Barack Obama is Different

I am spending the evening around some of my favorite friends: books. Whether I enter a big box bookseller like Barnes and Noble or a small cramped hole in the wall with stacks and stacks of dusty books, I feel excited and anxious at once. All the possibilities of new worlds and amazing characters between these covers excite me, while looking at the stacks or shelves of books makes me anxious because I'll never have time to read them all.

Tonight I'm navigating around big tables piled high with coffee table books deeply discounted at Barnes and Noble. I look at one called The Complete History of the World, which keeps sliding on the slick glossy covers of the books underneath it because it's nearly two feet tall.

The table also has a selection of books about President Elect Barack Obama - his two bestsellers, a political pundit's analysis of him and a giant picture book of his campaign. Soon two female seniors approach the table. One of them opens the Obama picture book and stops at a double-page spread capturing close-up photos of three black women in the crowd at Obama's victory speech. Tears stream down all three black womens' faces and two of them grip tiny American flags in their clasped hands.

The older white women looking at the book pause at this photo, one smiles softly and the other utters a barely audible 'hhmm':

Smiles: My, my. It must be something to see one of your own finally make it this far.
Hhmm: Yes, well, Obama's not your average black. He's different.
Smiles: How do you mean?
Hhmm: Well, he's not on welfare, a thief or a gang member, is he? And he went to college. And got a job.
Smiles: Ohhh, shhh! Don't say that!
Hhmm: Why? I don't hear you disagreeing with me.

Unwrapped Girls are Nothing But Trouble

I am an all-day breakfast eater; I'll take eggs or pancakes for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Tonight, I stand in line with the dinner crowd at Archibald's, a local diner that serves delicious flame broiled burgers and seasoned fries. Sizzles and pops from the grill call out. The air is smokey sweet with the aroma of charbroiled beef. But I am here for a breakfast burrito, served all day.

I am three people away from the cash register. Behind me, a family of four waits to order - two parents, a teenage boy and an older man the young boy calls Pops. They speak casually and I hear the boy's father refer to the older man as "Daddy". Daddy has a thick southern accent and says, 'I tell you!' after sentences a lot. He wears a cap with a Kentucky Derby logo and a blue plaid flannel long-sleeved shirt along with dark jeans.

As I move one place closer to order, a gaggle of teenage girls bursts through the diner's entrance and bounces to the counter area to read the overhead menus. Shrill giggles, OMG!s and a 'Shut UP!' emit from the girls. All four are dressed for the beach on this unseasonably chilly California winter night. One girl wears particularly short shorts. The thin hot pink nylon clings to every curve of her young, tight apple butt leaving nothing to the imagination, including the little mounds of tan butt cheek peaking out from each side:

Daddy: Goo-ooood Lord. That gal just as soon walk around nekked.

Grandson: Ha! Come on, Pops. Lighten up! We're not as uptight as in your time anymore.

Daddy: Uptight? Uptiiiight! Listen here boy. Let me tell you somethin' you best remember your whole life through.

Grandson: Oh gawd.

Daddy: Ladies are meant to be unwrapped slowly, one small piece at a time. You go on get with some gal that's already flappin' her wrappers in the wind and you'll get nothing but trouble. Every time.

Grandson: Unwrapped? Like Christmas presents?

Daddy: That's right. A good woman is a gift.

Grandson: So Mom, when do I get to unwrap some girls?

Mom: When you're 30 or independently wealthy. Which ever comes first.

Slow Down and Stand Up

I don't often go to mass midweek, but something is looming for me and I am one of those Catholics who feel my prayers might get on the express way if I show up in person. I am hop skipping toward the church entrance, arriving five minutes into the service, as usual. My mindset is not quite right for church. On this busy weekday dawn, my head is already filled with reminders and tasks for the office, a place that's further away on a Sunday morning.

Reaching the church doors, I wait behind a few people and wonder why the delayed entry. My impatience becomes a sigh and I peer around the heads in front of me. I glimpse the side of a wheelchair and it's pusher navigating the narrow side entryway and the pews. Great, I think to myself. I always pick the slow line.

After a few moments, we filter in. I hurriedly poke my finger in the holy water vessel and some splashes on my hand. Quickly, I slide into a pew near the back, averting my eyes from the priest who I am certain notes my tardiness. Only one other woman sits nearby, an older lady clutching a rosary with eyes shut in prayer. Most of the parishioners sit in the front pews, mostly elderly women alone. A handful of younger adults are scattered about.

As I kneel to pray, my cell phone vibrates in my bag. I am missing a network breakfast this morning and a wave of annoyance tightens my chest. Before I bow my head, I habitually look at my watch. I hope this mass will not be too lengthy. Perhaps I'll make the second half of the breakfast meeting.

I kneel, I rise, I pray, all with good, albeit, distracted intentions. And now it is communion time. As I wait for my row to be lead, I gather my belongings to exit directly after receiving. Standing there in the church as the sun glints through the stained glass windows, a serenity asserts itself ahead of my daily worries and I pause to feel what I think is divine peace.

When I look again to the front of the communion line, the wheelchair and its pusher are next. An old man sits in the chair as an equally old woman wheels him forward. They reach the priest, who smiles broadly and steps back a bit. The woman walks around to the front of the wheelchair and slowly kneels down. I cannot see what she is doing. She comes around to her husband's left side and slips her arm under his. The man is rising, carefully but purposely rising from the chair. He bobs slightly forward and backward as he leans on his wife, who supports him as the priest places the communion wafer in his mouth.

Only after the man faces the alter and crosses himself does he sit back down in his wheelchair. The two slowly wheel away and back into the front pew. The woman kneels beside her husband's chair and I glance at her as I approach the priest. She prays, hands clasped, eyes closed and smiling gently. Her husband places his hand on her head and bows his own.

I take communion. I pass the exit and continue back to my pew. I kneel. I push the breakfast, the annoyance of getting up earlier and the restless thoughts out of my mind and pray.

I Can't Say Goodnight

My Mom and I walk down the stark hall and stop at the staff elevators. Our tired feet refuse to continue around the corner to the visitor elevators. I know my Mom must be more exhausted than I because she never breaks a rule. We've just left my Dad in his hospital room for the night after getting a pace maker. This after a three-day stay of not knowing what was wrong. He was groggy, but in pretty good spirits.

The elevator door slides open. An older Asian man leans against one wall and looks at the floor. We enter and he briefly glances at us. He wears a cap that says, "America the Beautiful" with a bald eagle graphic. His eyes are weary behind his glasses, red and a bit puffy from the evening's goodbyes, I imagine. He holds a plastic "patient's belongings" bag by its drawstring. It is full with items. One pink fuzzy sock pokes out of the hole on the top.

We reach the ground floor and the doors clank open. We three worriers walk in silence to the exit doors. It feels unnatural to leave a loved one behind in the care of strangers and that feeling tightens your chest when you reach the edge of the building.

As we go through the exit, the man's bag hits the door frame and the pink sock falls out. Its bright color in sharp contrast to the gray sidewalk and our somber mood. I snatch it up and for a split second, wonder whose foot it belongs to:

Me: "Sir, Sir! Your sock!"

Man: (Turns to me, eyes wide and startled by my voice) What? Oh. Oh. Thank you.

Me: Here you go.

Man: (He clutches the fuzzy sock in his hand) Ah. My wife. I could not say goodnight to her. I could not say it.

Me: Oh. It's alright. I'm sure she understands.

Man: She had cancer six years ago. And she survived. But the radiation burned everything up. Ahh. This is a hard life. I could not say goodnight to her...

My Mom: I'm sure you are doing your best. We do our best and we just keep going.

Man: I'm going back. I'm going back to say goodnight. I thank you.

The small old man clutching a pink fuzzy sock walks purposely through the double doors and back toward the elevators. Just before he gets to the visitor's desk, he brushes the sock against his cheek, I think to wipe a few tears away.

New Old Lovers

I'm having an early dinner by myself at a friendly coffee shop called Hoff's Hut. I'm always hopeful to eavesdrop something juicy when I'm dining alone; it's so much easier to listen and I go deep under cover with my nose in a book. I'm done with my meal and am nursing a hot tea. It seems I'm not going to hear much tonight. The waitress refills my hot water and I give it one more try, although the booths around me are empty.

I'm draining the last honey packet into my mug when the hostess walks by showing an elderly couple to the booth in front of me. She bids them a good meal and leaves while the man helps the woman sit down. She bends stiffly, slowly navigating the bench's right angle. She sits down with a sigh and says, "There we go". I hear a smile in her voice. She sits with her back to me. Her bright white hair is in a medium length ponytail tied with a black scrunchy. She pulls her ponytail into place with hands tipped with rose pink nails.

Her husband is bald with glasses and a light blue sweater vest. He holds a closed-mouth smile the entire time he browses the menu. They discuss various choices and both decide on the same thing, the meatloaf dinner. As I watch him over my reading glasses, he continuously leans forward when she speaks, nodding his head. His replies are punctuated with mild laughter. His eyes are blue and rarely leave her face. They talk about her new jewelry after they order:

Her: (Showing him her finger) Well, what do you think? I like how it turned out.

Him: (Takes his glasses off and pulls her hand closer) It's beautiful. Very nice. The greens and blues are just beautiful.

Her: Yes, I really love it. Just love it. Thank you, sweetheart.

Him: (He kisses her hand)

Her: She even commented on it, how unusual it is. She's a nice girl. She does beautiful work.

Him: Yes, she does. Can she make earrings? See if she can make you earrings to match.

Her: Oh no, it's enough.

Him: See if she can do it.

The waitress brings their beverages. The lady goes into her purse:

Her: Oh, honey, I guess we should give you this coupon now.

Waitress: Oh, it's your anniversary! Congratulations. How many years?

Him: Two years today. I never imagined I'd be twice blessed. I'm a lucky man.

Last Supper

I'm at a favorite neighborhood coffee shop for a quick dinner. The servers are very friendly and always stand at the ready with endless refills of beverages, condiments, dessert samples and extra napkins. A lot of regulars dine here, myself included. An older man and I face each other, with an empty booth in between. He is white, wears a cap with an American flag patch and unzips a sensible blue windbreaker as he settles in to his seat. He unfolds a newspaper and looks around, acknowledges several servers with a wave and a smile. Within minutes, a young brunette comes over and gives him a hug:

Waitress: How are you today?

Man: I'm alright, honey. How 'bout you? How's school going?

Waitress: Oh, it's going. It's hard. I have two chem classes.

Man: Well you stick with it, honey. You're a smart cookie and you'll do fine.

(Two more waitresses come over, along with a young man)

After more greetings:

Man: Well, it looks like this is gonna be it. I'm leaving Sunday for my daughter's.

Waitress: Oh no, William! You really are leaving us?

Man: If my daughter'll have me. She might change her mind. Haha! It's the best thing, honey. She worries about me.

Waitress #2: William this place will not be the same without you. We'll miss you.

Man: Well I'll sure miss you all, too. And my pot roast dinner!

More staff stops by and exchange well-wishes. The man is jovial and smiles amidst handshakes and hugs. After he's ordered his meal and the waitresses tend to other tables, he lowers his head for a moment. He takes his glasses off and wipes one cheek with his hand. He takes out a handkerchief and quickly dabs at both eyes. He removes a pill bottle from his jacket pocket, uncaps it and swallows the mediation with a big gulp of water. He busies himself with his newspaper and his pot roast soon arrives. As the waitress sets the dish on his table, he places his hand on hers for just a few seconds, then gives it a light pat and winks.

When she walks away from him and toward me, she wipes tears away.

Queen of Hearts

I am in the emergency room with a family member today. It's warm and the air is a bit foul. People of all varieties pack the waiting area. Some look miserable, others worried, a few bored. The automatic doors whoosh open and closed again and again. A health care worker cups her hands and calls names above the din, there's no microphone. My relative is called. We go through vital signs and more questions in a tiny room. Then we are ushered further to an area with gurneys separated by blue curtains. The nurse settles us in and we wait for the doctor. After more questions, some pokes, prods and measures, another patient arrives on the other side of our curtain. Besides the nurse, there are two voices, an older woman's and a man's cracked with age and frequent, raspy coughs.

I would never disclose someone's private medical conversation, but I'll share with you tender talk that I hope I will speak myself someday, or more dearly, hear from my own husband:

Nurse: Okay folks, let's see what we can do here. You know the drill...

Man: I sure do, honey. I'm your best customer!

Nurse: (laughs) You sure are and we love you.

Man: Watch out, my wife's right here...

Woman: Come on now, stop joking honey. Rest your lungs.

Nurse: Alright, let's start the questions. (After many routine questions and answers, and nearly as many coughs and hard breathing - ) Have you fallen recently?

Man: Yes. In love.

Woman: Oh yeah? With who?

Man: Next week is our 61st anniversary.

Nurse: Wow! That's something to celebrate.

Man: We're going to have burgers from "In and Out". I took her to a burger joint for our first date. She stole my heart over a cheeseburger. She's my queen of hearts.

His voice cracks, but it's not from coughing.

Secret Weapons

I am at my salon for a color and trim. After my wash, I wait for my stylist to finish another client. Next to me sits an older lady getting her roots done. Foils cover her crown. She is white with blond hair on the shorter side. She wears pink lipstick and nail polish. A rather imposing diamond gleams on her left ring finger. A large Coach purse rests on the counter. She chats with her stylist, who continues painting her roots:

Client: Well, that Pavarotti's dead. Did you see that, honey?

Stylist: Who? Uh uh.

Client: Pavarotti, you know, the opera singer.

Stylist: Oh. Was he old?

Client: No he was not. Barely 70. But he had a young gal he left his wife for. Married 30 years and then poof! Off with a young one.

Stylist: No way! Was he handsome?

Client: No he was not. I'll tell you what, honey, a girl's gotta keep things up. Gotta keep our stuff in working order.

Stylist: Hahaha!

Client: I'm serious. These gals lettin' themselves go, carrying these giant butts around, no make-up, plain hair. Whoooo. You're playin' with fire right there.

Stylist: Well,

Client: Trust me, honey. I been married 54 years and ornery as my husband is, he's a happy little boy when a tight young waitress comes around. We're swimmin' with the sharks, honey. You get yourself a secret weapon.

Under the edge of a foil, she winks at her stylist in the mirror.

A Quarter Right

I am in my doctor's waiting room early this morning. I take a seat and look around. No one is talking much. I do notice an older couple canoodling a bit in seats across from me, near the office door. They are black, perhaps mid-70s. The man is bald, wears a white linen shirt, white slacks and brown sunglasses. The woman has peppery short hair and wears a denim shirt with beach balls on it over red capris.

The man rests his hand on her knee, gently moving his thumb back and forth on the fabric. Her arm is linked through his. I am caught staring. She looks over her red-rimmed glasses and smiles at me. It's a real one, not a tight, quick purse. I return the smile and look away, embarrassed.

The nurse calls a name. This couple rises. The woman steps forward and the man, who has placed his hand on her shoulder, sweeps a white cane before his first step. As they reach the office door, the woman says, "Quarter right" loudly but not annoyed. He turns toward her just enough so both pass through the doorway together seamlessly. She glances back and smiles again at me.

She is proud of him, I can see it. I am certain he feels it.

Pants Bandit

I am visiting my parents at their senior living community in Orange County, California. It's a nice, gated complex with live security and lots of conveniences on site. It's also a treasure trove of ideas. There are characters around every corner.

This is not an overheard conversation, but it's too tempting too ignore! I am gathering my Mom's clothes from the laundry room and a man walks in with a spring in his step. He is mid-60s, tan with wavy salt and pepper hair. He wears jean shorts, a green Hawaiian shirt and brown Van's without socks. He has hair on his arms but none on his legs. He smiles at me:

Smooth Legs: Ah, helping out huh?

Me: Yes, my parents don't want to cram machines into their utility closet. But it would be so much easier than this.

Smooth: Yeah, well, I agree with them. Why buy machines when you've got 10 right here? This works out fine. (As he opens a dryer...) Well son of a bitch! Son of a BITCH!

Me: What's the matter?

Smooth: Someone stole my jeans! Son of a bitch! I just bought these jeans. They're Levi's!

Me: You're kidding? What about your other clothes?

Smooth: No, that's all I washed, the jeans. I just wanted to soften them up some. And they're gone!

Me: Are you sure that's the right dryer? (He looks at me, incredulous)

Smooth: Yes I am sure. Look, it's still warm. Look at! Here's my fabric sheet! I'm gonna find that son of a bitch.

Clutching his fabric softener sheet, he pivots left and walks briskly out of sight.