Filed under: Watching People
This afternoon at approximately 1:30 PM, I noticed a girl on a street corner. It was hard not to notice her because in her arms she cradled a bulky bike rack. She held on to it nonchalantly, quietly and as unobtrusively as possible. She was a young girl, dressed like a preppy Gap commercial. I passed by but our eyes didn’t catch each other. She stood there like a statue, unmoving.
Later, close to 5 PM, I crossed this same corner from the same direction and she was still there. But now, she was placing this bike rack into the trunk of a car. There was no one in the car. And I had to think to myself, “Has she been here all this time standing on a street corner with a bike rack? Is this some form of Zen meditation that I don’t understand? Have I caught the end of the ritual?” Though perhaps she was thinking the similar thoughts about me: “Doesn’t this girl in the striped skirt, carrying heels, wearing ratty flip flops, have anything better to do all day then cross the same street corner over and over again?”
I’m on the phone with my childhood doctor’s office. I’ve been calling for two days and the phone’s always busy. I finally get through and they’re telling me they don’t have any records on me. Not anymore. It’s been too long. I’m saying, “So you mean I just have to get re-immunized again? I need this to get into school and I need the doctor’s signature.”
It’s funny, all these little things you’d never thought you’d have to deal with again, like the time someone stuck a needle in your arm back in 1990. It might have pricked a little but certainly wasn’t traumatizing enough to be remembered 18 years later. Of course, on the phone, I am not finding this particularly amusing and it’s starting to show in my voice.
I’m at work so this feels like work. I’m on the phone all the time with doctor’s offices trying to get records for our clients. I can get testy with them too, usually when they’re trying to charge me ridiculous photocopying fees. So, an edge is entering into my voice. “Well, we don’t have your records,” says the receptionist, with an icy patience to match my tone.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“After so many years we get rid of them. I looked. They’re not there.”
“They no longer exist?”
“Look,” she says, “Did you call the high school?”
“No,” I reply, “I mean, my first thought was my doctor.”
So there I am on the phone with the high school secretary, with the high school nurse and finally with a woman in the guidance counselor’s office who promises me she will dig deep into the vault to see if there’s anything still in there on me. I start to spell out my last name, “It’s F as in Frank, A -” but she interrupts me, “I know who you are.”
I’m touched by this. I start to feel bad. I’m thinking, “I was being mean towards my hometown.” They actually know who I am. They even remember me. They’re probably thinking, “Oh and she used to be such a sweet four-year old. So pleasant…but now…” Then a pause, then a sigh.
It’s weird trying to reconcile being on the phone with people who represent the place I’m from. Because I’m not there anymore. And my parents aren’t there anymore. Because I’m not ready to go back. I even said, “I’m hoping y’all can help me out with something,” when they answered the phone and that for damn sure was not something I, as a tried & true Yankee, would ever have said a few years ago, unless I was making fun of myself. This time though I wasn’t even thinking about it until I heard the words after they escaped from my mouth.
Of course the poor woman in the guidance counselor’s office has to bear the brunt of my gratitude and my guilt for the irritated tone I displayed on the phone with the doctor’s office. But she bears it well and graciously and soon our fax machine is spitting out the papers I need. Sometimes I guess you have to keep the doctor’s receptionist on the phone an annoyingly long time until she divulges the next clue in the Measles Mumps Rubella treasure hunt. I don’t feel good about it, but at least I don’t have to go get another shot.
Filed under: Memory
I once knew a man who would never harm an insect. He avoided slapping mosquitoes when they landed on his skin. I saw him carry a wasp cupped inside his hands and set it free outside the house. And when I knew this man, I never imagined that there would be a time when I would no longer know him. I think of him faintly when I pass by Rowena Avenue because I’ve heard he has a daughter by that name. What I remember if I stop to do so is how the June grass looked when we spread a blanket on it. Long, bus rides with poetry and gray rain and my forehead scrunched up. Getting utterly lost and frustrated in Rhode Island in a maroon car. Striving to skip stones like he could. And that’s because someone snapped a Polaroid when it was happening. I could try to know him now. I could find out how he is. It wouldn’t be hard. But he’s no longer who I used to know. He just can’t be. Just like I’m no longer 19. And I kind of like leaving the feeling of the memories intact; they visit me once and a while, fluttering by unannounced. Occasionally I like to hold on to them for a moment and remember this man that I used to know.
I walked towards the supermarket avoiding puddles and dialing my grandmother. I was looking over my short grocery list as she picked up with her usual, “Let me guess, you’re out walking somewhere, about to run an errand.”
“That’s right – I’m getting groceries and I thought I better call you.”
She’s told me that weekends can be hard, longer than weekdays. I try to remember to always call.
The doors opened for me and I grabbed a little green basket, always a good way of limiting my purchasing power.
“So how’s the weather?”
“Well,” I said, “It’s not raining now, but this morning at about 7 AM I got woken up by the most torrential thunderstorm. At first I thought I was dreaming. It sounded like the house was going to be ripped apart at the seams.”
I grabbed a stalk of cilantro and a serrano pepper.
“No rain here, but it’s been gray all day…Now let me ask you this.”
“Yes Grandma?”
I meandered through the fruit and people, contemplating which bananas looked most ripe. None, really. But some had to be bought anyway.
“Were you sleeping alone when the storm woke you up, or was there someone with you?”
“Yes, there was someone with me.”
Next up, frozen peas, and a smile on my face about the fact that my grandma asks me these things. And that she already knows the answers.
“That’s the way I like it best,” she explained, “When all that thunder and lightening scares you, there’s someone to grab onto.”
And I thought back to the morning, half-dead to the world, feeling like it was the middle of the night, listening to the pounding on the roof, against the windows. I turned over and I said to that someone in the bed, “Are you hearing that too?”
“Yes,” he said in a murmur.
“Should we like unplug the electronics or something?”
He agreed and we jumped out of the bed to pull plugs out of walls.
And then my grandmother was asking me how my other granny had been doing in these months since the death of my grandpa.
I was navigating between people to snatch my last item off the shelf: veggie ground round for a keema dish.
As I was answering that my granny was okay but that she wouldn’t really be over it, that she cries every day I’m sure, my grandmother began to change the subject. She already knows what that loss feels like, she doesn’t need to dwell on it. I guess once you’re used to decades upon decades of being able to turn over in the middle of the night in the middle of a storm to hold onto the person you love, once you’re used to that, you must be glad when the rain doesn’t start until the middle of the day.
Filed under: Photography, Riding in Cars, Small Things That Take on Epic Proportions
It’s not too hot yet and the breeze is soothing on my skin. I’ve finished work for the week and here I sit outside on the patio at dusk. I’m wearing a white long skirt and trying to look pretty, my hair swept up with messy curls. But my brain just won’t slow down.
Everything is huge, the jet roaring overhead, the train speeding by, even the doves which appear to be shrieking in my ears. The crow bouncing on the branch looks like it’s going to cause the whole tree to fall over.
I remember I had these weekends last spring when I would turn to my friend and say, “Isn’t it so wonderful? I feel so free. There’s nothing I have to do right now. Nowhere I have to be. I can just be here. No responsibilities.” It was so pleasant that I’m surprised lawn chairs and iced tea weren’t involved.
Since then I’ve set all sorts of little things in motion and I’m now watching them hurtle forward and I’m praying I’ll stay caught up.
I find myself now relaxing most when I’m driving and listening to the radio. It’s just easier when I’m driving through it, watching it pass by, my elbow on the window, the wind messing up my hair. I see a blur of brightly painted houses, wildflowers, homeless men shuffling along and I smile to it all. When I know the words to the song that’s playing and I can actually sing along, then I’m in heaven.
Still, most of the time, even if I’m overwhelmed and complaining about lack of sleep, I’m still excited. It’s like I’m constantly anticipating Christmas or my 10th birthday and really that’s where most of the fun lies. Just driving in a direction, any direction, hoping not to hit pedestrians or other cars along the way. As long as I have my music I don’t need to get there too quickly, especially if I only partially know where I’m headed.
He has a short-hair cut except for a long thin braid which hangs down his back. He does maintenance in the building I work in. Often we smile at each other in the mornings and he’ll hold the elevator door open for me, or press the up button when he sees me walking in. He speaks thickly accented English, but we usually don’t exchange many words.
Today I waited for the light to turn to cross the street back to the office. He was on the other corner, right behind the crosswalk sign. As the little man turned white and I started to cross, he began to pretend he was a cross-walk guard, making motions at me to stop, and laughing. I laughed along with him.
Then he pointed down and I noticed he was wearing heavy wading boots that came up to his knees. I figured he’d been hosing down the sidewalk, one of his daily tasks. He began making fishing motions with his hands. He threw out his line and reeled it back in.
By this point we were walking towards the building doors together, smiling.
“Fishing? You’ve been fishing, huh?” I said.
“Fishing. You like fishing? You fish?” he said.
“No, because I don’t eat fish. No fishing for me.”
“On more day!” he said and pushed the up elevator button.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“It’s Thursday. Tomorrow’s Friday. Good thing.”
“Oh yes, good thing,” I said and the elevator doors closed in front of me as I waved goodbye.
It was the kind of morning where I had to be up because I had to be somewhere. Of course, Monday through Friday I always have to be at work, but it’s not like a scheduled appointment with a date and time written on a business card. It’s a lot easier to get up when there’s less of a choice. Or when your waking mind at least thinks there’s less of a choice when it hears your alarm going off.
Still, there was a rush. I gulped at my tea and threw half of it into my Pacha mug to bring along for the ride. I grabbed papers willy-nilly and shoved them into my shoulder bag with the unflagging optimism that I might sort through them later and figure out what they were. Made sure I had my wallet, my cell phone, my keys, my mechanical pencil and eraser. And then there was my paper bag with a jar of applesauce — by God I’m really looking forward to real food one of these days – and high heels for later.
Stepping outside into the already 70 degree weather, I breathed in the vibrant greenness of the grass. My landlords planted it all up and down my driveway. It’s new and tender and I try not to step on it because I don’t want to make it cry. And it was nice, standing on the little porch, for just a moment, breathing in the air, surveying the scene. The pink petunias already getting a little straggly where they hang above my head. A pleasant feeling of possible rain.
And then I heard this low, gutteral yelling emerging from the quiet of the morning. It sounded like multiple voices. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. One of the houses across the street, perhaps even on the street over. But it was coming from somewhere, inside some home. “Knock it off! Just knock it off!” I could make out those words, those sentences being repeated. I walked down the driveway looking around on the quiet, sleepy street for an indication of any disturbance.
Still straining to hear the sounds, I walked back up my driveway and put my paper bag in the trunk. Back inside my apartment, I said to my boyfriend, “There’s this yelling outside.”
“Really?” he said.
I locked the door behind us and the neighborhood was silent again. I paused. Listened. Just an inconspicuous morning and me, about to be late for an appointment. Maybe there were birds chirping, nothing more. And somehow, because the yelling had the quality of a disturbing dream you want to shake out of your head, I forgot about it. Before I left, I couldn’t resist popping my head through the backyard gate and gazing lovingly on the hydrangea about to burst into bloom.
Tulips for Loss of Wisdom
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl.
Yesterday at work, I started making a dumb joke about something and one of the attorneys, laughing, said, “You shouldn’t be here. Really you should be at home. Go home and get better.” Huh. Well, I thought the joke was funny, but apparently it made me sound like I was still on pain medication. So when we had the pizza party to welcome the new receptionist, I gave up and went home to slurp more soup and mashed potatoes on the couch.
This morning, in the shower, I realized that I finally felt normal again. Partially just because I didn’t have the strong urge to lay down in the tub and fall back asleep. I was alert and finally truly awake. The water for tea was whistling in the kitchen. Maybe I’m not normal enough to eat a bagel with sesame seeds, but I’m normal enough for a full day’s work. A bit of a mixed blessing I guess, but ah well, what can you do.
Sitting at a table, spooning up cold tomato soup.
Admiring baby pink tulips. From my friend who still studies dutifully, across from me, before I move back to the bedroom.
Falling asleep on a bed with a heavy book in my hand.
Squinting at the bright light outside, at the red roses on the vine.
I haven’t showered; I’m still not wearing a bra; my hair is untouched by a brush.
Swallowing more Advil.
Telling my father on the phone while my granny talks in the background that yesterday was bad but today is just fine.
Walking in circles, cell phone against my ear, bare feet on the warm driveway.
Drinking more water; listening to the hum of the AC; tuning out people talking and popping bubblewrap.
Trying to make out the words on the page of the book open in front of me.
Falling asleep on green sheets as the sun lowers in the sky and my boyfriend decides to go for a run.
Filed under: Wisdom Teeth
There are cotton swabs to put in my mouth so I can pretend to be a gangster. Too be changed when they become too bloody. Leaving the couch feels like a trek, my head’s all swooshy. The first two walks to the bathroom, I had to lean on my boyfriend and do a little shuffle with my feet. The first time after walking 5 feet, I woke up on the floor with my boyfriend holding me. Apparently I’d fallen on my knees. I didn’t remember. I had an image of him with a with a golden-yellow cockateil on his shoulder, then I blinked and it was gone.
Last thing I remember they were sticking a needle in my vein.
Now I’m conscious enough to watch The Office and dream of different varietes of soup, pudding and ice cream.
