Well It WAS Called a HoJo...

“I’m starting to have feelings about this gal,” I say.

Mary leans over the railing and peers into the dark of a heavy Florida night.  She jerks her chin toward the woman lurching through the parking lot.  That one?   

I nod. 

“What kind of feelings,” she says, straightening.  “Deep-rooted feelings?  Feelings of longing and/or despair?”

Mary’s been a little keyed up since the flight.

“Feelings of nausea and fascination,” I say. 

We watch as the woman, a tall angular female clad in less than a yard of black fabric, walks through the lot.  The five-, maybe six-inch heels she is wearing give her the perplexing, jerky grace of a spider one shot of vodka past sobriety.  Pale and, well, lunar, somehow, she knocks sharply on a door several down and one floor below us. 

The door opens, and she slips through it.

Mary turns to me.  “What are ya thinkin’?”

“It’s not pizzas she’s delivering.”

“A hooker?"  Mary leans over the railing again, cranes her neck toward the door on the ground floor.  "So suspicious,” she says.  She straightens up, holds out a piece of fruit.  “Meth-addict orange?”

I take it.  The woman who had approached us at the convenience store a couple blocks down had had the hood of her jacket stuffed with them.  “Mmm,” I say.  “Meth-addict oranges are the juiciest.”

Mary nods.  “Nothing says Sunshine State like a parking-lot fruit deal."

We sit down, peel our oranges, drop the skins into the ash can outside our room.

"Ima giver 10 minutes."  Said from around a mouth full of orange.

"That's just rude," I say.  I spit out a seed.  "Terms and conditions are a good three minutes alone."

"You know everything," Mary says.

I shrug nonchalantly.  "I read," I say.

We laugh, eat another orange.

"What did we pay for these again?"

"Three bucks."  Mary pops another segment into her mouth, stands up, and leans over the railing again.  "Door opening!"

I stand in time to see her leave.  Mary hands me a piece of orange, and we watch her adjust a strap or two as she heads back to parking lot.

People never look up.

We watch as she walks from one side of the parking lot to the next,  She pulls a phone out, texts something.  She puts her phone in her purse, then disappears behind a parked car.

Mary tugs at my sleeve.  "Is she doing what I think she's doing?"

I shrug, grimace a bit.  But she is.  The woman is peeing behind a parked car.

"We should stay here more often,"I say.

"Both inexpensive and scenic," Mary offers.  She puts a piece of orange peel in her mouth, gives me a grin.  "What-say we find a new place to stay tomorrow?"

After a few moments, the woman stands, adjusts her clothing and checks her phone.  Another quick text, and she walks through the parking lot and toward another door just a few doors from the first one.

And we watch as she knocks again.  

Graffiti! or Free Tibet (With Purchase of Large Coffee)

 I gave myself a case of Vandal-Fighters Thumb this morning.

My stance on vandalism is well known in these parts: I’m against it. And there, in my three-sided, glass bus enclosure, a moron and a green felt tip pen collided in a semi-literate display of self-satisfaction.

First there was a phone number listed below the phrase “For Free Heab”. Heab? Free heab? Ladies and gentlemen, if you’re out this weekend and someone suggests the possibility of free heab, I suggest you proceed with caution.

Free heab may lead to free biseases.

I’ve rubbed it out, of course; and I have the green thumb to prove it.

I also rubbed out Taylor loves – well, we’ll never know who Taylor loves, now. Both Taylor and the object of her affection have been rubbed off the bus shelter, the memory of which lies only with Taylor and my stained thumb. The script was hard to read, anyway, a convoluted series of squiggles and dots. Judging by the penmanship, however, Taylor is young and will no doubt proclaim her love for future beaux in similarly public ways.

And I will be here, sacrificing my thumb nail and skin color to do it.

Dial M for Random

Ring-ring!  Ring-Ring!

“Good morning, this is Pearl.”

“Who is this?  Where are you?”

I blink at my phone. 

It doesn’t help, but it doesn’t hurt.

“This is Pearl,” I say.  “And where are you?”

“Well I’m – I’m Barbara,” she says crossly.  “And I’m not going to tell you where I am.”

I blink again.  There is a short silence before Barbara continues. 

“Why did you call me?”

I sigh, quietly.  Perhaps this is a test of some kind…

“I believe you called me,” I say.

“Not now,” she snaps.  “This morning.”

Barbara appears to be a bit peevish.

A light bulb goes off.  “Oh,” I say.  “I think I know what you’re talking about.  Is your number similar to –“  and here I rattle off the number I had mis-dialed earlier in the morning.

There is a silence, long enough that I begin to worry about ol’ Babs.

“Barbara?”

“Yes,” she cranks.  “Yes, it is, and you called me at 7:04.  Who calls anyone at 7:04?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say.  “I start work at 7:00.  I’m sorry if I woke you.”

She sniffs.  “I was up at 5:00.”  I am certain that this woman is frowning.  “I saw that you called but I was out in my garden, and then you didn’t leave a number, and I’ve been worried about it all day!”

“Oh,” I say. 

There is another silence.

“It’s so nice in the morning,” she says.

I close my eyes, then shrug.  Why not.  “Yes,” I say, “but I rarely get a chance to be out in it.”

Barbara cannot contain herself.  “What?!” she says.  “Well, you should!  You should get out.  Today is going to be nice at 4:00!”

This Barbara!  She’s a bit crabby, but she seems okay.  I laugh.  “Why at 4:00?  I don’t get off until –“

And just like that, there is a click and I am listening to the dial tone.

Barbara has hung up on me.

It haunts me, that conversation.

What made her think it was going to be nice at 4:00?

We Sometimes Went Days Without Taking Our Own Picture

We are unable to access the internet.

Acme Grommets and Gravel is beside itself.

The intern with whom I currently share a double-wide cubicle – a newly hired soul three quarters of a way through his Masters – looks at me with something akin to fear in his eyes.

“Does this happen a lot?”

I nod.  “More often than you’d think,” I say.

He frowns, then turns back to his screen.    

I want to console him, of course, but I also want to tweak his soft, wrinkly mind. 

“My first job,” I say, taking on the role of Office Crone, “was data entry.  The computer’s mainframe was housed in the biggest room in the building, probably 20 years before the internet.  I didn’t even have a phone at my desk.”

He turns in his chair, blinks at me.

“I used to go out to my car at lunch time,” I say, “and find notes on my car.”

He takes his hand from the mouse, scratches the back of his head.  “Notes?”

“Boyfriends, friends.  People would stop by, leave invitations to places, addresses, jokes.”

He stares at me.

“Sometimes they would leave pictures of cats doing funny things,” I say.

He brightens.  “Really?”

“No,” I say.

He frowns.  “But what did you do?  I mean, how did you get together with friends without calling?”

Somewhere in the ambient noise of a busy office, I imagine the sound of a crackling fire, my rocker creaking back and forth as I light a corncob pipe.  “That was called ‘cruising’, young man,” I say, “and it was part of the fun.  Would you run into friends?  Would you make new friends?  Who knew?”

“That would be weird,” he says slowly.

“It was weird,” I say.  “We sometimes had to go back to the Dairy Queen a dozen times before we ran into people we knew.”

He blinks at me.  “Dairy Queen?”

I nod sagely.  “Biggest parking lot,” I say.

He turns back to face his screen, clicks the Google Chrome icon dejectedly. “Weird,” he says. 

I stare at the back of his head.  “Yep,” I say.  “It was a weird time to be alive.”

Og Laugh at Your Societal Expectations

Like many in the urban jungle, I regularly seek the counsel of my inner caveman. 

The caveman: multi-family housing dweller, a man/woman who shared spaces, no doubt turning a blind eye to Grok’s all-night coughing, to Bork’s slovenly habits, to Phoebe’s telling that same lousy joke for what? the 10^th time today???

The bus is full, full of people wearing, individually, clothing enough for several more people.  Packed in our clothing, packed in our seats, we settle in.  There’s little to be done about how close we must be, and there’s no sense in fighting.  We’re just people, after all, and no one here wants anything more than to get home.  It is, as the clever among us like to say, what it is.  Best to turn your attention to your book, your iPod…

…  or your inner caveman, because Holy Hannah, what is that smell?

My caveman – Og, I think his name is – shakes his great, wooly head.  He lifts his flared nostrils, sniffing mightily.  What is that?  Goat?  Is that goat?  Wait – no.  Stagnant water.  No – wait!  Cat, feral cat, perhaps having had an encounter with a goat, next to a pool of stagnant water…

My seatmate, a smallish woman in a very nice coat glances at me, tries to determine if the smell is coming from me.  Satisfying herself that I do not appear to be the salty source, she leans forward, tries to sniff the man in front of us. 

She leans back with both a gratified and disturbed air.  She has found the source.

You’d think she’d be happy.

Deep within the smooth, cavernous expanse of the cave in my brain, Og gives a bemused grunt, picks at his teeth with the corner of a matchbook. 

We may know who here needs to wash that old coat, but there’s not much we can do about it.  

Tamra’s Got the Heebie Jeebies

“There should be a protocol,” she stresses.  “There are reasonable expectations associated with the bus!”

I nod solemnly, pull out the book I keep on hand for such occurrences, and remove the cap from my pen.  “Why don’t you tell me about it?” I say.

“There’s this guy – he’s a big guy.  A really big guy.  And you know the size of those seats, right?”

I do, indeed.  Tamra rides daily on one of the city-to-suburbs buses, buses that look, for the most part, like a city bus, but are run independently.  They have Greyhound-fancy seats and, from what I understand, onboard masseuses. 

“So he sits down.  And he’s allowed that.  I’m not saying he shouldn’t sit with me.  But then he overlaps, and –“

Tamra shudders.  A slender, fashionable woman, one suspects, looking at her, that not only is her home in a visitor-ready state, but that her legs, despite it being January, have been recently shaved.

I like her anyway.

“—and you know how I feel about germs, right?  So there he is, he’s got his leg pressed – and I’m as close to the window as I can get! – against mine, I can feel his belly –“

Tamra is overcome.  I give her a moment.

“And then he pulls a newspaper out of his briefcase!  He pulls the newspaper out, snaps it open – and now I’ve got his arm clearly in my bubble –“

His arm is clearly in her bubble, I write, chuckling.

“ – and then – and then!”

I look up from my notes, reach for my coffee.  “And then?”

She closes her eyes, turns away, as if to push the memory away.  “He sneezes,” she says.  “Into the newspaper.”

I chuckle, despite myself.  I’ve watched Tamra disinfect a hallway after someone with a sniffle walks by.  Raised by a registered nurse, on a first-name basis with a number of exceedingly startling maladies, Tamra does not suffer a germ gladly.

“That’s not the worst of it,” she says, turning back, eyes haunted.  “After he sneezed into the newspaper, he – he –“

My eyes go round.  No.  My mother’s voice rises, somewhere in the back of my head; and suddenly, I know what Tamra will say next.

“No,” I say.

“Yes.”

I stare at her.

She looks away again.  “He picked his nose.  And then – “ 

I make a choking sound, but the worst is yet to come.

She looks up, troubled.  “He flicked it,” she says, wincing.  “He flicked it in the aisle.”

There is a moment’s silence as we consider this.

She turns back to her monitor, types quickly, a brief, staccato burst of sound.

“I see him all the time,” she says.  “But I keep my purse on the seat next to me.  I pretend to be digging in it until he passes.”

She turns back to look at me.  “It’s not right,” she says.  “me leaving my purse on the seat like that.  But really, there ought to be protocols.”  

Of Course That’s My Picture!

We have pictures of ourselves, here at work, posted near our respective doors – or, in my and my fellow cube mates’ cases, near the exercise wheel, over by the shredded paper we use now that our corporate overlords have done away with bathroom breaks.

I keed!  I keed!  Bathroom breaks are clearly scheduled.  I can send you the memo if you’ve lost it.

The pictures we supplied HR have been laminated.  Next to the photo are two columns:  Work and Life.

What do you do here at Acme Grommets and Gravel?  What kinds of questions can I answer for you?

What do you do when you’re not at work?  What are your interests?

Can I help it that I found it funny?

“Ask me about my Amway business!” I wrote.  “My interests include yoga, home trepanning, and long walks on the beach.  My pet peeves include hypocrites and people who frown when they could be smiling!”

Needless to say, my little laminated autobiography did not stay affixed to my cubicle for long.

Still, following the acquisition of Acme Grommets and Gravel by Global Tentacles (a Worldwide Octopus Company), those little cards served a purpose: The straights learned what each other did for a living through walking the halls, reading the biographies.

And the smart-alecks used that same time to leave tiny, penciled comments on them.

But the acquisition is old now, and one by one, the “Who Are You?”s have come down.

All but a handful.

I pass one of these lonely little placards on a regular basis. 

There is it, on my way to the bathroom.

There’s little to mock in the way of what she does, either at work or away.  The photo, though –

Frankly, it took a while for me to recognize the woman in the photo as the woman who occupies the office. 

It is clear that she likes this picture, and why wouldn’t she?  In it, she is 15 years younger, a good 40 pounds lighter.  She looks like her own niece, I imagine. 

I keep walking, step into the bathroom where I take a look at myself in the mirror over the double sinks. 

Do any of us see ourselves as we really are?

Mysterious Hollering Dude Returns

It is 45 minutes until the sun will be up.  I have managed to squeeze into every article of clothing that I own and waddle myself, fat as a tick, down the street and toward the bus stop.  It is cold out, the kind of cold that will make the forecast of zero later in the week seem positively balmy.  Standing at the corner, waiting for the traffic to pass, I blink several times in an effort to clear what I suspect may be a thin layer of ice from my eyeballs.

It has been quite some time since I’ve seen him, and holy moley, there he is.

“Mornin’!”, he says.

I step to one side while Mike – was his name Mike? – zips by on a bicycle.

“Morning!” I call.

I haven’t seen him in well over a year. 

Honestly, it’s just not that kind of relationship.

I live in a city and, like anywhere else, there are routines.  I may not know you, but I know that you go to Starbucks.  I know that you get off the bus four stops before me.  I know that you have a dog and should hit that black wool coat of yours with one of those sticky-tape rolls…  But I don’t know where you go when I don’t see you.  And sometimes, that bothers me.  These people we see every day but don’t really know, do they feel the same way about us? 

I will board the bus shortly.  I will see the man with the sculpted facial hair, the one whose clothes smell like cigarette smoke.  I will see the older woman with the impeccable lipstick and the strikingly beautiful white hair.  I will see the man in inadequate winter gear, the man with the profile of Aztec royalty. 

Am I the woman in the sleeping-bag coat, the blonde with the iPod earbud in one ear?

And I turn to watch Mike – and his bicycle – already a block away, his tail light blinking redly into the distance.

Everything Normal Over Here; or, What’s With All the Ear Plugs?

Some houses contain stacks of books.

In some houses, you find mounds of cat toys.  Tidy piles of receipts.  Dozens of empty Fresca cans in the recycling.

And in some houses, there are ear plugs on the floor.

Dolly Gee Squeakers, formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers, trots excitedly from one end of the living room to the other, a pink and green ear plug in her mouth.  She drops it, upon reaching the far end of the room and, with a tiny guttural exclamation of joy, bats it in ever-increasing displays of ferocity.

Dolly Gee Squeakers, aka Dali Gee, aka No Kitty, No!, has discovered pride in ownership.

They are, of course, not her ear plugs to own, but mine. 

In an effort to romance the sleep back into my life, I take a sleep-aid.  I take warm baths, get read two bed-time stories, and I wear ear plugs.

There.  I said it:  I wear ear plugs.

And I don’t really get two bed-time stories. 

But I do wear ear plugs, because when you live in a duplex in the city, a gal could wake up several times a night shouting, What?!  I never! and various other nonsense answers to the city’s nonsense questions.

The discovery of these little rubber life savers has turned Dolly’s world on its fuzzy, slightly dimwitted head.

“Mrrrow?”  Fixed somewhere between the shape of a pampered badger and a speed bump, the cat skitters by, her bright blue and slightly crossed eyes blazing with the pride of ownership.

The cat drops the ear plug at Willie’s feet.  He bends over, picks it up.  “This doesn’t seem right to me,” Willie says, side-arming Dolly’s latest craze into the other room.

The long-haired Siamese mix lets out a cry, somewhere between desire and heartache, and dashes across the room, only to drop the ear plug at Willie’s feet.

“At least she’s through with her reggae phase,” I say.  “That was driving me crazy.”

Willie looks at me, shakes his head, throws the ear plug again.

Tales from the Sleepless; or Have You Always Looked Like That?

It appears that I’ve given up sleeping.

And I used to be such a fan.

I take a prescription sleep-aid, of course.  What middle-aged American female doesn’t?  And so I fall asleep.

But I don’t stay there.

Whatever the reason, I am awake.  I am awake and agitated.

For hours.

I roll.  I kick.  I sigh heavily.

Nothing helps. 

And so I begin another day by staring at myself in the bathroom mirror.

“Who,” I mouth at my reflection, “are you supposed to be?”

I stumble through the work week trying to appear alert.  I focus, during meetings, on keeping my eyes open only to suddenly recall a brief fad in junior high of painting eyes on our eyelids. 

My snorts of laughter are met with the concerned frowns of my fellow workers.

I shrug. 

Sleepless Pearl cares not.

And it’s odd, but 2:51 seems to be my new preferred wake-up time. 

A more superstitious, gothic-ly minded woman would affix a reason to this.

Perhaps something wonderful once happened at 2:51 and the house has never forgotten.

Perhaps something wonderful once happened to me at 2:51 and I remember only when I’m unconscious.

Perhaps I was murdered in another life at 2:51.

Oh, no!  What if I was murdered in another life at 2:51?  What if I will die at 2:51?

Worse yet, what if my bed-side clock is off by 10 minutes and I’m actually being prompted somehow about a two-for-one sale that I’m missing out on?

It’s easy to confuse me when I’m tired.

But What's He WANT?

I must admit that I’ve become concerned.

It is 6:52.  I am moments, and blocks, from the beginning of a new work week, a fact that is not lost on my iPod, which responds by playing a requiem by Mozart.

The bus pauses in front of the Minneapolis Central Library, as a bus will do. 

A grand structure known for floors upon floors of books for the borrowing, long lines of children in matching tee-shirts giggling their way through an online dictionary in search of multi-syllabic words for “fart”, and sketchy dudes sprawled on the front steps, the Minneapolis library is near a bus stop.

I turn from my seat, toward the double doors leading into the library and see what I have seen every day for the last two weeks.

Stock still, his back to the street, a man stands perhaps two feet from the library’s entrance, leg akimbo, arms hanging heavy at this sides.  He is wearing more articles of clothing than is necessary for June in Minneapolis.

I stare at his back, willing him to move.

He does not.

He is waiting.

But what is he waiting for?

For its opening, in three hours?

For a “sign”?

For someone to hit “Play”?

Holy Hannah, is that man stuck on Pause?

He doesn’t move.  

He doesn’t scratch himself, check a watch, or shift his feet.

He is waiting.

But for what?

The Action on the Bus on a Friday Afternoon

It’s been a quiet day.

That changes with her arrival on the bus.

Sit here, next to me, won’t you?  Because she looks like the kind of woman who will be entertaining, and I tire of witnessing these things by myself.  Bright purple pants, silver sandals, a Pepe Le Pew tee-shirt knotted at the waist and proclaiming “I’m a Li’l Stinker”, I can’t help but hope that she is, indeed, a li’l stinker.

But back to the pants, for one turns down one’s iPod when these kinds of pants get on the bus.

These are not just any pants.  These are, if you’ll excuse the expression, “in your face” pants.  Perhaps there was money involved, wagers placed as to whether or not she could get them on and keep them on for a length of time.  Made of a surprisingly sturdy material nonetheless going a bit shiny and distressingly thin in the rear, I get a good look at the seam running up her backside as she stops at the seat across from me, bends over to place her bag down in the seat next to the window.  She throws herself into the aisle seat with a satisfied “umph”.

Then…

“Mmm-hmmm,” she intones.  “You got that right.” 

For just a moment I am startled.  I then realize she’s talking on the phone.  I stare out my window, ears attuned.  Who got what right now?

“Mmm,” she says.  “That’s what I think, but dang!  Michelle gon’ take him out, honey.  First time in history a sittin’ president be killed by his own wife.”

What?!

“That’s what I say,” she nods, laughing.  “Girl, you know the only reason he make Condoleeza Rice Security Advisor is so he can get in her pants!  Heh, heh, heh!  Nah, nah, she good-lookin’, but if Hillary threw a lamp and missed, Michelle gon’ throw the lamp and it gon’ find its target.”

Ah.  The mystery revealed, but it’s not Condoleeza Rice that has been named National Security Advisor.

It’s Susan Rice.

Shall I tell her?

In the end, I decide against it.

There’s nothing to do but turn my iPod back on – and watch her as she departs, just three stops later, still laughing about what’s about to go down on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Dang.

I've Never Fully Trusted My Feet, Now That I Think About It

My hair predicted – correctly – that the weather this morning would be damp and cold with a good chance of frizz and has since then assumed all the texture and gloss of twine.

It’s another case of you-should‘ve-seen-me-when-I-left-the-house.

Sometimes I have whole weeks like that.

Today, for example: not only am I questioning what might’ve possibly happened to my hair between when I went to bed last night and when I awoke but I am also wondering about my wardrobe in general. Why, prior to my leaving the house this morning – and according to my mirror which has never lied to me before – I would've sworn to you that my outfit was fashionable, well suited to me, and ever-so-casually elegant.

This illusion promptly disappeared once I reached the office. What was I thinking? This doesn’t look good on me at all! And what is this? A blue sock and a black sock? A quick check tells me that my shirt is on right-side out, which is always a plus in the corporate environs, but the two-different-colored sock thing has me a little concerned.

Two different socks. Humph.

I’ve caught myself frowning at my feet more than once this morning, as if there’s a chance that my socks will notice my displeasure and do something about it. I doubt it, though, as I’ve been displeased with my footwear in the past and it’s come to naught.

Although, come to think of it, I did once have a pair of high heels turn unexpectedly into flats, which was both exciting and uncalled-for.

Perhaps I should stop being so heavy-handed with my feet and just leave them be before one of them decides to get ambitious and start branching out. Next thing you know, I’ll be cutting little sidecars into my shoes like Grandma did...

I may want to re-think my position on colored socks and their relation to reality…

Note to self: Buy feet something thoughtful but not too expensive. We can’t afford to lose these two so early in the game.

And the Orangemen Sound Delicious

Dolly lays on her back in the living room, arms and legs akimbo, a fuzzy and most un-seaworthy canoe.

Her eyes riveted on the television, her NCAA Mens Divisional Basketball Championship bracket lies near her head.

“I’m surprised you’re putting yourself through this again.”

The cat, a long-haired Siamese/badger/speed bump mixture, sighs.

It happens every year:  Dolly Gee Squeakers, formerly of the Humane

Society Squeakers, bets more than she can afford on college sports.

And like last year, she is about to lose her cigarette money.

“It’s probably time to quit anyway,” I say.

She looks at me, expressionless.

“Smoking,” I say.

She turns back to the TV.

“It’s too early to be worried,” I soothe.  “Your teams are all still, um…”  I trail off.  I know nothing of sports, scoring, or brackets.

Dolly’s got good reason to be concerned, though. There’s precedent.

It is pathetic, really.  After last year’s loss, her two-cigs a day habit had, out of necessity, been reduced to one a day.  For days after the Jayhawks lost to the Wild Cats, she had smoked in four- and five-hit increments morosely sitting at the kitchen table, a figure of loss and self-doubt.  Last year’s system had been based on her love of birds, despite having had a successful year prior to that going with big mascots beating small mascots. 

“I didn’t thtick to my thythem,” she whispers.

Teased as a kitten for her lisp, it is rare that we hear from Dolly.

I follow her gaze to the television.  Minnesota is playing Florida.  “Wait.  You went with Minnesota?”

The cat meets my eye and dips her chin, a brief, somehow fatalistic gesture.

“But,” I frown, “I thought you were going back to big mascots over little mascots.  A Florida Gator is bigger than a Minnesota Gopher.”

Dolly Gee Squeakers fixes her brilliantly blue, ever-so-slightly crossed eyes on me.  “I know that,” she says, “but the gopher...”  She stops abruptly with a faraway look in her eye.  “I love them,” she whispers, a scarcely audible whisper full of longing.  “Tho help me, I love the little gopherth.”

I lean toward her, run a finger between her silky ears.  “Who you got going all the way?”

Dolly thinks before speaking.  “A particular college in New York.”

I smile.  “Syracuse?”

Dolly smiles, a charming thing in a cat.  “Orangemen,” she says dreamily.  “Orangemen.”

If You’re Good at It, Is It Still Rotten?

You can tell this guy’s a character, just by looking.

Seems he has run into a friend of his.  He strides toward him, his hand outstretched.

“There he is!  The man himself!” 

For the rest of the commute, he stands next to him.  His hand holding the overhead strap, he sways like a reed.

He is a wiry fellow, this man, encased in Carhartt duds, a baggy blue knit cap.  He has a drooping moustache and bright, clever eyes.  When he smiles you can see he is missing an eye tooth.  I judge him to be in his early 50s.

“I needed those big curving needles” he says to his friend, “came downtown, found two packs of them at the Walgreen’s.  Bought them both for five dollars.  Well, there was tax, too, but I didn’t mind paying it.”

His friend nods appreciatively.

“Fixed the couch of the lady down the hall.  Big rip in the middle of it.”

He describes, in gesticulating details that often include both hands, the process of pulling, pinning, stitching and moving the couch from one room to another.

He describes the home-cooked meal he got in return for his services. 

The meal, he pronounces, was middlin’, but the dessert was fiiiiiiiine. 

I go back to my iPod but find I cannot stay away.  I check in, turning the volume up or down as needed, every couple of minutes. 

“I tell them, hey!  I didn’t want the phone in the first place! They tell me, everybody got a phone!  I tell them, well I don’t.  I need to use a phone, I got three, four people right down the hall let me use theirs.”

And

“I hit all the thrift stores up and down that street.  Finally found what I was looking for.  After I’d set it right, I sold it.  You can make a lot of money that way.”

“Oh, sure,” he says at one point, twisting the ends of his moustache, “you can use bee’s wax.  Don’t think I didn’t think of that.  The one thing you can’t use” – and here he looks directly at me, smiling – “is candle wax. Candle wax’ll make ya look like somethin’ that’s crawled on to the beach off the ocean floor.”

He has caught me watching him.  He winks at me. 

“You look like you might have a thought in your head,” he says.  “What’s going on, cupcake?”

I smile, shake my head as my fellow commuters watch.

The bus comes to a stop.  This stop is the big stop.  Several people stand to exit, the aisle and seats finally clearing of the afternoon rush.  A large woman carrying several bags pushes, angrily, from the back.  “I need to get off,” she says.  “Let me off.  Move!  Let me off.”

I turn around to watch. 

“Move it.  Move your skinny ass over,” she says to the upholsterer. 

He moves aside.  “Yeah, you go,” he says to the back of her head as she shoves past him.  “Get home, make you something to eat.”

He turns back to his friend.  “I shouldn’t be so rotten,” he says, shaking his head almost sorrowfully as the woman steps on to the street.  “But I’m just so damn good at it.”

Have a good weekend, everyone.  And only be rotten if you’re good at it.

I Still Got It, or You Asked for It When You Showed up in Columbia Heights

Willie took me grocery shopping last night at the Rainbow in Columbia Heights.

This is Willie's store. He knows this store; it’s the one he hits between work and home. He knows its aisles, understands its parking lot, feels at home in its dairy section. Never mind that there are stores closer to his home, this is his store, dagnabit.

Willie is a creature of habit, and we’ll just leave it at that.

Have you been to the grocery store in Columbia Heights?

Not getting your fill of people grocery shopping in bedroom slippers? Wonder if there are people eating whole roasted chickens in the aisles?  Concerned with whether or not the nation's creepiest citizens are getting enough fiber?

Grab your coupons, kids. 

And when you’re done shopping and it’s 7:00 and you no longer feel like cooking, and what you really want to do is go home and lay on the couch and watch TV, where do you go?

Well, there’s Wendy’s.

Fast food, my friends: The United States’ pants-swelling, artery-clogging contribution to Epicurea.

Picture the inside of this Wendy’s. There are five people at three different tables: two heavy-set couples at each end of the place and a disheveled elderly man in the center, staring out the window, a number of garbage bags at his feet.

“Sir, sir. Sir.”

A heavy-bellied man in a dirty oversized ski jacket and a pair of stained sweatpants with a hole in the crotch is whispering to us as we approach the counter.

“Hey.” The man gives off the very air of lechery. He is grinning at Willie. “That your wife?”

Ah. This is why I avoid Columbia Heights: First the man at the deli with the fuzzy slippers, then the couple irritably ans surprishingly obscenely arguing over Hamburger Helper (hamburger with noodles vs. hamburger with potatoes). Now this.

I turn to Willie, smiling. “Double stack, medium fries. I’ll find a table.”

I abandon him to the line and his new friend. Willie is a private man, and he dislikes encounters like this. He winces silently at me.

The cashier continues to wander around in the back for no discernible reason.

Sir Stains Afresh stands next to Willie, who appears, from my vantage point at the table nearest the exit, to grow more and more uncomfortable.

“Huh! Huh! Huh!”

Stains is laughing; and I watch him lean into Willie, his new best friend. “Huh! Huh! Huh!”

Moments later, Willie sets the tray on the table, hands me a hamburger.

“He wants to know," he says, salting his fries, "if we want to go to a party.”

“What?!”

“Him and his wife there,” Willie unwraps his burger and shoots an eyebrow to the table where Stains and his wife – we’ll call her “Dumpling” – are drinking pop. “He wants to know if we want to go to a party. It’s okay with his wife.” Willie takes a bite out of his hamburger. “He thinks you’re hot.”

Willie grins. “I’m turning in early tonight, but I can drop you off.”

We finish our meals, return to a car, the interior the general temperature of a refrigerator, return to the groceries and grin at each other as we put the fast food place and my next boyfriend in the rear-view mirror.

Still got it. 


Let them say what they will, but I’m big in Columbia Heights.

Mango-Diesel Shea Butter

This new laundry detergent is killing me. I smell like a soft drink.

Be truthful with me, now. Smell this. You smell that?

Do my clothes smell like grapes to you?

I’m telling you, this country’s obsession with smells has gone too far.

Don’t get me wrong. I have some lavender-geranium “hydrating lotion” – as opposed to that lousy dehydrating lotion I used to use – that I really enjoy. The smell alone makes me think that I might be getting a massage soon. But honestly, some of the combination of smells that the companies are coming up with!

Mandarin-Eucalyptus Salamander-Shea Butter? Ginger-Monkey-Butt French-Milled Dusting Powder?

Admit it. You may not know where to buy them, but you suspect that they’re available for sale somewhere, don’t you?

I enjoy fragrances. I do: Spring is lilacs and open-window breezes, Summer is line-dried sheets and mown grass, Fall is burning leaves and baked goods, Winter is pine boughs and the crisp “smell” of cold.

And when I speak of the “smell” of cold, those in northern climes know what I mean.

Those smells are precious to me because of what they represent, however; and the ability to spray “Woodland Pine” or some such silliness into my bathroom?

I’m not the only one who is confused.

“Hey, Mom,” The Boy said, wandering into the kitchen, “I think Paul Bunyan just took a !@#$ in our bathroom.”

I can see where he’d get that impression.

Still, what can one do? We vote for these things, as it were, with our spending habits.

And you heard it here first: I will no longer buy the Strawberry Saddle and Mulled Basil laundry detergent.

I’m putting my unscented foot down.

I Don't Think Your Heart's In It

The young man begging in front of the LRT station is wearing a brand new pair of Timberlands; clean, fashionable jeans; and a very nice woolen greatcoat.

He's quite handsome.

I can't help but wonder how much he’ll pull in today. It's the 16th, after all, halfway through the month.  Someone around here got paid yesterday. Still, what are the odds that anyone will be moved to charity by the sight of this young, well-built young man in his dark gray woolens and immaculate boots boldly confronting people for money?

Not good. Not good odds.

Frankly, it’s all in the approach here. I mean, he’s doing it, but he’s doing it without love.

To be honest, I'd like to see more effort. Look, I get dressed for work every day. I brush my hair, I wear lipstick, I appear to need, perhaps, a wee bit more sleep. I’ve agreed to sell my time and my brain by the hour, and I look like it, so if this guy is going to look me in the eyes while holding a hand-lettered cardboard sign, he could at least put some thought into it.

Come on.  Make me feel like you need my help.  Make me feel good about helping you.

Better yet, I'll tell you what: Amuse me. Tell me a joke. Speak to me in a made-up language.  Yell poetry at me about my beauty, my posture, my sensible footwear.  Stand on your hands. Pretend to see someone from the Great Beyond:  Someone wants me to tell you that you he's okay now, on the other side.  Did someone pass with a name starting with "T"?  "M"?  "J"?  Yes!  J!  He says all is forgiven...

I could also be swayed to give up a dollar or two if you'd be willing to dress the part.  If you're going to try to pull me into this charade that you, Mr. Fashion, need my money, I'd much rather see you in faux-hobo pants, a porkpie hat, perhaps, maybe a bundled bandanna on a stick.

"Ma'am?" he calls, handsome, well-rested face beaming, "Spare change?"

What? My “spare change”? There’s a “spare” kind of change?

I don’t think I’ve ever had “spare” change. I would like to try it, though.


Come on, man. You want my money, earn it.

Y’All Are Blocking My View Up There

The people at the front of the bus are frightened.

And who can blame them? 

The bus crowd is a scary bunch.

See her over there?  The one near the front, her with her hair in a “bun”, reading a so-called “book”?  Probably votes a straight ticket.

And what about the man with the dog?  Sure, he looks blind, but who knows, huh?  They do that, you know, to lure you in and WHAMMO!, the blind guy’s got yer lunch money.

I shake my head in that almost-imperceptible Minnesota way I’ve perfected after years of silently judging and go back to staring out the window. 

It’s the same, every day.  The stop just before the river, the stop where the fare drops considerably, is the stop of the people who have driven in, park in a lot two, maybe three blocks away, and then ride the bus downtown. 

And more often than not, rather than take a seat next to someone they don’t know, they will crowd near the front, looking studiously nonchalant as they sway and jostle against each other.

And then we make another stop, where those boarding are forced to sidestep the people who won’t sit down.

Why?  Why won’t you sit down?

I look around, try to see it from their eyes.  At 6:30 in the morning, the bus is filled with young Hispanic males in the black-and-white checked pants of the kitchen;  Hispanic women with blue-black ponytails and folded hands in their laps; middle-aged white women with matching hats and scarves;  white men with newspapers; a skinny white hipster in need of a sandwich and a haircut; a black man with a gym bag and his head against the window. 

We have so much, yet we don’t have seatmates.

I close my eyes and think, hard.  Come to the back.  We’re like you, only seated!  Come to the baaaack!

It’s public transportation.  We’re in public.

And yet some of us seem afraid.

I want to tell them, the swaying commuters at the front, “I’ve been riding over ten years, two times a day, and aside from the time that guy pulled his privates out of his pants, it’s been a good run!”

I look around. 

No, the guy with the lack of social boundaries isn’t here.

And the people at the front of the bus sway on.

Oh, To Be in Minneapolis, Now that Autumn is Here

It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. 

But still.  I was shocked.

Fall!  Every year, it shows up, oh, around this time.  And we in the intemperate climes are accustomed to it.  From hearty, pioneering stock, we embrace these temperature swings: it gives us something to complain about year-round, gives us a sense of pride regarding a wardrobe that accommodates a 140-degree temperature swing, provides us with a street-side view of the seasonal migratory patterns of the roof-less. 

Every year we watch summer depart, watch the leaves turn and talk about transitions, about phases of life.

About raking.

When I left this morning, the deck was clear.

And now this.

What does one do with third-floor leaves?  What is my third-floor obligation here?  Do I bag them?  Do I hope they blow away?

Do I shovel them over the side and let the first-floor people deal with them?

It’s Tuesday, and this is what I’m dealing with.

And to think:  I saw it coming.