novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- suffragete city at eleven i wanted to get away from the bad thoughts about the rejection, and what it all means for this fall, what it means financially. so far into debt, so lackluster. sigh sigh sigh so i weighed the pros and cons factored into going out late at night. i figured i'd deal with strange men giving me cat calls from across the block as i made my way to well-lit streets, to homeless men following me and muttering. i just wanted to get away. i walked to the piedmont district, under the freeway, past the pilings painted with fifteen-foot tall giraffes. i went to see sweet tooth and sit at the coffee shop where she worked until her shift ended, where i sat and read stories for workshop. when the coffee shop closed at midnight i sat on a bench outside, my knees drawn up and level with the red swans on my pink hooded sweatshirt, still reading. i was actively avoiding sad thoughts and operating on pure autopilot. you didn't just receive the biggest let-down of your life. you are simply sitting here doing homework in a pink hooded sweatshirt. oh and ratty pumas. oh and semi-wet hair that you've just dyed semi-permanent light brown. at quarter past twelve my inner alarm went up as a tall man in a dark blue hooded jacket, hood shading his face, approached me. creepy. creeping closer. creepier. he said hello in a dead, automatic voice and if i were a cat my back would be arched and tail twitching. hair raising. he asked me my name. i finally answered: i don't want to talk and i gave him a short smile before i ducked my head down, pretending to concentrate on my work and reading the same sentence over and over again, thankful for sweet tooth watching from inside. and then i received my second surprise of the week: the dead man held out a rolled up wad of bills to me. i looked up at him and saw how his eyes folded at the corners. his face looked weathered, leathery. perhaps those were steel-toed boots; i couldn't tell. did he have brown hair? darker? his nose was slightly rounded, slightly pockmarked. he had a scar on his chin. inner alarm screaming now: this is a trap. this man wants to give me money and then guilt me into something. this man will stand next to me and bother me and he will not go away and should i knock on the window of the coffee shop it is directly behind me i have my back to it he is standing very close to my bench, to my bag i have my wallet in that bag "oh, no, i don't need that. no." dead voice. "just take it." "really. i don't want it. i'm just waiting for my friend to get off from work." dead voice. "just take it. it's more than you think it is." "i don't need it. i'm just waiting for my friend. i'm fine. thank you. i'm fine." dead man pulled the bills back to his chest and separated a twenty, slowly. he extended it farther into my personal space; just under my nose. "no." dead voice. "just take it." the dead man looked sadder each time i said no. our eyes were stuck. there was nowhere else to look. i took the twenty and tried his trick: i extended it to him. not as close i am sitting down my knees are drawn up to my chest my arm is shaking how can i get away fast i need to jump up if i need to run "i don't want it. thank you very much, but i don't want it. i don't need it." "you need it," he said again, backing away WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN NEXT WHAT IS HE GOING TO TRY TO MAKE ME DO WHAT IF HE and moving around the corner, slowly flowing away from the coffee shop like creeping lava. have you ever seen an erupting volcano? sometimes they do not erupt violently -- sometimes they are gradual -- the molten lava saunters over dry earth, casually eating up everything in its wake. this is how he moved. he took my dignity with him and left me with a twenty, feeling like a teenaged runaway sitting on a bench outside a closing coffee shop after midnight on a monday. he wanted to help me; he thought i was a teenager, or poorer than i am, or homeless to be out so late at night. when i realized this i started crying. we'll never understand other people and their whims. someone you've known for six years, someone you've loved and looked up to can just as easily never have believed in you. and a man you thought was a scary threat turns out to just want to help. you just have to do your best and move on. i told this to sweet tooth as we walked the opposite way from her closed coffee shop to the irish pub where i bought her a drink with the dead man's twenty. she said she'd keep it. i didn't know what else to do. i'm just doing my best. 3:10 am - 04.05.05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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