheer heaven gulping down coffee concocted the only way I deem sensible. The rain was into its full-power thing outside. And I was inside, drinking coffee. I almost considered taking my blanket out of my dufflebag, but thought that might be pushing it. I could see Doug coming back out to the front desk, so I put on my Where the hell is he? look on my face, and moved toward the front door, displaying wifely irritation as I opened the door and looked up and down the street. "I'll be right back," I told Doug, running fingers through my wet hair, as though I were still the sort of woman who cared what she looked like, and wishing I had a watch on my wrist to ostensibly check. I shut the door behind me, feeling glad that Doug hadn't exactly been a cheerful, friendly sort. Made me feel less guilty for stealing his coffee and bolting. I've learned how to rationalize my way out of these things. As expected, the storm had reverted back to a steady light rain as I continued on. I thought about Nell, and hoped she hadn't been caught in the downpour. In spite of her experiences in the shelters, she still frequents them when the weather is bad. Makes me worry that she really does feel ill. I felt a protective stir for her, not sure if it was maternal or filial, wanting her to have been given a bowl of soup and a pillow. Wishing I had a thermos I could have filled up before Doug came back, so I could fuss over her and give her coffee. Nell's not exactly a fussing-over type, though. But she would have loved the coffee, slurping it down and cackling, "Good day for ducks, my dearie dear." I waited at the crosswalk, realizing that all this walking and thinking had made me hungry. When I'd first hit the streets I'd gone about 54 hours without eating, walking back and forth in front of the rescue mission, before hunger nausea won out, and I'd gotten in line. Most of the people in line were elderly black men. In my campus days, I would have spared a thought to the unfairness of that fact. As it was, I'd simply shuffled along behind them. When people speak of hunger pains they aren't exaggerating. I'd been handed a bowl of stew, a slice of bread and a glass of milk. I carried them over to the first available seat I could find, and started shoveling it in. There was a low hum of conversation around me, but mainly the sound of spoons clinking against bowls. Everything felt muted except the fact that I had to get carrots, potatoes, and stringy beef into my gut. A bony hand touched my arm, and I'd surfaced from my food-inhaling to see the man beside me handing me my napkin which I'd dropped. I mumbled my thanks, and he touched his hand to the tip of the visor of his Oakland A's cap, saying, "Very welcome, ma'am," picking up his spoon and resuming eating. I found myself swallowing around a lump in my throat, and decided it was time to leave before pushing chairs back from tables in tears became the norm. My bowl and plate were so clean I wondered if I'd picked them up and licked them. The bowl had a rim of yellow daisies around the top, and the plate was bright green. In high school I'd worked for a Salvation Army type of place, making phone calls asking for donations of clothing and household products. There was some sort of full circle moral involved here, but I was too weary to dwell on it. I wondered if I was supposed to carry the dishes somewhere, or just leave them on the table, and I didn't feel like asking anybody. Speech had become an alien thing in the last few weeks, requiring more energy than I could drum up. I glanced at my courtly friend in the A's cap. He wasn't speaking to anyone either, just eating methodically, his eyes focused on some faraway place. I opened my dufflebag, and took out the one leprechaun I'd packed the day I left my apartment for the last time. Mickey, my favorite, who had a long white beard and was winking at the pot of gold he had over his arm. I placed it next to the man, and nodded, and stood up to leave. He looked at Mickey, looked at me, and nodded back, carefully placing him in his pocket. I decided it was ok to leave the dishes there, picked up my duffelbag, and headed out the door. ------------ The light had changed during these ramblings back over my past, and I crossed the street. For a petty thief I was religious about obeying traffic signals. My stomach was beginning to growl ominously, and I made a detour two blocks up, making a right on Dwight, where there's a small Asian grocery store two buildings down. They keep a sample of their wares outside the door, which suits me just dandy. I unzipped my dufflebag as I neared the store. I have this routine down to something of an art. I glanced into the baskets of bananas, squash and oranges. There were some strawberries, too, which didn't look too promising, having that unappealing white stuff on them. I scanned the interior of the store, not an easy task since the owners seem to have a thing about saving electricity. I was in luck, as there seemed to be a spirited conversation going on inside between the owner and an elderly Viet Namese woman with grandchildren in tow. I grabbed a banana and a cucumber, wondering if the selections of those items made me look slightly perverted, and dropped them into the dufflebag. Praying that my sneakers wouldn't decide to make a loud squelch, I turned around and walked quickly back to the corner. I was Jean Valjean, I was Survivor Woman, I was..slightly appalled by the exhilaration I felt. Hey, it was healthy stuff, I figured, offsetting the day's bearclaws and greasy burrito. Mom would be proud. And I could share the cucumber with Nell, who had a stash of plastic utensils that could peel off the skin. Considering how long she seemed to have survived on the streets, she probably had a bonafide knife somewhere in that black hole shopping cart of hers. I couldn't wait on the banana though, and peeled it as I walked along, oblivious to the drizzle in my virtuous need to bolster my postassium intake. I stopped in the library to use the restroom, avoiding looking in the mirror, and guzzling water from the drinking fountain before I left, stuffing some purloined paper towels into my duffle. I headed to Nell's spot, idly wondering how many miles I'd put in today. You have thighs of steel, Helen, I told myself. Maybe I was having a fructose rush. I crossed the street, and headed over to Nell's spot, wondering what I'd do if she wasn't there. It takes more than a little drizzle to send Nell into the shelters. Nell has no compunction about panhandling, and on some days doesn't do half badly. The fact that her spot is right next to the Baptist Church doesn't hurt either, especially on Sundays. She nabs the congregation while the Scriptures are still fresh on their minds, before the Raiders games take precedence. "Whatsoever you do for the least of my brethren, that you do for me," she tells them. Knowing Nell, I'm surprised she doesn't cackle after spouting this. But people drop coins in her bucket, and smile at her. Her bucket is a bright yellow children's beach pail with a faded Tweety Bird on the front, and I figure that doesn't hurt, either. I was relieved to see her sitting by her shopping cart, counting the day's takings, and hurried over to her. "Heya, Hell, we're going to hell," she greeted me in her nicotine voice, holding up a five dollar bill, grinning from ear to ear. "Whoa, you go, girlfriend," I told her, toying with the idea of getting my own bucket. "Somebody musta felt guilty today. Here, I got us a cucumber." "Chickadee, I got me five dollars. What do I want with a boring ol' cucumber?" she cackled. "We's gonna use this for bus fare, and get us selves to the beach soon as this danged rain stops. Tomorrow, maybe. What ya say? Gonna be nice and hot tomorrow," she told me, pointing at her little transistor radio she keeps tied to her waist with a shoelace. I don't know where she got it, and I don't intend to ask. Her daily weather reports have served me well. Nell loves the beach. She's told me it's the best place to filch cigarettes. "Duckie, ya walks along, watching for the smoke. People always smoke on the beach. Then they go in the water, and abbadacabba, ya takes that pack right off their towel, and off ya goes." I find it hard to reconcile that people smoking on the beach are likely to plunge on in for an invigorating dip, but Nell never seems to lack for cigs, so there must be something to this. I highly doubted there were going to be too many sunbathers in April, let alone swimmers, but what the heck. I'd just cancel my spa appointment tomorrow and go with her. I hoped we weren't taking her shopping cart on the bus with us. I looked inside her bucket. Besides her five dollar dill, there was about 4 dollars in assorted change. From what I could remember, bus fare cost $1.65 and you could get a transfer, so I figured we had just about enough to go to and from Crown Cove in Alameda. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been there, and the thought of smelling salty air was growing on me. It's not a bonafide beach, of course, just part of the bay, and not particularly scenic. I used to swim there, and the feeling that I was going to stub my toe against a submerged tire would interfere with my impersonation of a frolicking mermaid. But it beat walking up and down Telegraph and thinking. And who knows, maybe I'd find an abandoned bucket and start taking up space with Nell. Though it was doubtful that a surly-looking 34-year-old would drum up too much coin-dropping business. I sat down beside her and took off my sneakers, massaging my blistered toes with my fingers and thinking I'd better figure out a way to replace my shoes soon. All day I'd felt as if there were a pebble in my shoe, until it dawned on me that the sole was starting to wear through, and I'd been feeling the pavement with every step. I lined the shoe with one of the library paper towels and put the sneakers back on. Nell was happily chattering about the buses, going through the litany of which bus to take when, and where we'd transfer. It sounded as if there were an awful lot of buses involved in this expedition, and I began to doubt if there was enough in the bucket to carry us. But if anyone knows these things, Nell does. I asked her once how long she'd been on the street, and she'd snorted and said, "Long as I remember, honeypie." Might as well trust her to have the bus system down pat. My only previous experience with the bus had been on the days my car was in the shop. Even then I had to call the bus company each time for fares and bus numbers, never being able to commit it to memory, holding myself aloof from the idea of being a regular bus rider, I guess. I hadn't taken the bus since I'd been out in the street, mainly because I didn't have anywhere to go, and doubted the likelihood of the driver saying, "This ride's on me, hon," anyway. I began to look forward to the idea of having a destination tomorrow. I'd just have to stick close to Nell. Maybe she had one of those child wrist harness things in her bottomless shopping cart. Odd how I could lie through my smiling teeth to get a free cup of coffee, but the city bus system turned me into a quivering puddle. I told Nell I'd meet her here tomorrow morning at 9:00, thanking her for paying my way. She waved my gratitude away with a bony wrist. "I gotta go find Jamal," she told me, getting to her feet. "He'll take care of my cart for me while we're gone." Sometimes I wonder what it's like to have the network of buddies Nell seems to have. Aside from Alex, Nell, and Yvonne, there's really nobody else I speak to in the course of the day. Impulsively, I stood up, the paper towel in my shoe feeling strange. "I'll go with you," I told her. Good God, was I about to become clingy? Nell seemed to know exactly where Jamal would be, pushing her cart for a block, and then turning into what looked like a private driveway, but turned out to an alley between a video rental place and some sort of electronics store, judging from the sign in the window exhorting everyone to Turn your pager ON! Making a mental note to do just that, I trudged along behind Nell, who was purposefully heading towards a young black man sitting against the wall, smoking, and holding a Budweiser bottle. Wasting no time on niceties, Nell hollered at him, "Watch my cart tomorrow, ok? Me and Hell's gonna go to the beach." He nodded at her, and took a swig out of the bottle. "Ya gonna bring me back some smokes?" he asked Nell, and dear Lord, he sounded just like Barry White. I was tempted to do the unthinkable and start a conversation, just so I could hear his voice, but Nell was scrounging in the bottom of her cart, and muttering to herself as she moved empty cans, plastic bags, and assorted other collectibles, her hand digging deeper and deeper into the cart. She came up with one of those tiny bottles of bourbon the airlines use, and handed it to Jamal. I wasn't even going to begin to guess how she had that in her possession. I remembered an article I'd read years ago, where a woman had used some of those bottles to bring her urine samples to the doctor, but looking at the grin on Jamal's face, I figured this wasn't the time to bring it up.
Copyright © 2000 Annie Van Dalsem |