Streetlights (3) "Ok, I'll bring it here tomorrow. Don't drink all of that in one place," she cackled, the wheels of the cart against my ankles telling me it was time to move along. I glanced back at Jamal, hoping he'd say something, but he was busy unscrewing the cap of the bottle. "Nice meeting you, Jamal," I forced myself to say, even though I hadn't actually met him. I was rewarded with a deep, rumbling, "Likewise, babe. Likewise." Barry White in the alley. How cool that was. We headed back over to Nell's corner, passing the old, boarded-up community theater near the corner of Telegraph and Howe. It's been out of commission for years, with no For Lease sign stuck into the waist-high weeds surrounding it. It's a red brick building, with two tiny wrought iron balconies outside the second-story windows, still holding terra cotta pots. It must have been charming at one time, and I always find myself wondering what happened. Maybe it was declared seismically unsafe. Maybe the owner or renter or whoever kept the place up walked out the front door one day, locked it, and never went back. No reason, just didn't go back. Sort of like me, I mused, the day I left my apartment. Only I didn't lock the door. I just left. And supposedly there was a reason for doing everything; I just hadn't figured out what mine was. --------------- I went unwillingly back to that time, as I sat down beside Nell, accepting her proffered cigarette. After Terry and Fay had left, I'd gone into the living room and sat down, staring at the walls. I'd wondered if I still had a job, and realized that I didn't much care one way or the other. That fact had startled me. I was the type who set two alarm clocks at night to make sure I got to work on time. I'd done that very thing two nights ago, same as always. I was responsible with a capital R. And boring with a capital B, I'd added aloud. I had brown furniture; I spent most of my day sticking bills in envelopes. The days of writing math equations on a blackboard had ended the week I found out my mother was dying. I'd been living with her while I worked on my master's and worked at the university. I'd been in a half-hearted relationship with a fellow grad student. Half-hearted on my part, anyway. He'd wanted me to move in with him; I was working on convincing myself that this was love. In the meantime, I lived at home, trying to ignore the fact I got more of a charge out of my calculus textbook than I did with my boyfriend. Trying to ignore the fact that my mother seemed to be coughing an awful lot in the middle of the night. Trying to laugh along with her when she said, "What do you expect? I'm forty-fricking-five," in response to my voiced worries that she was looking a little gray. I'd tried to stay at the university even after we knew there wasn't a lot of time left for her. I was able to wing it for a week, more or less. I'd finally told my advisor that I was leaving, told him the circumstances. He was kind; he'd always been kind. He'd put one hand on my shoulder as he shook my hand, told me they'd 'save my space,' as if I'd just forgotten something in the grocery checkout line. I'd gone out the door of the math building, hearing it shut behind me, and waiting to feel a dramatic something. But I just felt numb. I'd answered the ad for the billing job in the clinic the next day, being hired on the spot. Apparently a quick turnover was the norm there, not surprising considering the salary. I never told my mother what I'd done, and she died seven weeks later believing that I was still going to go on and make a huge dent in the math world. She'd been expecting that ever since I was five years old, and had taken the calculator out of her hand in the grocery store, telling her that "I will add up the food." She'd been proud of me, secure and confident that I was going to be just fine, assuming that she'd been waving me on to the university every morning of her final weeks. I'm grateful for that. But it was nine years later that I was sitting on that brown sofa, trying to figure out who or what had taken over my brain suddenly. Or maybe it wasn't sudden. If this whole mental mess was about losing my mother, I was going to be pretty damn pissed with myself. People lost their parents all the time. I was a big girl now. I'd had a normal grieving period if there was such a thing. I'd reconciled myself to a normal level of missing her. That part was ok. So how come my apartment looked like nobody lived here? How come I stuffed envelopes? I'd glanced out the window then, startled to see that it was dark, and that the clock said 9:40. Without any conscious thought I'd walked over to the phone and called the clinic. I left a message that I wouldn't be back, that I was moving out of the area. In the nine years I'd been there I'd never personalized my side of the shared desk. There was nothing to go pick up. I replaced the receiver, and pulled the phone jack out of the wall, and the answering machine plug out of the outlet. Then I went back and sat on the couch for basically the next three days, until I was afraid I was going to turn brown also. "My last month's rent is paid," I told the walls, over and over again. I retrieved my dufflebag from my bedroom closet, and stuffed a change of underwear, T-shirt and jeans inside. I turned my purse upside down on my bed, trying to see if there was anything of vital importance in there. There was $8.37 in my wallet, so I took that. It was too close to payday for there to be anything significant in my bank account, so I tossed my ATM card aside. I'd long ago cancelled my Visa card, and my driver's license was still in the sink. That reminded me..my car. I thought about my downstairs neighbor.. She didn't seem to have a car, and I'd frequently seen her walking to the apartment building with grocery bags weighing down her arms. I didn't know her name. I tore a page out of my notebook and wrote that there was gas in the beige Civic in stall #4, that it would soon be impounded, but until that happened, it was hers. I taped my carkey to the note, hoping that she did, in fact, know how to drive. Maybe she'd never had a driving lesson in her life. I looked at my social security card, trying to come up with a profound thought about people being numericized, but nothing jumped to mind. I left it on the bed, and reached up on the closet shelf for my extra blanket, a thin blue thing I used to take to the beach. I threw in my looseleaf notebook and pen for the hell of it. I couldn't think of anything else to put in there. I wasn't sure what I was packing for, anyway. I glanced around the bedroom, and popped Mickey in, on top of the blanket. I walked into the living room, and glanced at the phone. I considered calling a Mental Health Hotline, but had no idea what I'd say. "Hi, I've got a leprechaun in my bag, and I think I might be turning brown." Anyway, it would require plugging the phone back in, and that seemed like a lot of unnecessary effort. I walked over to the front door. This was the moment I was supposed to hesitate, to realize I'd just had a bad day or three. I looked over my shoulder. Not even any plants to feel guilty about. A minimalist's guide to streamlined living. "K, guys. I'm checking out," I told the furniture, and opened the door. I closed it behind me without locking it, figuring it would make it easier for the landlord when he eventually crept in nervously with the fear he was going to find my skeletal remains in there. I am nothing if not considerate. I walked downstairs, stopping to slip the note and key under my neighbor's door. Thank goodness for cheap construction where there's ample room between the bottom of the door and the ground. I went down the walkway and turned right. Seemed as good a direction as any. ---------------------------- "Girl, you are on MARS," Nell was saying, taking the cigarette out of my hand, which had reached the finger-burning zone. "Sorry, Nell. Was thinking," I told her, giving my head a shake. My head seems to be getting a lot of shakes lately. "Never do that, girlie," she cackled, reaching for another Marlboro and lighting it with the end of the one in her hand. "Thinking never did nobody no good anyhow." Sometimes Nell hits the nail smack on the head. "You are a philosopher and a gentlewoman, Miss Nell," I told her, standing up. God, I was stiff as a board. "I'll see you here tomorrow, ok?" She nodded, puffing contentedly on her cigarette, eyes energetically darting around, scanning for a familiar face, or maybe for a likely looking guilt-ridden passerby to hit up. I'm not sure that Nell ever actually sleeps. But I was ready to, and I had a few blocks to walk to get to Alex's doorstep. I wondered if I could master the art of skateboarding. I was damned tired of walking. I picked up my dufflebag and crossed Telegraph. I got to Alex's doorway feeling as if I'd run a marathon. Man oh man, I was done in. I took out my blanket and my sweatshirt, which doubles as my pillow, and collapsed in a heap on the step. The entrance to the pawn shop is set up in such a way that I'm not visible from the street if I smoosh myself all the way to the side. The steps are flanked on both sides by lattice-work fences, and there's a large bush in front on the right side, so I'm basically hidden from passersby. I'm protected from the elements since the whole entrance area is covered by an overhang. Doesn't help with the cold, but at least I don't get wet. I was supremely grateful for that the first night I stumbled up the steps. -------------------- I had walked for miles after leaving my apartment that night. Seemed like miles, anyway. I'd been convinced that if I stopped walking, I would immediately hear, "Move along, missy. No loitering." I decided it had been pretty stupid to leave home on a rainy January night. Somewhere in my head was the idea that one was supposed to have some fear for one's personal safety, though that seemed oddly irrelevant at this point in time. I couldn't walk another step, though. That much I knew. So I'd turned down the next side street, and seen the darkened pawn shop with the convenient bushy whatever-sort-of-plant it was in front. I'd walked up the steps and plopped down. This felt really strange, I decided. I told myself I was making do in an airport lounge because my flight had been cancelled. I covered myself with my blanket, shoved my sweatshirt under my head, and fell asleep within seconds. Someone was crawling into my dream, whispering, "Dios mio." I'd opened one eye, sensing that something had bumped against my foot. A tall Latino man in jeans and a leather jacket was staring at me. I had the feeling that he'd been bounding up the stairs, stopping dead in his tracks. It took me a second to remember where I was, even though I hadn't been too sure where I was in the first place. I jumped to my feet, pulling my blanket around me. "Uh, sorry. Excuse me. I don't have the hang of this homeless thing yet," I'd mumbled, grabbing my dufflebag and sweatshirt, and moving quickly down the steps. And then I heard it. A loud, all-over-body laugh. That was odd. People were supposed to be either repelled or pitying. But this guy was chortling. I'd turned around, curiosity temporarily overtaking my embarrassment and need for flight. "That deserves a cup of coffee," he'd grinned at me. I'd shaken my head, murmured, "No, that's ok. Sorry." And had broken into a run, oblivious to the steady drizzle, pulling on my sweatshirt and shoving my blanket into the bag, my cheeks burning in what I supposed was some shame kicking in. I'd kept running, blinking my eyes against the spattering raindrops, praying the man with the strange sense of humor wasn't coming after me. He'd looked far too much like the compassionate type when I'd groggily opened my eyes, and I didn't need that. I ran, and walked, and ran some more, occasionally taking cover under awnings, skirting my way around normal people with umbrellas. What sort of idiot takes off in January without an umbrella? I berated myself. I'd never minded walking in the rain, loved it, actually, thinking it made me a whimsical person. Now the rain could just go to hell, as far as I was concerned. This was getting old fast, and I was drenched. And I had a feeling that I hadn't eaten since the day before yesterday, and things were beginning to look a little unreal. I knew there was a rescue mission a few blocks down. I'd passed it numerous times in my car. Each time there was an uncomfortable realization that these places actually did exist, that they got crowded every day. When the blurriness turned to dizziness and the empty stomach sensation to nausea, I'd stopped my running/walking and had done the pacing thing in front of the rescue mission that day, which had led to my falling into line there. But now tonight I was beat, and sick of reminiscing, and curled up on Alex's step, hoping Nell's weather forecast for our beach trip was right. I needed to get out of this town for a while. -------------------- True to Nell's prediction the sun was shining the next morning when I woke up. I felt like a human pretzel, every joint kinked, barely able to move my neck. "I've got ba-gels...I've got rhy-thm..I've got cream cheese," a far too happy voice sang out from inside the pawn shop. "You're a doll, Alex, but I'm going to be forced to kill you," I groaned, lumbering to my feet, re-packing my bed, and rolling my head around on my neck. His purposeful stride up the steps usually wakes me up, but this morning I must have been comatose as I'd never even heard him open the door. He's begged me in the past to take a key and sleep inside, but I won't do that. I'd feel too much like a squatter, I told him. I have dignity to maintain. And anyway, I'd probably make off with Aunt Hattie's Victorian brooch. I was, after all, a desperate homeless woman on the edge. He'd dimpled at me then, and hasn't brought it up since. The smell of coffee propelled me through the door. I noticed through my groggy stupor that there were now two pots of pink geraniums flanking the front door on either side. I took the mug of coffee and the onion bagel he was holding out, remarked on the geraniums, and asked him if he were turning gay. He gave his booming laugh, spitting coffee out the side of his mouth. This guy is way too easily amused, way too cheery, and if it weren't for him, I'd probably be dead. "It's spring, mi reina. Flowers are blooming, the sun is shining, and the birds, they are singing," he chirped, laughing as he ducked from my about-to-smack-him hand. I devoured the bagel, swirling the cream cheese around in my mouth, slowly coming back to the land of the living. I drained my mug, nodding my thanks, and made my way to his restroom in the back. I splashed water on my face, thanking the gods he didn't have a mirror in there, and took out his paper towels and Dow Scrubbing Bubbles from underneath the cracked sink. I clean his bathroom every morning. I can't pay him for his kindness, but dammit, I can make his toilet sparkle. I opened the tiny window which looks out on to a dumpster. Nothing like letting the fresh scent of raw sewage into the room. I walked back out to the front, where Alex was busily working his adding machine, and singing Light My Fire. Wailing it actually. He makes great coffee but he can't sing. He looked up when I told him it was far too early for this relentless perkiness, and said it wasn't early, it was 8:30, por el amor de Dios.
Copyright © 2000 Annie Van Dalsem |