One
“He just broke into that car.”

“Run after him,” I said. And with that, he was off, across the intersection, then across it again. The thief was trying just a little too hard to appear nonchalant, stolen computer bag slung across his shoulder, jauntily strutting down the nearly deserted street in the Financial District.

“Hey,” he shouted. The thief turned around, saw he was being chased, and began to run. “Hey!” he shouted again. “Drop the bag!” At which point the thief did, and continued running.

I caught up to him and we gathered the scattered contents. Laptop, camera, work papers, passport, id badge… We found a business card and called the number. It being after hours, his voice mail answered. I felt like the thief. “Hey, we’ve got your stuff. Call me.”

We walked back to the violated car, alarm still blaring. Broken glass graced the sidewalk. Shattered pieces, smooth small rounds. A mosaic of brokenness.

Two
I had avoided unpacking the box for years. Not for any particular reason, just.

Shortly before I left my ex-husband my mother sent her punch bowl set to me, thinking I could use it for the many parties she knew we hosted. I left him; I left the box, still unpacked at our old house. He lived there for another four years; the box sat, unnoticed, unopened, in the basement. Until he sold the house. While packing, he noticed the unopened box addressed to me, from my mother. He gave it to a mutual friend. It sat in her basement for at least a year, until she remodeled her house. It then came to my apartment, my small apartment here in the city. And sat in a corner of my bedroom, serving as somewhat of a nightstand, for months.

Until this weekend. A friend suggested I have a punch bowl party, so I braved the box. I untaped it, and began unpacking the individually wrapped cups, each a different pattern. I unwrapped, I washed, I marveled. Such beautiful patterns. What parties had they seen? Cup after cup emerged from the box. I anticipated the parties I would have. And then. Then. The punch bowl. Shards of broken glass greeted me. The punch bowl was no more.

Three
We were walking to the bus stop after a leisurely dinner. “Why are you kicking rocks at me?” he teased. “Me? You’re kicking rocks at me….” and we laughed. A few steps later I heard the cascade of glass beads striking the sidewalk. I stood, paralyzed. It was one of the few tokens I have of my grandmother. Her pink glass, double strand, uber funky, super retro necklace. Half of which was now rolling down Divisadero Street. All I could muster was an “Oh, nooooo.” He was already on his knees, searching for the beads; I was clutching my neck where the strand once lay.

Come on out tonight, Cinco de Mayo, to show your highly Americanized Mexican holiday spirit in addition to supporting the Wellness Community, a non-profit, cancer fighting dynamo that will save the world.

Thursday, May 5th – The Tongue & Groove
Doors at 7PM, $5 donation before 9 PM, $8 donation after 9 PM.
Porkchop Express – 8:30 – 9:15
More Cowbell – 9:35 – 10:20
Dr. Masseuse – 10:45 – 12:15

1
Emily, still outside, mimicked me to the rest of the group, “According to California law, that’s illegal. Excuse me, I have to run, I have to break into the facility now…”

2
At the beer stand – choices, light or dark.
“What’s the light?” he asked.
“Bud,” the cashier replied.
“What’s the dark?”
“Don’ know. Kin check fer you.”

3
As we watched a van get pounded by a truck-crushing machine, entertainment during one of the intermissions, a nearby teenage girl whooped, “That ain’t crushed….”

When I received the invitation, I wasn’t sure if it was sincere or a joke. Come to a bbq followed by a Monster Truck Rally. None of us had ever been to a monster truck rally; we were all curious, so we packed the car and headed north.

We walked towards the fairgrounds. This sign greeted us:

Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore…

As we got closer to the gates, people were walking towards us. “Standing room only,” they sighed as we walked past. We shrugged. We didn’t care if we had to stand, we were excited about seeing this piece of American culture first hand.

We arrived to shut doors. The security guards weren’t letting anyone else in. Was this like baseball, where you can’t go to your seat when a batter was in the box? Somehow I didn’t think so…

It was almost a mob scene. People locked outside the doors were waving tickets, pushing closer to the doors, screaming, “We have tickets. Let us in.” Surely there was some mistake. Why were the doors closed?

Someone opened one of the doors. Kim and I made a bolt for it, skirting past the security guards who said, “Hey, you can’t do that.” We were inside, plotting to get the other seven in. They were outside, waiting in line for a refund. Money in hand, they were about to call us to come out when a policeman said, “Follow me,” to the madding crowd. They followed. He swung open a large cow gate and began taking tickets. The seven hung back, wondering what their next move should be. The policeman shut the gate and wandered back to the main entrance. Stas walked over to the gate, rattled the handle, noticed it was unlocked, and walked in, followed by the other six. The security guard glanced up, more interested in his hot dog than in protecting the monster trucks.

“we r n” read the text message. A night of whooping and hollerin ensued.

Big truck.

Part 1
Place: Hipster San Francisco bar

I listened to the three perfectly manicured women sitting next to me at the bar.

1 – “Has Anna gained weight recently? I remembered her as, like, stick thin. She’s looking a little plump.”
2 – “I think so. She’s certainly not stick thin anymore.”
3 – “Like totally not. But she has lost weight. I mean, she was stick thin, then she gained a lot of weight, and now she’s lost some. But she’s still not as thin as she used to be.”

I sipped my cosmopolitan, pretending to read the extensive drink specials on the wall across from me.

The bartender mixed their drinks, seemingly impervious to their chatter, shake, shake, shake. As he poured, in a dry voice he announced, “Yeah, she is so not stick thin anymore. She’s totally let herself go.”

The girls twittered politely, clinked their glasses, and returned to discussing acquaintances. Shortly thereafter, one gathered her belongings, blew air kisses here and there, and started towards the door. “Careful,” the bartender warned, “as soon as you walk out that door you’ll put on 20 pounds.”

Part 2
Place: Morning BART train

All was silent, except for the 20-something in the not-quite pressed business suit. On his cell phone, in the almost empty car, he began, “Dude. It was awesome. Totally.”

pause

“Naw. She’s still there. I had to, dude. I’ve got this meeting I had to go to. I’m on my way to the airport right now. Otherwise, I’d still be there. Dude, you want the time of your life, you should go to my apartment.”

pause

“Maybe she is stealing all of my stuff. It was totally worth it. She was hot. No, I don’t think she’s stealing my things. I mean, she seemed nice. She has a graduate degree.”

pause

“No, she said it was the first time she’d ever posted an ad. Maybe she is stealing my stuff. But I had to leave her there. Man, she was totally hot. Like, so hot. And shaved. Bare, dude, bare.”

I’d refrained from looking at the loud talker until that moment. I glance up, amazed that he was promoting his previous night’s promiscuity so openly. Right above him was an advertisement:

Please be courteous when using cell phones on BART.
Keep conversation to a minimum.
Only use in case of emergency.
Keep voice low.

Oh the irony.

I’ve been conducting a lot of interviews lately. As I was speaking with a graduating senior, I glanced at her resume. There, under “Additional Info” was “works well with others.” It’s a resume, for god’s sake, not a report card.

I’m in North Carolina, visiting family, just because. Just because I live 3000 miles away and sometimes phone calls just don’t do it. Just because my grandmother is turning 89 in a couple of weeks and is convinced she will die immediately thereafter because her mother died shortly after her 89th birthday. Just because, as much as I love California, sometimes it’s nice to return to a place where, love it or hate it, 25 years of living in one place has made everything familiar.

My grandmother is in a nursing home. About a year ago my parents moved her from an assisted living facility to a nursing home because of her health requirements. Each time I’ve visited her in the nursing home I’m sad. Sad because I walk down halls of people staring blankly into space, hunched over in wheelchairs, immobile, drool sliding down chins. Sad because when I enter her room, that’s her. Sometimes she’s cognizant enough to have what I think is a coherent conversation. Other times she rambles and no one in the room has any idea what she’s talking about or who she thinks she’s talking to. And that change, from coherent to incoherent, can happen almost instantaneously.

Today I arrived. She was, as she often is, slumped over in her wheelchair, eyes closed, mouth partly open. I rubbed her hunchbacked shoulders. “Grandma? Hi beautiful, it’s us. Wake up, now.” She slowly opens her eyes, stares blankly past us, and says nothing. “Grandma? It’s Lori. How are you?”

She continues to stare. I get ready to make another comment when she utters, “Lawd. You still here?” I’m not sure whether she means still here in North Carolina, or still here from yesterday’s visit, or if she thinks I already came this morning.

“I’m here. We’ve come to visit. Daddy and me.”

“I’m feelin’ horrible. Jus’ horrible. I don’ like the pain. Ready to go to the next place. Ev’theen hurts…” and with that she hunches over and her words slur to incomprehensible utterances.

“Grandma, I’m going to brush your hair, okay? Let’s make you pretty.”

I run a soft bristle brush through her feathery soft white hair. It’s not very long, but it curls so pretty at the ends. I brush softly, first her bangs, then work my way around to the back of her head. She is silent. I continue brushing.

“There, there. Your hair is so soft, Grandma. You look so pretty. Look how nice your hair is, so soft, with curls just right here and there.”

“Lawd. That feels so good. You gone put me to sleep. Brush my hair or rub my back. Feels so good. Babies got it good. Ev’one always doting on them. No won’er they always sleepin’.”

A moment of lucidity. I cherish this. I know it can vanish without warning.

We stroll her out to the patio, hoping the sunshine and fresh air will lift her spirits. She begins ranting about her pajama bottoms and we’re not sure what she’s talking about so we just listen. Finally Daddy says, “Mother, what are you talking about?” She stares once again. We wait, patiently. “I don’ know. I don’ know what I be sayin’.” And she slouches.

Daddy and I look at each other. He tries again. “Mother…”

We carry on with small talk for another few minutes.

She raises her head and looks straight at me. “I’m parched. My lips ahr dry an’ I’m parched.”

We wheel her back inside and I rub Vaseline on her lips. She begins to lick them. “Grandma, stop that. If you lick your lips, they’re going to get even more chapped. Let me rub some more Vaseline on them. There, that will make them soft. There, there.”

The blank stare returns. She’s not hearing me.

“How are your hands? Here, let me rub some lotion on your hands. Would you like that?”

She stares past me, her blue eyes cloudy through her thick lenses.

I get the lotion and squirt a generous amount into my palm. I take her left hand and begin to rub it. She doesn’t speak, but grips me tightly, so that I can barely rub the lotion. I hold her hand just as tight, then begin massaging it, finger by finger. She returns the pressure, not saying a word, still staring past me. I look down at her hands, her paper thin skin gathered over bulging blue veins, crooked bony fingers. I rub, and massage, and rub, and massage, until all the lotion is soaked in. She’s still holding on tightly.

“Grandma, let’s do the other hand, okay? Won’t that feel good, to have the other hand just as soft?”

She reluctantly drops my hands. I squeeze lotion into my palms, and begin on her right hand. I rub, and massage, and rub, and massage. This time she doesn’t match the pressure I place on her fingers; she doesn’t grip my hand, holding tightly to another. This hand isn’t as strong, or maybe she’s already gone to the place that’s not here.

We stood at the street corner, the “Don’t Walk” digital letters and red hand greeting us. A family of a young mother, father, and little girl, maybe 5 years old, stopped beside us. The little girl, long brown hair in pigtails, black patent leather shoes shining, proudly pronounced, “DON’T WALK!” “That’s right,” her mother said, “We’re being careful.”

At that moment an older woman briefly stopped at the street corner, looked both ways to insure no cars were approaching, then scurried across the street, blatantly disregarding the red hand in front of us. A few steps into the intersection we were all surprised by a loud gasp, followed by a tiny voice: “Ooooooo-oooooooooooooooooo, SHE’S WALKING!”

“Grandma, where’s your hearing aid? Let’s put it in…”

…and thus began the search. Daddy looked on one side of the bed; I looked on the other. Under the covers, in the Kleenex box, behind her nightstand, nothing to be found. The entire time we were searching, Grandma was muttering.

“What’s that, Grandma?” I asked in an extra loud voice, convinced she couldn’t hear us.

“I said, don’t matter no how you find it or not. Hearing aid in, hearing aid out, I just pretend like I hear you ‘uns.”