“Jesus! You two are fucking insane!” my eyes spread
wide, lashes fluttering against the lenses of my glasses and my head spun
around with the hope of catching a glimpse of young tanned bodies bubbling up
to the surface as I distractedly swerved my car into the lane beside me. Two
young girls, maybe 15 or 16 years old had stood on the far-too-tiny railing of
a bridge that hung over the flowing canal of water below. I’d seen people
fishing off the bridge. Seen others standing there communing with the running
water that skipped rowing teams and people in kayaks across the surface of the
water and slung them down another canal that would pour out into one of the
bodies of water that dominate our landscape in Long Beach. I’d seen others in
and around the bridge and water but I’d never seen anyone take that terrifying
leap. I was shaken out from beneath the blanket of discomfort that I’d been
shuffling under all damn day. My heart was racing and not in that sexy or fun
way. I was terrified. Scared for those girls, fearful of what might have
happened, afraid of the nibbling little flicker in my gut that reminded me that
I used to do that same kind of defying thing…something about that last bit and
having it be in the past tense, seriously gripped me with distress.
“Mom! Mom, watch me!” I was standing on the roof of
a great aunts home, stepping over splintering bits of caved in and rotted wood,
working my way to the edge my feet already halfway hanging off, the groan of
decaying plywood in my ears as I hollered a little louder hoping to pull my
mother’s attention from what was probably the first grownup conversation she’d
had in months and the freedom she must have felt not having me beneath her
feet, on her mind, to no avail. Little body shivering from hours in the pool
and the exhilaration of teetering there on the edge of a roof, the circular
landing pad, a twelve foot pond waiting to break my fall. I bent over with my
tiny arms folded across my quivering tummy, took in deep breaths that filled my
nose with the smell of chlorine and tanning lotion, “You can do this” my chant
as I once again gained my erectness, tugged at the bottom of my bathing suit,
unsticking it from my flesh and freeing it from my quickly tightening bum. Back
straight and tall, hair slicked back and a blonde so white from the sun it was
nearly platinum. Thumb and pointer finger placed on either side of my nose,
three brief exhales before taking that life-saving deep breath that would stay
in my inflated lungs long enough to hold my thrill induced beating heart in my
chest, and make me buoyant enough to break through that surface again, this way
on my way back up.
Can’t tell you how many summers I spent jumping off
that decrepit and rot infested roof into the pool. Never occurred to me not to
do it, that it wasn’t safe or I might get hurt. Fuck, I was hurt several times
and barely stood still long enough to get patched up before pressing the oak
ladder back up against the thick ivy and dodging the rotten spots….feeling my
feet flail and heart race as I made that free fall back into the water. Truth
told, beyond a few cuts and bruises, splinters and scratches, nothing horrible
befell me and yet the very idea of doing that now, well it scares the living
shit out of me. Even when I can still close my eyes, recall those smells and
the crackling of the unfortunate roof, can right this second hold my palm
across my chest and feel the thumping of my heart as it remembers that moment
my feet left the edge and I let my body fall. Not sure if it was my stupidity
or courage…not sure it matters now, I just know that watching those “stupid”
girls stand on the ledge and let their stupid courage push them into the canal,
I knew what I felt wasn’t fear…it was envy. When did I let fear stop me from
being stupid enough to be courageous? Too long ago….
I let my car roll into a stopping position at the
red light, my mind a million years and heart-thumping pool jumps away. My jaw
tight with irritation as I fondled the remote for my radio, huffed and puffed
that there was, “Nothing good to listen to” as I cranked the ac up and shifted
my chunky, sweaty ass around in my seat. A snit, I was in a good one. Long line
of cars, didn’t make that light either and “Fuck me!” there was that homeless
woman that always sits there on the median, making me more uncomfortable by
asking for money with her crinkled old sign with sprawled writings about God’s
blessing and whatnot.
I’d seen her before, lots of times and for the most
part I did what most do, I rolled up my window and fidgeted with shit in my car
as to not make eye contact. I don’t have problems with homeless folks and I am
a big supporter of many charities. I give when and as much as I can but there
is just something about handing over crumpled bits of cash to someone…it’s shameful
or something. Oh don’t get me wrong, it’s not their shame, it’s mine. I feel embarrassed
handing them money, that and I do have a very, very long history with what the
drug or alcohol addicted do to feed their habit and I have never wanted to be a
part of that.
I’d given this regular-on-my-route woman cigarettes
before. She never asked for them but when I would roll down my window and hand
them over she always took them. The last time I was “stuck” at the light and
beside her, after I’d quit smoking I did dig through my backpack, cursing my
husband that I never have cash, (um in his defense, I never use it) and
scrounged up two bucks to hand over before making my left and sailing down the
street home. Her hard face always softened when my window opened, a firm but
far from prideful smile as she thanked me and nodded before stepping away from
my car but I was always…relived when the light worked my way and I could just
coast on by. This day she and I made eye contact but I was in no mood, had no
smokes or cash and I was fucking uncomfortable already. I felt myself go stiff
as she walked up to, and then past my car. She had no expectations of me, hopes
maybe but no expectations as she settled back down on the plastic crate that
she sits on, holding her sign, asking for help. Found myself irritated with how
gracious she was…how fearless she had to be.
Felt like three hours before I was able to turn my
car around. In fact it was less than five minutes before I was sailing back
down the street, past her but going in a direction that felt a bit like toes
hanging over the side. I pulled my car into the Trader Joe’s parking lot once
again with the huffing and puffing as all the granola eaters and gherkins (sorry
old people, Leisure World Senior Living Facility is right up the road) sauntered
through the parking lot, left their carts in open spaces and took, “For-ev-er!”
to back out of one of the far too few spots. This is where I share that I am
not only not the shopper in the family, I loathe Trader Joe’s. I walk the
aisles there and cannot find one fucking thing I want to take home…the few
times I have bothered I’ve been horribly disappointed. I was there because it
was close but now I was like a retarded kid wandering the rows, throwing random
crap like fruit leather in my basket.
Filled my basket with things I normally avoid like
the plague. Boxes of shelf stable food, some fresh fruit, juices, veggies,
bread and a couple beers but it was bags of nuts, dried meat, and canned foods
that packed my basket so full that the little plastic handles dug deep into my
flesh as my still irritated ass stood on a huge line. Not sure why I was there
or what I was intending to do but those two insane girls and their racing
hearts inspired this and from the nervous pounding in my chest I can assure
you, I was feeling less than fearless but…maybe a bit more courage.
Cringed at the total of my bill and snorted a bit
when I heard my own voice ask for a “few extra cloth bags” to purchase. Made a
zombie like walk to my car, spread the bizarre array of goods on the trunk of
my car and I could feel my chest heaving and caving as I searched within,
trying to figure out what my next move was. Giant ass exhale when I realized, I
didn’t have one. Loaded up the reusable bags with Trader Joe’s crap, pulled
open the driver’s side door and lunged
into the belly of my now feeling way more comfortable car, wriggled my sizable
ass around the steering column, pudgy hands digging for one of the bottles of
Rose I’d brought home to enjoy. Shoved the cold bottle in one of the bags, had
just enough shit still going on upstairs to walk to the Ruby’s on the corner
and ask for a couple paper cups before hoisting the bags over my shoulder and
walking my sweaty ass like a half mile, (probably even less but it felt like 3
miles to this chunkster so back off) back to the median I had passed forty
minutes earlier….comfortably on my way home.
Must have looked like a sun dried tomato as I
pressed the walkie button thing at the light. Sweating, face a mashed bunch of “what
the fuck?” bags bumping against my ass with each shift of my hips. I let two
lights pass before I shuffled my feet to the curb, dangled my toes off the edge
and stepped into the street, made my approach. Now this woman and I had seen
each other no fewer than thirty times. Made contact, even briefly heard each
other’s voices when I shoved something out my window at her and she, as prideful
as she could be, thanking me. We’d been face to face, in a way but never this
close. Never this face to actual face. I dropped the bags on the narrow median
and with a very dramatic deep breath, stuck my hand out, managed one of my
crooked smiles and said, “Hi” praying to whomever that I didn’t sound too
cheerleadery or like one of those missionary fuckers.
I watched her eyes. Dark sun dried skin tight and
rough as she looked from me to a bike that was pressed up against a light post
across the road. She didn’t speak. Didn’t take my hand but had no problem
looking me right in the eye, a stare so fierce I felt wobbly and stupid…which
inspired me to take one more step forward. I bent down, reached into one on the
bags, pulled the cold bottle out, still standing there with this homeless
woman, on the median where she held a sign asking for whatever we had to give.
Wrapped my hand around the neck of the bottle, twisted the sleeve and heard the
snap of the seal break, “I’ve not much to give and I wouldn’t blame you, for a
second, if you told me to go fuck myself but….I have these bags and this bottle
and they are yours if you would be willing to tell me a story. Could be yours,
could be someone else’s, don’t care. Up to you”
Daisy. Her name is Daisy. I felt the singe of my own
cruelty as something in my head said, “Not as fresh as a” when she told me her
name. Her scent that of the unwashed. Dusty, oily, musty like muddy jeans. Her
story not unlike so many or what you might suspect. Detached parents, looking
for love in the fumbling hands of a man, gave birth to too many kids all of
which now live with her hard, cold, firm but sober parents in Arizona. I was
captivated as she spoke. Her mouth sweetly powerful and free as if no one had
asked her about…her, in so long that she didn’t know where to stop. “He was
number five and he was the one that gave me this” her ragged voice briefly
soothed by cold Moulin de Gassac Rose as she pointed to a bubbled over scar
that ran from her left ear to her collarbone. She confessed that the bike she
was so protective over was not hers; she’d stolen it, but only after hers was
taken from her. I felt the green and fresh flavors of the wine splash against
my palate, the tingle of acid ripple down my throat as I took cavernous gulps
of my life while listening to the story of hers. The two of us letting the bits
of fear fall away as we shared a bottle of Rose from the Languedoc and ate a
bag of cashews.
“Well Daisy, I’d better get home” I said as I dusted
off my own muddy jeans. Her face became stern again. I knew she wasn’t ready
for me to leave, for whatever reason, but I could feel the difference between
courage and stupidity just then, it was time for me to go home. I extended my
hand once again and once again she ignored the gesture. We gave each other a
nod and I made the trek back to my waiting car in the Trader Joe’s parking lot.
I looked back only once and I was thrilled to see, “That chick is insane” on
her face.
Less fearful
More courage
A shared bottle of crisp Rose
I wish that for us all…
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