Couples meander with me. I am walking, just after sun set, along the waterfront. I rode into Seattle this afternoon I'll be back to the Green Tortoise this evening. For now, I am with Lovers. They are having strangers take their photographs, sweet; hand in hand, arms wrapped around waists, around shoulders, heads cradled on collar bones.
Cute families are hangin', kids gather, disperse, and gather again; returned with some excitement to share with their adults.
Watching them I think of you.
Also, I think of you as I struggle a solid five minutes to open a jar of sauce. My hands are new to me, weak with age, age and the knowing that it's all me; I am the only one here. "hands, open the damned jar."
Like PeeWee, longing for his bicycle, I see it. Maybe it's as great as it seems, trying not to pay attention; I'm nobodies number one.
Something in me is ready to move on. I follow curiosity, back up the hills and stairs. I'm in Ghost Alley, perfect.
Scene is erie, beautiful. Scattered stars above are now obscured by rows of electric luz.
Inside a bistro to my right I see a glowing, handsome man helping his pretty lady into her seat. Her swollen belly betrays her balance for a moment and she laughs. I order my drink at the bar and move outside where the host is setting an ash tray on what will be my table.
I intend to be productive. I've brought several books on communication, of the non violent variety, some restorative justice articles, Paulo Friere's Pedagogy of the Oppressed, and my journals. I know just where to begin, so I am making notes in my own journals and reviewing what I seemed to think was important over this last year. I like what I have written. This really is the best way for me to pretend I don't always feel like the embodiment of exhaustion and failure. These ideas are good, I feel good that they are my distraction, it's a fine way to be in denial.
I sense someone behind me to my right, in the alley. Whatever I feel is moving closer, but slowly. It's a man, about my age. He is doing something with the flower in the beds which border and frame the lounge area where I am seated. When he moves closer I stop writing. He circles around until he is directly in front of me. He says something about fixing the flowers, he isn't really looking at me. He says he sees that there is an empty spot in the flower bed in front of me. He arranges yellow flowers, which he has apparently picked from the beds behind me, into the "empty spot" in front of me.
He appears to me to be somewhat "on edge," maybe transient, harmless, and alone. I realize I feel nervous that he may offer the flowers to me, or ask me for something and I won't know how to respond, I too am alone. "yeah, those look nice there," I say. He repeats what he has already said about what he has just done. The host has taken notice of him now. We hear him yelling at him to leave me alone. The flower man walks into the bistro, trying to explain what he is doing. I watch as he asserts his relevance in this place, his right to be there. They have an exchange that I can't make out. He comes back, his eyes seem distressed. I think I recall this conversation pretty well. I have to write it down, because it will always mean so much to me.
"I'm so sorry that I bothered you."
"You aren't bothering me, thanks for moving the flowers and for talking to me."
He apologizes again and adds, "that man says that I interrupted you."
"You didn't interrupt me, and you aren't bothering me. I appreciate what you did with the flowers, it was nice. I hope you have a really good night."
"Okay," he says. "Have a good night too," he starts to walk away, then comes back, "it's just that my daughter left to Florida. I can't get in touch with her. Everything is going bad."
I have no idea what to do. I take a deep breath. "I'm so sorry," I really mean it. "I'll be thinking good thoughts for you. I hope your fortune turns very soon."
He stares at me, he is thinking about what to say. He looks so sad, then very hopeless. "My fortune has been very bad for a very long time."
"I know, you are really sad."
"Yeah."
"Everything changes, you deserve good things." We are really seeing each other now. "Thank you for meeting me."
He smiles a little, and seems to be thinking. "You'd make a good therapist!"
I laugh.
The flower man walks about three feet, then stopping again says, "Whoa! I just found a lottery token! Can I keep it?"
I turn around, I laugh again, "Yeah! Keep it."
"Well, I am asking him, in there..."
We both turn around to see that the host isn't paying us any attention. "Do you think I should keep it though?"
"I think you should keep it."
"Is it worth a lot of money?" He is now standing near to me, hovering a little, shoulders tucked in and palms cradling the coin close to his chest.
"I have no idea, maybe you should just keep it with you. You know, like for good luck."
"Well, look. It has a four leaf clover on one side."
"Wow, that seems fortuitous." We are both smiling and glancing at the host. The flower man seems to feel that he is doing something a little bit sneaky, putting this over sized coin in his pocket. Suddenly, he gets serious and steps closer. "I am really hungry. If you have left-overs I can help you eat them." On my table are books, journals, and a beer. That's all I have with me. Things are tight. "Well, tonight I had to choose between eating something or drinking this beer. I chose beer. If you are around the alley in the morning, I will split breakfast with you, okay?" I actually expect him not to believe me, or to be mad. He smiles and says, "Just when things are falling apart, I meet the women I could have fallen in love with."
Guilt, and gratitude, hope, and warmth, sorrow, and loss.
He might be the sweetest man I have ever met, an angel.
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