Giving Thanks

Tonight I am deliberately trying to overhear something interesting, which is why after slowly walking the length of a busy shop-lined street, I've eavesdropped absolutely nothing. The very best glimpses of human nature - heroic, despicable and everything in between - usually find me when I'm not looking.

Why is that so, I wonder? Does something else decide what I'm going to hear and when? Well, fine then, I think to myself in a 12-year-old's voice. I'm taking my ears and going home. On my way to the bus stop, I'm wishing I would have just driven my car and fought the parking on this busy street full of diners and shoppers. I'm tired, it's cold and my patience has left the building.

Tonight, I am The Grinch. Shall I just go with it and try to make a child cry? Lost in my grumpy thoughts, I'm startled by a man's voice as I pass a dry cleaner's on the corner.

"A couple bucks for a meal, miss?" he calls to me. "No," I say instantly. "I don't have any extra tonight, sorry". I lie on two accounts: one, I do have extra and two, I'm not sorry. I work hard for my money and the last thing I want to do is give it to a dirty transient who will turn right around and buy a 40 ouncer and a pack of cigs. That is what I yell to the small voice whispering in my heart that perhaps the man is honest.

His eyes are downcast when I deny him. His hands are clasped in front of dirty tan pants stained with lord knows what. He wears several layers of tops, the outermost a gray sweatshirt with hood and pocket. His beard is wildly unkempt and a faded brown UPS cap covers his head.

Twenty steps later I reach my bus bench. I sit sideways and look back to watch the pan handler do his thing. A handful more people turn their heads to him when he speaks, but continue walking. A woman and teenage boy are next. Both hold shopping bags of treasures. The man hesitates, then speaks when they are almost past. The woman turns around. The boy looks at his mother. She says something to the man and he answers, but stays in his spot.

The woman puts her bags down and goes into her purse as more shoppers walk around them. The boy keeps his eyes on the man. His mother passes some money to her son and he walks to the man to give it. From my bus bench I can see the man smile in thanks. Mother and son are on their way and pass me, her arm around him, both smiling to themselves. Suckers.

The man is off and running to the crosswalk. I spring off my bench and walk briskly after him. I am so certain that he is headed for the liquor store on the corner across the street I am giddy with excitement. We reach the other side and he turns right, away from the booze shop. I am 10 steps behind and feeling more curious than boastful.

He walks purposefully for nearly one block and I consider turning back. And then a cold fall wind gusts an unmistakable aroma: french fries. Up ahead, on the corner of the next block, is a Jack in the Box fast food joint. I stop in my tracks. The man walks across the street. Before he enters the restaurant, he stops at the doors, bows his head and crosses himself in prayer.

Walking the Line

~This post is rated 'R'

I am capping off the weekend with a couple midori sours at a favorite neighborhood bar that throws back to 1970s swank. They have literal "lounge singers" on weekend nights and I nurse my two drinks for the one-hour show. The bar buzzes with weekend warriors and the desire to postpone Monday morning is nearly palpable.

The bar sits on the corner of a busy street lined with restaurants, shops and yet more bars. We meander outside after the last song, "Viva Las Vegas" performed in true Elvis style. It's past 11:30 p.m. and still the street hums with activity. Groups of friends congregate near bar entrances, lingering before goodbyes. Couples stroll past holding hands, or not; perhaps good dates and bad ones.

A small crowd exits our bar with us, a few still clapping for Elvis. The crowd's energy buzzes. Someone yells, "Let's drive to Vegas!". Laughter, claps, some whoots. We pile out the door and loiter for a moment. Little chimneys light up everywhere as people hit their nicotine. The air's too smokey and I pull my boyfriend to go.

A police car flashing blue and red strobe lights behind a big black SUV slowly crosses the intersection across the street. The SUV stops in the middle of the road, just beyond the far crosswalk. A few people laugh. More look over, drawn by the lights. The police officer booms on his p.a. system:

"Driver, advance your vehicle slowly and pull over to the right side of the road. Do it now."

The tinted driver's side window rolls down. An arm waves back and forth. Conversation hushes in my bar crowd. Someone laughs. Another says, "Oh my god! Dumbass!". The officer speaks again:

"Driver, put your arm inside the vehicle. Advance your vehicle slowly and pull over to the right side of the road. This is your last warning. Do it now."

"He probably speaks Spanish!" someone says. "Hey no habla Ingles, amigo?" More laughs. The SUV begins crawling forward and slowly pulls over, police car following. Both vehicles are still against the curb. A bigger crowd has gathered around us, watching the scene unfold across the street. Moments later, a second police car arrives and all four officers approach the SUV, two go to either side of the front, one approaches the back but keeps a distance and the fourth remains close to the open driver's door of the first police car.

More hollers in jest from the bar crowd. The fourth officer looks over and yells to be quiet, please. The officer near the driver's door has his hand on his holster. The driver has lowered his window. The officer talks and motions for the driver to come out. He does. As he descends the high SUV, he topples back against it on one leg. A man in the crowd says, "Whoo yeah!"

The officer directs the driver to the pavement in between the SUV and the police car. He speaks again and demonstrates a finger to nose motion. The driver wobbles as he stands in one place. Arms out, he slowly brings one to his nose. I cannot see how close he comes. Before he tries the other arm, the officer points forward. The driver begins walking heal to toe. On the third step he leans way to the right, loses his balance and falls on his butt.

The bar crowd hoots and hollers. Some cheer and a few whistle. Suddenly, a female's voice rings out:

"Fuck you people! You think it's funny? It's not funny. Fuck you, you fuckin' drunk assholes! You better not kill anyone tonight."

Now I'm Not Sorry

This Post is Rated 'R'

It's a beautiful day to wait in line outside the court house. The sky is infinite blue. A breeze blows just after I exhale my sigh. The fresh wind tells me to breathe and have patience. I am going to the traffic department. I earned myself a fix it ticket for a broken brake light. I fixed it, but all is not well until I pay the administrative fee. I wait with about 50 people to pass through metal detector after lunch hour. Most of the crowd wears juror badges.

Twenty minutes pass without a step forward. I realize I have curled my $10 bill into a tight tube. As I'm busy uncurling my bill, the man in front of me shifts his weight. He is very tall with broad shoulders and a thick neck that creases in the back. His head is shaved and beads of sweat sparkle atop his black scalp. He wears a Chicago Bulls jersey and long shorts with feet twice mine encased in black running shoes with a red stripe.

People fan themselves with papers. Eyes peer forward at the entry door. Kids scattered about whine or just plop onto the cement. The line undulates a little but does not advance yet. A small boy sits on the ground two people ahead of me. The white man behind him moves backward suddenly to avoid the boy's back and steps on the black man's foot. The white man glances back and smiles, then looks forward again.

Male Black: You gonna say something?
Male White: Huh?
MB: ARE YOU GONNA APOLOGIZE?
MW: Oh. Sorry.
MB: Dumb motherfucker.
MW: What? Okay now I'm not sorry.
MB: Watchoo say?
MW: I said I'm not sorry.
MB: Let's take it to the side you little bitch. Do not disrespect me muthafucker.
MW: Step over here with me sir.
MB: (laughs) Oh now it's sir, huh? You scared now, ain't you?
The MW produces a badge in a holder from his rear pocket.
MW: I'm a police officer. Are you threatening me?
MB: Bullshit! That's a fake ass badge.
MW: I am a Los Angeles police officer and I am telling you to step away from me. Go to the end of the line, sir.
MB: FUCK YOU!

After a long moment, the black man turns abruptly and walks away with clenched fists. He looks back several times, eyes wide, lips tightly pursed. The people near me stare at both men. Some have backed clear away from the line. Someone asks if she should get help. The white man says, "Sorry folks. Everyone take it easy."

The black man does not go to the end of the line. Instead he begins crossing the street at the intersection. Midway, he throws a bunch of little paper pieces into the air. The white squares float peacefully down to the pavement. Moments later the light turns green and cars run over them.

Drugs are the Only Answer

I am escaping reality at the movies, thrilled to get in under $10 with the matinee price. Loads of children jump and bounce around their adults, waiting in line for “The Spiderwick Chronicles”, I presume. An odd sound rings out among the usual noise kids make. It is shrill and repetitive, like a high-pitched bark. Turning, I see a tall boy, early teens, standing at the end of my line with an older male teenager. They look similar enough to be brothers. Both are dark-haired with big brown eyes.

The older boy stands still, arms crossed, looking down. The younger one twitches, his head and right arm jerking sideways every few moments. Occasionally he jumps forward a little. The sounds he makes are loud and gathering attention. Each time he yelps and says, “RoooOOO!….bap, BAP!” a few more kids and adults glance back at him.

My line advances slowly. His noises continue and other conversations are falling silent. Some children stare wide-eyed and parents nudge their heads back around, away from him. I look back once more. His companion peers toward the parking lot as his brother jumps and barks.

A little girl and her mother wait behind me. They are white and both blond. The child’s long hair is tied in pigtails. The elastics have big red plastic cherries that shine bright in the sun. She's five or six years old. Clutching her mom’s skirt, she wraps around her and looks back at the boy. Her mother also glances back at each noise:

Daughter: Mom, why is he saying that?
Mom: I don’t know, Ashley.
Daughter: What is he saying?
Mom: Who knows. There’s something wrong with him.
Daughter: What’s wrong with him?
Mom: How do I know?
Daughter: But what happened to him?
Mom: (sighs) You know what? His mom probably took drugs and messed him up.
Daughter: (silent)
Mom: See? See what drugs do? Aren’t you thankful I didn’t do that?

It’s my turn to buy a ticket. After paying, I look back at the two boys once more. An older couple has joined them. The woman holds her back with one hand and pats the younger boy’s shoulder with the other. The man is giving the older boy some money. After a few moments, the adults turn to go. Each takes one of the younger boy’s hands and lead him away. He doesn’t go willingly. The older boy moves forward in line without looking up.

Rudeness Jeopardizes Your Food

After a year of insisting Monster energy drinks will explode my heart, I drank one yesterday in desperation. I was falling asleep in front of my computer monitor at work after a restless night of hacking and wheezing. There's no turning back now; I am in the 7-11 convenience mart for another today.

I see the tops of brown-haired heads gathered in the next aisle over as I walk down mine toward the cold cases. The girls talk and I hear youthful giggles. I select just one Monster can, close the case and turn to walk down their aisle. They are Hispanic teens deciding between different flavors of sunflower seeds. One is talking about her shift in the drive-through. Not expecting much, I circle the Twinkies and Ding Dongs at the aisle's end and come back up the adjacent one. I'm confronted with toilet paper, napkins and paper towels. Taking particular interest in quilted two-ply, I kneel down and listen to the girls on the other side:

Voice 1: Man, I hate that job. It sucks!
Voice 2: Haha! 'Hi would you like to try our macho tostado today?" Haha!
Voice 1: Shut up!
Voice 3: Yeah! 'How about a combo, today?'
Voice 1: Whatever. Drive-through sucks. Damn people are rude, you know?
Voice 2: So mess their order up or something! What are they gonna do, drive back from home?
Voice 3: Yeah! What are they gonna do? Why do you take it?
Voice 1: Well you know what? Sometimes? If they're a total jackass we tear their taco shells.
Voice 3: What?
Voice 1: You know, split the shell down the middle a little bit. Then wrap it up and -
Voice 2: Oh! Ha! Then they go to eat it and crash!
Voice 3: Yeah, the whole thing falls apart! You know that's messed up, man, when you go to eat a taco and it breaks all up. People are so rude, though. They deserve it.
Voice 1, 2, 3: Hahaha!

Fried Chicken in the White House

I've come to the mall against my better judgment. I promise myself to restrict spending to my loot of holiday gift cards and enter Macy's department store, wide-eyed. I've purposely arrived in the early afternoon on a week day to avoid crowds. Stumbling into a completely empty dressing room with an armful of clothing, I'm very pleased with myself.

I choose the corner stall in the back because it's big enough for my own private fashion show; I don't much like twirling in front of the paneled community mirror. A small flat screen TV is on the wall close to the entrance. The volume is a little high and Wolf Blitzer's voice booms from the CNN channel. In between two pairs of jeans (on sale!) CNN cuts to clips of the recent heated debate between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama.

Two female voices enter the dressing room. They talk to each other as friends do. One says how happy she'll be if the jeans fit. The ladies choose stalls midway down the row. Two doors open and close. Hangers clink and conversation continues:

Friend 1: It's great shopping this way! No kids hanging off us. No crowds!

Friend 2: Yeah. Look at this! We have it all to ourselves!

(I freeze, jeans in hand)

Friend 1: We should take a day off every month for shopping.

Friend 2: Definitely. Oooooh...I love these -

(Barack quips about Bill Clinton. Hillary snaps back at Barack.)

Friend 2: Oh god. Again. If I have to hear this one more time...

Friend 1: Ugh! Can you believe him? How he picks at her? Like a little chicken.

Friend 2: Yeah. Pick, pick picaaaw! Hahaha!

Friend 1: Can you imagine him president? What are they gonna serve at White House dinners? Fried chicken? Grits?

Friend 2: Ha! Yeah! And he'll make us pay the Blacks restitution for slavery -

Friend 1: Uh, we already do that. It's called welfare.

A Hypocritical Combo To Go, Please.

It's cold tonight in Southern Cal and I follow my nose to a nice little place for a hot dinner after work. The large tropical fish tank glows in the entry way. Customers are lined up to order about seven deep. I fall in line behind a white couple. The man is mid-40s with thinning brown hair but a very full, dark beard. His lady companion wears a tight ponytail that brushes her waist. Both are heavy-set and wear track suits slightly modified for his and hers.

Happy music plays on the stereo speakers. Diners chatter and a few small children cavort near tables. There is some confusion with a customer's order. A cashier turns to the cook staff behind her and yells orders through the opening above the counter. One cook returns fire and they joke for a few seconds, talking loudly above the din. The customer joins in the banter.

The couple before me shifts in place. The woman sighs. The man looks at the ceiling. The woman tightens her ponytail. The man puts his wallet back in his pocket. The woman nudges him, turns toward him and talks under her breath:

Woman: (sucks her teeth) These Mexicans. They're so damn loud.

Man: Humph.

Woman: Look at this. We're all waitin' here while they have a good old time. I'm tired of these people. They're nothin' but trouble. Look at the border. Look at all our stuff translated into Es-pan-ol.

Man: Uh huh. Well. I'm just hungry. That's all.

Woman: Well that's what I'm sayin'. Look at this. We're all waitin' on them and they're messin' around. They're no good (sighs). I don't like anything about 'em.

The joking ends. The line advances. The cashier smiles warmly. The couple orders lobster tacos and an enchilada combo. I am at Rubio's Baja Grill, enjoying Mexican food.

No God

I took today off work and strolled on the pier for a while. The sun sparkled on the water and the wind was just brisk enough to remind me it's November in California. There were more people on the pier than I'd expected for a Monday afternoon. Many fished, standing in silence with their poles and staring at the green blue sea. Seagulls circled overhead, squawking and diving after fish guts thrown over the rails by men cleaning their catches.

In the middle of my reverie a male voice says, "Here you go, God bless you" as he hands me a small booklet. We exchange smiles and I thank him. He comments on my St. Jude medallion and asks me if I'm secure in my faith. I say I am. He wishes me well and moves on. He walks to a bench next to a fish sink not 10 feet away. A young man sits there with white iPod ear buds on. The middle-aged evangelist taps him on the shoulder:

Evangelist: Hey, hi. Here you go. God bless you.
Boy: What? (removes ear buds) What's this?
Evangelist: Hi, how you doing? Please read this, it's explains how you can know Jesus Christ personally. Do you have a relationship with the Lord?
Boy: What? Yeah, I have a relationship with the Lord. I hate him, alright? So take your damn papers and leave me the hell alone.
(The young man stands up and hurls the booklet over the railing. It flutters down to the sea)
Evangelist: I'm sorry you're angry. Maybe you can tell me about -
Boy: Maybe you can shut the hell up and leave me alone! There is no God, okay? Get over yourself. Frickin' loser.

The young man jams his ear buds back into his ears, slings a dark green messenger bag across his shoulders and walks off. The bag says "ARMY" on the flap. The evangelist sits down on the bench. A few people stare at him. He looks out to the sea for a moment and bows his head.

Blind to Reason

Tonight I gave in to a craving for Dutch apple pie and a hot mint tea. I amble down to the coffee shop a block away and hop onto a counter seat at the end. There is one empty stool between my neighbor and I. He is black, maybe 40, with a shaved head, a tight goatee and striking amber eyes. He wears jeans and dark blue pullover. He enjoys a burger combo and talks to his male friend next to him. Two televisions mounted on walls across from the counter both broadcast updates from the California wildfires. After an interview with a home owner crying near the smoldering remnants of her house:

Amber eyes: Man, I am so tired of these damn people sobbing on about their burned up houses. If you don't wanna deal with it, don't live in the middle of the damn forest.

Friend: Yeah, I hear you. Still, though, losing everything. Makes me feel sorry.

Amber eyes: Why? They chose to live there. In their million dollar houses in the mountain.

Friend: Yeah, well, it's nice. It's nature.

Amber eyes: You think it's nice that you're paying to build their houses right back up? 'Cause that's what you're doing. All this, the rescue, everything. We're all paying for it with our taxes.

Friend: Hmm.

Amber eyes: I am tired of paying for other people's problems. Do not live in a forest. Do not have six kids on welfare. Do not make me pay for your problems.

Friend: Damn, you're amped today.

Amber eyes: Yeah, well, it's a bad week. You know I still have not gotten my Worker's Comp check?

No Signal

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Readers: This is a weekly meme where readers continue this overheard conversation. After reading this post, please close the window to return to the participant's blog and their own unique ending!

Yesterday afternoon I drove to campus to purchase yet another package of material from the copy center my professor insists we need. I am trolling up and down the aisles in one of the larger parking lots, hoping to find a space amid the sea of parked cars. I carefully squeeze around several vehicles 'squatting' in the aisles. They stand off to one side waiting for someone to leave.

I'm about to maneuver around a squatting white sedan when I see a girl walking towards us. I wait behind the sedan, which has clicked its blinker to the left. The girl enters her car, break lights flash, she pulls out to her left, faces us and begins driving forward, clearing the spot. Suddenly, a yellow Hummer zooms in from the behind her and snatches the spot. The squatter pulls forward abruptly and repeatedly honks his horn. The male Hummer driver has already exited the car:

Squatter: Hey! Hey, asshole! That's my spot!

Hummer: No it ain't. It's mine now.

Squatter: What the hell? I was waiting for it. I was signaling -

Hummer: Shut the hell up you wanker, you little girl. Waaaa! That's my spot! Get back in your goon car and get outta here.

Squatter: You're an ass. You and your ugly car suck, jerk!

The Hummer driver is already walking away. He flips the bird to the squatter without a backward glance. The squatter stands frozen for a second, looks back at me and then back at the Hummer. Suddenly he turns, walks back to his car and retrieves a piece of paper. He walks toward the rear of the Hummer and writes the license plate down.