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.”

On my way to the Hayward BART I passed a small park. A group gathered, obviously part of a group activity. Frisbee? Flag football? Hackey sack?

As I got closer I noticed all were clad in black, head to toe. Not so unusual. Several had formed a semi-circle around a woman in the center. I craned my head. She was holding a whip, high above her head, then with a flick of her wrist, “CRACK!”

As I passed I heard her saying, “It’s all in the snap of the wrist. Now who wants to be the first to try?”

Yay!

A soon to be college grad interviewing for an entry level position was telling me about a school project in which he had to study a failing brand and make recommendations to turn it around. I inquired about the brand – which had he chosen?

“Starters.”

I thought for a moment. “Starters? I’m not familiar with that brand. What is it?”

Enthusiastically he answered, “It’s an athletic brand. It’s pretty popular among the college set. I wouldn’t expect someone from your generation to know what it is.”

Ouch.

At the last minute we decided to go to the Fillmore to see Big Head Todd and The Monsters. Much to our surprise, we arrived to a sold out show. As ticket-holders wandered past, we queried, “Extra ticket? Friend bail?” all to no avail.

Emily headed to the box office; I headed to the scalper’s corner; the other two simply watched.

At the box office:
Emily: Are you going to release any extra tickets?
Box Office Girl: No.
E: What about after the show starts? Will you release extra tickets then?
BOG: No.
E: Is there any chance you may release tickets?
BOG: No.
E: Should I check back later, just in case?
BOG: NO.

At scalper’s corner:
Me: What are you selling those for? (craning my neck as I speak to the 6 foot 7 massive block of a scalper)
Scalper Man: Fifty dollars.
Me: For one ticket? (incredulous) Face value is $25.
SM: Yep.
Me: I’m talking about tickets to tonight’s show. Big Head Todd. And the Monsters. They’re a band from Boulder, for god’s sake.
SM: Fifty dollars.
Me: Did you know that according to California law, you’re not allowed to resell tickets for more than face value.
SM: Then try the box office, sweetie.

Emily and I reconvened, the other two laughing at our attempts. Emily continued to query passers by. I decided to try the scalpers again.

Me: Okay. So let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that the opening band plays for an hour.
SM: (silence, gazing into the distance)
Me: That would put Big Head Todd and his Monsters on at, say, 9:15, maybe 9:30.
SM: (still silent)
Me: So, hypothetically speaking, if you still had those tickets in your hand at 10:00, what would you sell them for?
SM: (still not looking at me) Fifty dollars.

I sighed with disgust and started walking back to our group. On the way there I noticed a guy with a Fillmore ski cap on, just hanging. I smiled. He gave me the nod. “They giving you any problem?” as he nodded towards the scalpers. “No. They’re just trying to sell the tickets for $50. That’s ridiculous. Can they do that? Who are you?”

“Troy. I work for the Fillmore. I’m kind of a scalper police. I make sure they’re, you know, doing right.”

Emily joined us. “This is ridiculous. This is Big Head Todd. I stood in line for Prince, the line wrapped around the block, and I was able to buy tickets for FACE VALUE. There’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to do the same for Big Head Todd.” And she continued to query the ticket holders. “Friend sick? Extra ticket? Thanks…”

Troy watched us, amused. He walked away, he talked to the scalpers, he went to the box office, he eventually came back. Speaking to no one in particular he said, “Follow me. Don’t speak to me. Don’t smile. And don’t say thank you.”

Emily led the way, with me, Tricia, and Bryan close behind. Troy whispered something to the bouncer. We were whisked in, hands stamped, and on the floor of the Fillmore, ready to rock out. For less than face value.

There we were, four women rehashing the weekend’s events over Sunday morning Bloody Marys.

Tricia began, “Lent was telling me…”

I cut in, “Did you just say his name was Lent? Like the time before Easter? What kind of name is that? Did his parents name him that or did he choose it?”

Emily smugly offered, “He could have given it up for Lent.”

Ba da bum.

…the sign said. I pondered. When would this ever be correct? Ten of your cent’s? No. The ‘your’ is already possessive. Ten cent’s copies? Possibly. If you’re talking about copies belonging to someone name Ten cent, but then it would be Ten Cent. These are the things that go through my mind when I see a punctuation malfunction. How can I make it right?