The man and two beautiful little girls were sitting on a bit of concrete curbing outside the Starbucks that adjoins the grocery store. "Excuse me...can I ask you a question?" he said.
The little girls had matching coats on, hot-pink fleecy trim on their hoods. The older girl was sucking her thumb--surreptitiously, exactly the way my cousin used to: casually propped up behind her free arm, fooling no one. That was the detail that broke me.
Their father explained that they were homeless, had spent the last two nights sleeping in a bus-stop shelter. Could I spare any money? He specified the dollar amount they needed to get...somewhere, something, I've already forgotten. "I don't have any cash on me," I said. "But can I--can I get you some food? Can I buy you lunch?"
They all looked surprised, at that. There's a Panda Express counter inside the market, and after a moment they decided on orange chicken bowls, with fried rice. "A soda?" the dad asked. "A Sprite?" The girls, gap-toothed and warming to the idea, requested apple juice.
And so I ran into the store and bought three crummy bowls of steam-table Chinese takeout, little bottles of juice and lemon-lime soda. I got cash back at the checkout. When I emerged, the thumbsucker jumped up with excitement and ran to me. They were so polite, thanking me as I handed over the bag of hot meals and cellophaned fortune cookies. I slipped the dad $20. "Get them somewhere safe tonight, okay?" I said.
And then I went into the Starbucks, where I had come because I was bored with the obscene quantity of leftovers in my warm, dry, clean house. I sat with my coffee and a magazine and could not focus on a single paragraph. The family were visible through the window. They ate their lunch. A few more people stopped to chat, though I don't know if or what they shared. I watched one man solemnly fist-bump the girls. Eventually, it started to rain, and they got up and crossed the parking lot and the street--the girls skipping and jumping around a little, then running to catch up. I watched them ride away on the bus.
I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. I don't feel better. I'm not writing this down to say oh, look how righteous and good I am. Look at my tiny, meaningless gesture, a stupid greasy rice bowl in the face of this city's homeless emergency. Maybe I got scammed, but I am above worrying about it!
I'm writing it down because I saw those kids. I knew those girls, in their matchy-matchy jackets like Sis and I used to have. I knew the not-at-all-secret thumbsucker. We never went hungry, but sometimes our mother did. I knew kids who did. We were never without a bed to sleep in, but I knew kids who were. A hundred thousand accidents and choices across a dozen generations, and I can go shop in the QFC while someone else sleeps behind it. There but for the grace of God go I, I'd say, but I am not a believer. There but for the total, utter randomness of fate go I. There go I.
Saturday, November 25, 2017
Saturday, October 28, 2017
It's Herk-o-we'en!
It is gorgeous out today, a dazzling fall afternoon pushing 65 degrees. Blue sky and lurid leaves and I counted at least three convertibles with their tops down, cruising the annual Phinneywood trick-or-treat--a far cry from last year's torrential downpour. As ever, I took up a window seat at Herkimer Coffee and sat for a couple hours, cracking up and scribbling notes on the paper bag my breakfast pastry had come in. This is almost my favorite day of the year, definitely preferable to actual Halloween night itself. My neighborhood COMMITS. When I arrived, a grown woman in a rubber Catwoman mask and street clothes was enjoying her coffee at one of the tables.
CHILD DRESSED AS STRIP OF BACON, I texted Sis. She asked for a photo, but the kid had already run down the block in a sugared fever. Anyway, I don't feel right about taking pictures of strangers' children...but I will adore them from afar and describe them endlessly.
A whole Wizard-of-Oz family went past, Mom in what might have been a repurposed Slutty Dorothy costume; she had thick leggings on underneath, but that dress was short for the 1930s. One kid was a magnificent Tin Man, babe in stroller a lion. Dad, pushing the stroller, was wearing a padded plastic mailer like a vest, a house hastily drawn on the front with a Sharpie. I thought that was kind of weak sauce until I saw the wicked-witch legs, stripey stockings and all, sticking out under the...hem, of his bubble envelope. Okay, points.
The Herkimer gorilla was absent this year, giving my heart a little pang. Instead, a mime distributed Dots and Tootsie Rolls in twee silence, which seemed to still freak out a good number of the little urchins. I was relieved and somewhat mollified when Frankenstein emerged across the street to do his thing. Over at the Prost beer hall, I glimpsed their treat person in a Rockford Peaches uniform from A League of Their Own.
A wee spider, with multiple googly eyes attached to its black hoodie. A gorgeous, feathery, sequined pink flamingo. A little girl as the solar system: all the planets as ornaments pinned to her swirly star-patterned dress. She also had on planet socks, Saturn and Mars visible around her ankles. Left Shark hurried past, too intent on candy to bother with choreography of any sort. A lady went by dressed as beer pong, with red Solo cups pinned to her shirt; she was walking a yellow lab in a fuzzy beer keg outfit.
What is the collective noun, for an array of Wonder Women? (Besides "Congress 2018," amirite, nasty ladies?) I lost count of them, though the one that nearly impaled someone else's dad on her sword was memorable, as was the one that happened to be a Chihuahua mix. Another mom went by in a Handmaid's robe and hood, a Nolite te bastardes carborundorum placard around her neck. I gave her a grim thumbs-up through the glass. There was a Joker-Trump, and a Latino Trump, the only two I saw. The latter kid might have been of Puerto Rican or Dominican extraction, his candyfloss combover wig riding up on his own natural curls, and if that concept gives our bigot blowhard President nightmares, good.
A young couple took seats beside me, agog. "We just moved to this neighborhood. Do they do this every year?" they asked, awestruck and thrilled.
Little Orphan Annie needed to go potty, I think, judging by how she was clutching her DownThere. A lion tamer foisted her flaming (hula) hoop, festooned with fluttering yellow and red crepe paper, on her mother. (This is another part I love, the parents toting and/or wearing the various disintegrating heads and weapons and tiaras and accessories as the day grinds on.) In a weird hiccup of the zeitgeist, two Bob Marleys (Bobs Marley?) and then two Wednesday Addams...es went by within minutes of each other, none of them together. A tall gangly boy, I think? was dressed in a tweedy pink suit as Dolores Umbridge. Hey, Aquaman! You do you, buddy. Several kids wore their own backup snack distribution systems: one was a vending machine, lumbering along in a cardboard box with a plastic-wrap window displaying real bags of chips. Another was a gumball machine in a red onesie, with a clear plastic cake dome from the grocery-store taped to his or her belly, full of jawbreakers.
A tiny toddler lumberjack in plaid flannel, suspenders, toque and pegged jeans let his mother carry his wee plastic chainsaw. An even tinier infant Viking, with horned helmet and thick red beard, had to be carried. A girl was a carefully painted giant cardboard BOK CHOY--kiddo, you win for Most Unique. My other favorite? Two dads and two little kids, a quartet of Steves Zissou.
I know it's time to leave when the sugar crashes start to unfold in real time. That Ewok was out like the proverbial light in her stroller. Jack Skellington nodded out on his dad's shoulder with a nearly audible THUD. Behind me, a NASCAR driver was taking a little break, sorting candy. "Are you having fun?" asked one of his or her pit crew.
"I'm HAPPY!" declared the kid, holding up a peanut-butter cup. Me too, li'l leadfoot. Me too.
CHILD DRESSED AS STRIP OF BACON, I texted Sis. She asked for a photo, but the kid had already run down the block in a sugared fever. Anyway, I don't feel right about taking pictures of strangers' children...but I will adore them from afar and describe them endlessly.
A whole Wizard-of-Oz family went past, Mom in what might have been a repurposed Slutty Dorothy costume; she had thick leggings on underneath, but that dress was short for the 1930s. One kid was a magnificent Tin Man, babe in stroller a lion. Dad, pushing the stroller, was wearing a padded plastic mailer like a vest, a house hastily drawn on the front with a Sharpie. I thought that was kind of weak sauce until I saw the wicked-witch legs, stripey stockings and all, sticking out under the...hem, of his bubble envelope. Okay, points.
The Herkimer gorilla was absent this year, giving my heart a little pang. Instead, a mime distributed Dots and Tootsie Rolls in twee silence, which seemed to still freak out a good number of the little urchins. I was relieved and somewhat mollified when Frankenstein emerged across the street to do his thing. Over at the Prost beer hall, I glimpsed their treat person in a Rockford Peaches uniform from A League of Their Own.
A wee spider, with multiple googly eyes attached to its black hoodie. A gorgeous, feathery, sequined pink flamingo. A little girl as the solar system: all the planets as ornaments pinned to her swirly star-patterned dress. She also had on planet socks, Saturn and Mars visible around her ankles. Left Shark hurried past, too intent on candy to bother with choreography of any sort. A lady went by dressed as beer pong, with red Solo cups pinned to her shirt; she was walking a yellow lab in a fuzzy beer keg outfit.
What is the collective noun, for an array of Wonder Women? (Besides "Congress 2018," amirite, nasty ladies?) I lost count of them, though the one that nearly impaled someone else's dad on her sword was memorable, as was the one that happened to be a Chihuahua mix. Another mom went by in a Handmaid's robe and hood, a Nolite te bastardes carborundorum placard around her neck. I gave her a grim thumbs-up through the glass. There was a Joker-Trump, and a Latino Trump, the only two I saw. The latter kid might have been of Puerto Rican or Dominican extraction, his candyfloss combover wig riding up on his own natural curls, and if that concept gives our bigot blowhard President nightmares, good.
A young couple took seats beside me, agog. "We just moved to this neighborhood. Do they do this every year?" they asked, awestruck and thrilled.
Little Orphan Annie needed to go potty, I think, judging by how she was clutching her DownThere. A lion tamer foisted her flaming (hula) hoop, festooned with fluttering yellow and red crepe paper, on her mother. (This is another part I love, the parents toting and/or wearing the various disintegrating heads and weapons and tiaras and accessories as the day grinds on.) In a weird hiccup of the zeitgeist, two Bob Marleys (Bobs Marley?) and then two Wednesday Addams...es went by within minutes of each other, none of them together. A tall gangly boy, I think? was dressed in a tweedy pink suit as Dolores Umbridge. Hey, Aquaman! You do you, buddy. Several kids wore their own backup snack distribution systems: one was a vending machine, lumbering along in a cardboard box with a plastic-wrap window displaying real bags of chips. Another was a gumball machine in a red onesie, with a clear plastic cake dome from the grocery-store taped to his or her belly, full of jawbreakers.
A tiny toddler lumberjack in plaid flannel, suspenders, toque and pegged jeans let his mother carry his wee plastic chainsaw. An even tinier infant Viking, with horned helmet and thick red beard, had to be carried. A girl was a carefully painted giant cardboard BOK CHOY--kiddo, you win for Most Unique. My other favorite? Two dads and two little kids, a quartet of Steves Zissou.
I know it's time to leave when the sugar crashes start to unfold in real time. That Ewok was out like the proverbial light in her stroller. Jack Skellington nodded out on his dad's shoulder with a nearly audible THUD. Behind me, a NASCAR driver was taking a little break, sorting candy. "Are you having fun?" asked one of his or her pit crew.
"I'm HAPPY!" declared the kid, holding up a peanut-butter cup. Me too, li'l leadfoot. Me too.
Monday, August 21, 2017
Dark side
I remember the 1979 North American solar eclipse only vaguely. I was nine. My Grammy, an internationally ranked worrywart, had absorbed the warnings and convinced me that if I so much as glanced skyward, I would be struck blind in an instant: two smoking holes in my skull where eyeballs should be. As an anxious kid (can't think why), I was terrified. Helen Keller was A Big Deal in my popular iconography at the time, but I didn't want to go BLIND.
In Seattle, the eclipse took place during the morning commute. It was February, and so the sky was grey and overcast and the sun completely obscured...but I took no chances. I remember staring grimly at the sidewalk at my school bus stop, wondering how much of the day I could get through with my eyes closed, maybe my stocking cap pulled over my face? On the bus, I put my back to the windows. As far as I can recall, nobody handed out eclipse glasses with hamburgers or Slurpees; we didn't punch pinholes in cereal boxes in my third-grade class or anything. The sky darkened, but it was already pretty dark. The streetlights came back on, briefly. Then it was over. For all intents and purposes, we missed it.
* * * * *
I didn't get around to buying eclipse glasses (or crafting a pinhole viewer) this time either. (Or even running outside with a colander, which a woman suggested on NPR this morning, too late.) I had dinner with Sis this past weekend, and we talked about our shared indifference to this event. "What's the big deal?" she asked. She would have been almost 6, in 1979; she has no memory of that eclipse at all.
But I've been thinking about it, even though I didn't look. I took a couple photos after the high point, crescents of light in the leaf-shadow dappling the ground. (Grammy would be relieved; I'm still focused on the pavement.) And I watched ABC's 1979 coverage, the Frank Reynolds clip that's been making the rounds.
It's what I keep coming back to: the recognition of my own mortality, in the context of everyone else's. That I'm unlikely to see such a thing with my own eyes, now, in my lifetime. Not without chasing it across continents, or oceans. I wish my fretful Grammy had had the opportunity. I chuckle over the point in the hazy, lo-fi ABC broadcast when Reynolds gets OH WOW! excited. I think about the gruesome, ugly, hateful world of the last week--just the last WEEK!--and I have a hard time reconciling that with two minutes of awe from the heavens, with Reynold's sweet and hopelessly naive wish for the future. The widening gyre. I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you.
In Seattle, the eclipse took place during the morning commute. It was February, and so the sky was grey and overcast and the sun completely obscured...but I took no chances. I remember staring grimly at the sidewalk at my school bus stop, wondering how much of the day I could get through with my eyes closed, maybe my stocking cap pulled over my face? On the bus, I put my back to the windows. As far as I can recall, nobody handed out eclipse glasses with hamburgers or Slurpees; we didn't punch pinholes in cereal boxes in my third-grade class or anything. The sky darkened, but it was already pretty dark. The streetlights came back on, briefly. Then it was over. For all intents and purposes, we missed it.
* * * * *
I didn't get around to buying eclipse glasses (or crafting a pinhole viewer) this time either. (Or even running outside with a colander, which a woman suggested on NPR this morning, too late.) I had dinner with Sis this past weekend, and we talked about our shared indifference to this event. "What's the big deal?" she asked. She would have been almost 6, in 1979; she has no memory of that eclipse at all.
But I've been thinking about it, even though I didn't look. I took a couple photos after the high point, crescents of light in the leaf-shadow dappling the ground. (Grammy would be relieved; I'm still focused on the pavement.) And I watched ABC's 1979 coverage, the Frank Reynolds clip that's been making the rounds.
"So that's it--the last solar eclipse to be seen on this continent in this century," Reynolds said before signing off. "And as I said not until August 21, 2017, will another eclipse be visible from North America. That's 38 years from now. May the shadow of the moon fall on a world in peace."I had to check: Reynolds died in 1983. Sorry, man; I suspect you'd be disappointed.
It's what I keep coming back to: the recognition of my own mortality, in the context of everyone else's. That I'm unlikely to see such a thing with my own eyes, now, in my lifetime. Not without chasing it across continents, or oceans. I wish my fretful Grammy had had the opportunity. I chuckle over the point in the hazy, lo-fi ABC broadcast when Reynolds gets OH WOW! excited. I think about the gruesome, ugly, hateful world of the last week--just the last WEEK!--and I have a hard time reconciling that with two minutes of awe from the heavens, with Reynold's sweet and hopelessly naive wish for the future. The widening gyre. I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you.
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