Beth’s story

It’s funny how in life people you know only briefly can make a permanent impression on your memory. Lately, I’ve found myself waking early in the morning and remembering Beth. I was renting an aging Spanish style downtown apartment and Beth and her young daughter lived across the hall. We were both in our twenties and in the juggling act that comes with that age—me with college classes and a part time radio career, she with the responsibilities and burdens of single motherhood.  We didn’t see each other often but when we did I was struck by the grooves of dark circles beneath her wide sad eyes. We seldom had much to say to each other but she was a good neighbor, polite and quiet without any late night ruckus. At least until the boyfriend arrived.

He was a small boned defeated looking guy who always wore the same dowdy jacket, no matter the weather. Like Beth—though about ten years older—he was soft spoken, until the fighting began. On those nights angry bellowing and worse, Beth’s screams, would breach the quiet. Sometimes a sound like a bag of potatoes thumping into the wall would signal the end of the argument.

“Are you okay,” I would ask, rapping on her door. We’re okay, she would tell me, her daughter crying in the background (often the jerk would take off at that point, avoiding my gaze as he rumbled down the stairs). Please don’t call the police the police will make it so much worse please don’t call them please don’t call them please don’t.

Invariably, the following morning the boyfriend was back, whining for her as he repeatedly tapped on her door.  Eventually, Beth would appear and he would sulk into her apartment.

I thought I could help her. I volunteered at a crisis center and knew people at the local domestic abuse shelter. At that time, the philosophy was not to involve the police because, as Beth feared, the violence could escalate and a bad situation could become worse. Much worse. I told Beth about the shelter.

“They would take you and your daughter in and keep you safe,”I said and handed her a card with a contact name and phone number. “You don’t have to put up with this.”

Her look told me she didn’t know how not to put up with it.

A few weeks later, the police showed up. But it was Beth who had called them.

“He slashed my tires,” she said as we stood in our shared driveway. Her voice sounded tinier than usual, like it was stuck in a skinny funnel lodged in her throat.

The police repeated what I had told her about the women’s shelter and said they could put her in touch with a counselor there. Yes, she said. Yes, she would call.

Later that day I came home from class and found the boyfriend putting new tires on Beth’s car. When I passed her on the stairs, she wouldn’t look at me.

Time went by and with it, people and places faded in and out of the forefront of my thoughts. The boyfriend kept coming back. But one Sunday afternoon, after what seemed like hours of his sniveling and whimpering for forgiveness, it became obvious that Beth was not going to let him in. Finally, the boyfriend announced his exit by  slamming his fist into her door and and hurling obscenities with equal force.

I’m not sure what the actual tipping point was for Beth but at 5:00 the following morning I found her standing on our landing, her daughter’s big eyes peeking out from behind her.

 We’re going we’re leaving please don’t tell him when he comes He says he’ll kill me he will he means it.

We hugged goodbye. She said she would call and let me know when she and her little girl were safe. 

Even though I didn’t see their actual departure, it remains clear in my mind: Beth’s whispered, Go! in the stairwell, the rush and the panic, the fear for their lives.

When I think about that time in my life, there are two versions that play in my head. In the first, I never hear from Beth again and have no knowledge of how the boyfriend discovered she’d moved away. In the second version, Beth eventually calls and tells me that she and her daughter are doing well, living in another city with her sister.

But the truth is,  I don’t know which version is real.  Memories of one’s past become fluid as you move through life. Nothing is quite as fixed as it once seemed. Maybe my imagination tries to resolve Beth’s story because I wasn’t able to.

Or because it’s easier than waking up near dawn and wondering if she got away.

All that we remember

How do you balance a human catastrophe against the personal traumas and dramas of your own life?

It’s September 9, 2011 as I write this. The media is filled with stories remembering 9/11/2001. News anchors and reporters ask–where were you when the terrorist attacks occurred? How has the United States changed as a result?  How has the world changed? We’re all familiar with these questions and many of us have no doubt answered them numerous times, if only in our private thoughts. But I wonder about questions we seldom hear asked in respect to that morning.  Not, “how did you hear that the Twin Towers had fallen” but instead, what was going on in your personal life? Were you starting a new job? Moving to a new home? Attending your  mother’s funeral?

We like to say that a national or global  tragedy puts things into perspective, that it makes our problems seem small in comparison. On the one hand, this is true. I can watch video of the collapsing towers and reflect on  the thousands of people inside who were incinerated, crushed, or jumped to their deaths. I can picture  the passengers on the planes and try to imagine what they went through knowing they were going to die. I feel grateful that none of my loved ones were among the dead or injured. My own worries at the time slipped into the background, no longer as big as they seemed.

Yet, on the other hand, that’s only partially true. Because no matter the disaster that’s happening to others, others is the operative word. Our separate, personal dramas continue. Our focus on them may blur momentarily but soon enough, our eyes clear and our own problems realign themselves into the forefront of our lives. And more often than not, we can only think in terms of how the larger tragedy will affect our immediate circumstances.

We don’t like to admit this because doing so makes us look selfish and self-centered. It’s hard to own up to the fact that our personal lives take precedence once the shock of the disaster wears off.

The AMC television series Mad Men gave a brave example of this when it dealt with the assassination of JFK and its  impact on the lives of the show’s characters. The shock and and subsequent mourning over the lost president acts as a catalyst for an unhappy wife to finally realize her marriage has failed and thus, tell her husband she wants a divorce. But it’s the scene of a young woman—Margaret–due to marry the day after Kennedy is killed that has stayed with me. As Margaret tries on her wedding dress for one last fitting, the news from Dallas comes over the television. When Walter Cronkite reveals that the president has died, the bride-to-be collapses in front of the TV, crying, “It’s ruined! It’s ruined!” while her mother looks on, helpless.

It’s a selfish—and human—moment. And who hasn’t shared a similar experience? I remember the Iranian hostage crisis of 1979-80. I was in a theater company and getting ready for my first performance as the American military was attempting a rescue. I remember thinking, “Please, don’t spoil my opening night.” Yes, it was a self-centered thought. I’m not proud of it now and wasn’t then. But the thing is—wide  scale calamities don’t just affect the initial victims and their families. Tragedies as large as the assassination of  a president or a terrorist attack take a toll on the smaller things in life, as well. It’s a sad ripple effect.

And so, when I remember 9/11, it’s not just the images of planes slamming into skyscrapers or our collective grief I relive, but also the troubles I was navigating at work and the deep depression that followed when I resigned. When I hear friends and neighbors repeat the words, “never forget,” I know that we never will. We’ll always have our own unique reminders—the lost job, ruined wedding, and yes, even joyous births—to keep those memories safe.

Capers, cash and moral conundrums

Is it ever morally okay to practice the adage, “Finder’s keepers?”

Let me explain. My husband and I were walking our dogs the other evening when I spotted a forgotten lone black umbrella  on a park bench. I pointed it out to my husband who joked, “Need a new one?” We continued our walk, hoping that the person who left the umbrella would remember it before getting rained on. But the incident got me thinking.

”What would you do if you found fifty dollars in the park” I asked my hubby.

“Call the police.”

“Really? For fifty dollars? What are the police going to do?”

“Maybe someone has been looking for it and reported it to the police in hopes that a good Samaritan has found it and called it in.”

“But fifty dollars?”

“Well,” my husband said, “what if it were five thousand?”

“Then I would call the police. That’s not a normal amount of cash for someone to lose in the park.”

“But that fifty dollars could be worth as much to one person as five thousand is to another. It’s relative.”

“Okay, what about five dollars?”

“I’d have to think about it.”

(My husband has such a moral compass!)

“How about one dollar?”

My husband then joined the ranks of the rest of us sinners and said, “I’d probably keep that.”

Since our walk in the park, I’ve been wondering: is it ever okay to keep what has  obviously been lost or left behind, especially when it’s money? And if you do find fifty dollars  in the middle of the park or street and call the police but no one claims it, is it for naught? At what value do you decide to call dibs (or not)? In the case of a one dollar bill, what if it was a homeless woman who dropped it? Do you actually try to track her down?

“Police  department. You’re being recorded.”

“Uh, hi. I’ve been walking my dogs and I found a dollar.”

Pause.

Police department operator: “What are you calling to report ma’am?”

“ Did anyone, uh, call you about a lost dollar?”

At this point I imagine stunned silence and annoyance on the part of the operator. I mean, finding a buck on the sidewalk isn’t exactly the same as discovering robbers breaking into your neighbor’s home. The police operator might think I’m some practical joker trying to waste his or her time. Maybe it’s best just to walk over to the public library and offer the dollar to one of the homeless guys who hang out there. Or put it in the “Cure M.S.’” fish bowl at the grocery store.

There are all sorts of little moral dilemmas that we humans face every day, whether we realize it or not. One afternoon last year I got  home from shopping to discover that the bagger had accidentally put a jar of capers between my containers of yogurt and bottles of tomato juice. After unpacking the grocery bags, I set the jar on the counter beside the kitchen door so that the next time I went shopping, I would remember to return it. A few days later, I went to grab the jar on my way out but it it was gone. I  searched the kitchen—no capers. Damn!

(Why do people eat capers, by the way? Beyond being an accompaniment to caviar,  I can think of few good culinary purposes for them.)

Eventually, the caper of the capers was solved when the jar turned up on a shelf in the refrigerator. Okay, now I had to keep them, right? You can’ t put cold capers back on the shelf at the grocery store.  Well, I figured, maybe I could use them. But every time I think about splurging on a little sturgeon roe, I just can’t do it.  I know I’ll feel guilty eating caviar with capers obtained under false pretenses. Who would think that a tiny jar of capers could cause such a conundrum for my conscience?

The other evening I asked my husband if he had figured out yet what to do if he found a five dollar bill in the park. When he told me he was still mulling it over, I laughed and said we could nail it to a tree with a sign that read, “Is this yours?”

You know, that wouldn’t be a bad social experiment. I could take my video camera and hide in the bushes, filming passersby as they confront their moral standards (or lack thereof). Or I could just think about what a great idea I’ve had, sit on my couch and write about it. Some social scientist, I am.

America’s failing grades

Okay, I’ve had it. I’m sick of people who should know better calling our president “dumb’, “a buffoon,” and  “a moron,” ad nauseum. Let’s get real for a minute. Fact: Barack Obama obtained a B.A. in political science from Columbia University in 1983. At the end of his first year at Harvard Law School, Mr. Obama became editor of the Law Review (an incredibly difficult achievement for a first year law student). He received his J.D., magna cum laude, in other words, he got good grades and graduated with honors. Does a “moron” do that?

No.

You  say you don’t agree with President Obama’s policies? Fine. But taking the leap from “I don’t agree, “ to “he’s a moron,” is laughable in Mr. Obama’s case. His credentials aside, listen to the president respond to questions during his news conferences—it’s clear he’s a deep and careful thinker. But I guess to some, that’s a bad thing, too. “He sounds like a college professor,” his critics shout, “and he’s boring!” Well, how terrible to sound like a professor. A scholar.  Like someone who actually taught constitutional law at the University of Chicago Law School.

We’re living in a screwy political landscape these days. Where both Republicans and Democrats hurl nasty insults at each other on countless newspaper, magazine and personal blogs. Where popular Tea Party figures like Sarah Palin seem to revel in their lack of knowledge and abundance of ignorance. You may agree with what Palin believes but that no more qualifies her to be president than my next door neighbor. Same goes for Michele Bachmann, who is coming to be known more for her anti-gay stance, creepy dominionist delusions and nutty policy ideas (axing the federal minimum wage will eliminate unemployment? Really?) than for the substance one looks for in a presidential contender. Ditto Texas Governor Rick Perry whose cozy relationship with fundamentalist Christians is creating cause for concern among those who prefer to keep religion separate from politics, you know, like our founding fathers did.

Yes, it’s a scary world when would-be presidents avoid giving interviews to any media outlets other than Fox “News,” where they can rest assured their egos will be wrapped in swaddling clothes. God forbid, they should have to provide a few hard facts or engage in any  rational discussion. Not when they can go for easy ad hominem attacks. But that’s the point, isn’t it? Keeping things easy. Critical thinking is much harder. Not many are willing to do it. But President Obama is and like him or not, that’s what he does—think critically. To continue to label him “dumb” is absurd.

It’s a sad thing not to recognize foolishness. It’s another thing to be proud of it.

Buy the book (part IV in a series)

Time now for the fourth installment about the trials and tribulations of working at an independent bookstore.

You’d think people who visit bookstores would have fairly decent intellectual equipment. At least that’s what I once thought. But after a couple  of months on the job, I began to reassess. Read along and weep with me…

Mid afternoon and a 30ish yuppie looking woman approaches the counter where I’m working at the computer.

“Um, excuse me.”

I look up.

“What are you supposed to do with those bags up there? I mean what are they for?”

YLW points at the shelf behind me. I turn my head to look in the direction of her well-manicured finger.

“Those are gift bags.” I tell her.  “For brides-to-be.”

“But I mean  what do you do with them?”

I’m getting a little confused.

“Well, you put gifts inside of them. For the bride.”

YLW appears dumbfounded. I try again.

“You know, you use gift bags instead of having to wrap the presents. You put the presents in the—”

“But what are you supposed to do with all of the bags stuck inside,” YLW practically cries.

What the hell is she talking about? I look at the display again. Oh, I see. In order to be economical in our use of counter space, we retail geniuses have fit five or six bridal gift bags inside of the display bag. As a result, you see not just one handle at the top of the bag, but several. I attempt to explain this phenomenon to YLW.

“Oh,” YLW looks positively relieved. “I thought it was really weird. I mean what would you do with all those bags stuck inside? How would you get anything else in there?”

Wow. Who knew gift bags could be so problematic? So troublesome? How does this woman get through life?

“Hey, are there any good bars around here?” she asks.

That’s how.

***
Another working weekend. A fairly even flow of customers in and out of the store. Here comes a tall skinny brunette with her hair pulled back into a pony tail. She’s wearing pink pedal pushers and blue flip flops. The 1950s are in swing again.

“Hi,” she says. “Are these free?”

“Pardon?”

“The Sunday paper? Is it free?”

Ms. PPPBFF  holds up two copies of the local daily newspaper.  Hmmm. Let me guess. Current events aren’t her thing.

I explain that the newspaper’s publisher does indeed charge a small fee.

“Oh. Well, I only wanted them for the grocery store coupons. Guess since I have to pay for them I wouldn’t get much of a discount anyway.”

Oy.

***

Argh!

It’s time once again to contemplate a few of the more maddening annoyances of life. I submit to you the following three questions:

1. Why is it that people walking through the parking lot at the grocery store decide that a speed of less than one mph is okay, that no one driving behind them will mind waiting the extra ten minutes (okay, I’m exaggerating) until they get to their car? And then when you pull way over to their left so you can pass them, they stare at you like you’ve just insulted their mother! Hey folks, just because you have the right of way does not mean you can use your slow a-s for a road block. Get moving!

2. Why is it that the most obnoxious people always work out on the treadmill next to mine at the gym? The other day I was about ten minutes into my workout when a young woman hopped on the machine to my immediate right.  Wearing a pair of tight black shorts and matching razor-back shirt (in which she looked movie-star-fabulous which was annoying in and of itself), Ms. Energy Bar  jacked up the speed of the treadmill to what looked like a six and a-half minute mile pace and began whooping “Hoo-aw!” every few minutes. Figuring Ms. EB had her iPod volume set to dangerous decibels, I attempted the old tried and true stare-down in hopes of sending her a signal to stop her caterwauling . Easier said than done. Turns out Ms. EB was not wearing an iPod. That must have been quite a concert going on in her head. After about twenty minutes I couldn’t take it anymore so I cut my jog short and headed to the mat for some core work. It wasn’t long before I felt a sensation  like a bird whooshing back and forth against my left ear. Sure enough I looked over and there was Ms. EB, swinging first one leg, then the other, alarmingly close to my head. WTF?  Soon a young  guy who appeared to be her boyfriend turned up. While he talked Ms. EB  proceeded to jump up and down and fling her arms about like she was on some demented cheering squad. How she was able to take in a thing the boyfriend said, I don’t know. And nearly as bizarre, the boyfriend seemed completely unfazed by Ms. EB’s behavior. I wasn’t, however, and decided I didn’t want to risk a head injury should Ms. EB begin her scissor kicks again. I grabbed my towel and headed for the exit. The boyfriend could have her. I’d had enough.

3. Why do people give their kids silly names? I first discovered this practice when, as a kid, a girlfriend of mine and I combed the phone book, looking for random names and numbers in order to play our weekly telephone pranks (do you have Prince Albert in a can? Well, you’d better let him out. Original we weren’t).

Parker, Pearson, Peterson. We flipped through the White Pages. Pfeiffer. Phelps. Pickles. Pickles? What’s the first name, I wondered. I squinted. Patti. Patti Pickles.

Just who names their kid Patti Pickles? That poor woman. Her classmates must have taunted her growing up. “Hey, why so sour today, Patti?” and all of that blather. And this ridiculous practice seems to have grown even more common, especially with celebrities who apparently think they need to call further attention to themselves by naming their kids after fruits and vegetables. Apple Paltrow, anyone? Okay okay, just fruits. Give Gwyneth a little more time.

I’m not suggesting a complete return to Plain Jane names like, well, Jane. But people need to think of the mental health of their future children and not give bullies additional opportunities with which to terrorize their peers.

By the way, I’ve been thinking—what if Apple marries a guy whose last name is Pitts?

There. I feel better now.

(Don’t) put it in the Want Ads

The night before my best friend and I painted our new apartment, roomies for the first time, she informed me that she was moving out in six months to live with her lawyer boyfriend.

“But I’m really looking forward to being your roommate,” Katie said. “Want another beer”?”

Huh? Uh, yeah, I wanted two or three.I couldn’t believe I was losing my roommate before we had even moved in together!

After coming out of my Dos Equis induced fog, I did what any good friend would do in such a situation–I prayed she and the lawyer would break up. Naturally, that didn’t happen (well, it did but about twenty years later). So I opted for the next best thing–I went into denial, figuring a new roommate would magically appear the day after Katie moved out. But the weekend I watched her pack up her boxes and sell her aging couch at our garage sale, I realized the lawyer had won another case.

Tucked away in an old downtown neighborhood, our apartment was on the second floor of a small art deco styled building and boasted wood floors, a screened–in porch off the kitchen, and a huge backyard overlooking laurel oak trees and the annuals our landlady had planted. A dreamsicle of a find, the space wasn’t pricey but I couldn’t afford the rent by myself.  I figured I would do the practical thing and put a Roommate Wanted notice in the classifieds.

“Don’t do that, “ a co-worker warned. “You’re going to get a lot of nuts calling you.”

No worries, I assured her. I would take steps to make sure that didn’t happen. Confident in my control of the situation, I went ahead placed the ad:

“Female roommate wanted. Beautiful two-bedroom apartment. Historic downtown neighborhood. Non-smoking. No calls from men accepted.”

I was in business. The ad would run on Sunday (people still subscribed to the newspaper in those days) when readership would be the highest. I was ready to meet my new roomie.

The following Sunday my  alarm clock went off at 6:30. Or I thought it did. After waking and reminding myself it wasn’t a work day, I realized that it was the phone that was ringing. Who would be calling so early?  I hoped nothing was wrong.

Oh, but it was. Very, very wrong.

“Hello?”

“Hi honey. I’ve got a big seven inch c—k. How about I come over and you su–“

What the hell?

I slammed down the receiver. Freak!

I went back to bed. But not for long.

“Hello,” I answered the phone.

This time all I heard was heavy breathing until–

“May I aide your pu—y?”

“Who is this?”

“Don’t you want a new roommate? What’s your address, baby?”

Shit. I should have listened to my co-worker.

Over the next few hours (actually until 10:00 that night—yeah, yeah, I should have unplugged my phone), I heard from a wide assortment of perverts and sociopaths. Some more memorable than others–

“Um, hi. I need a roommate who can help plug me into my medical equipment.”

I didn’t want to play doctor or nurse or whatever this particular sicko had in mind. I’d had enough. I reached for the telephone cord and yanked.

The next morning after reconnecting with the world, I got a call from a youngish sounding woman who introduced herself as Gracelyn and apologized for calling a day late.

“I was at the beach all weekend. I work at a bank downtown.Do you still need a roommate?”

Did I ever! Could she come over after work?

Around 5:30, after tidying up for the fifth time, I met Gracelyn at the front door. Tall with long wavy hair and longer legs, she extended her hand and strode into the room. Not like she already lived there. Like she owned the place.

Twenty-five years old and a financial officer in training, Gracelyn spoke with a southern lilt that confirmed she had just moved to town from Atlanta.

“Well, “ she said, looking around. “This place certainly has possibilities.”

Gee, thanks, Ms. Southern Living.

I handed her a glass of iced water. She took a sip then  informed me–

  “Just so you know, I have several  guys I date. They will be spending the night…now and then.”

Well, at least she had her priorities straight. She’d been here about oh, five minutes? Call me a prude but I really didn’t want to bump into some naked guy I hardly knew on the way to the shower. And wait a minute—several??? What did she have, a stable?

“I’m not really comfortable with that,” I told her. Why did my voice sound so teeny-tiny all of a sudden?

Pointing at a rustic end table that Katie had left behind, Gracelyn changed the subject. “So,” she asked, “did you chop the wood for that yourself?”

Something told me this wasn’t going to work out.

***

About a month later, after renting a room that was small enough for a ladybug and not much else, I attended Katie’s wedding. She made a lovely bride. But she’d sure been a lousy roommate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“