Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.
At Dairy Queen this afternoon Riri and Mo were working. I wished them a happy Thanksgiving. I asked how they would be spending it. With family? Friends? Don’t know, said Mo, kind of going through it now. She leaned down onto the counter and then she stood up. Life is—lifey! she said. A year ago she lost everything in a fire. Last night her hotel room flooded. Most of her things are ruined. Nothing is insured because she’s not a tenant. The water is worse than the fire somehow, she said. I was unclear whether she had a place to stay tonight or had anyone to help her. Maybe that’s because she was unclear herself. She had four hours until closing. I gave her the coalition bed line phone number. Thanks, love, she said. She made me a beautiful cone, three fat little tires with a perfect curl on top.
In the turning lane by the gas station when I was leaving I saw a barefoot man walking toward me on the sidewalk. He wore a tank top and carried a cylindrical nylon gym bag. His white briefs glowed like a pearl in the lowering darkness. His steps were measured and steady. As he got closer I recognized him as Mr. Murrow from the shelter, tall and beautifully coordinated and elegantly muscled and stark-raving mad. He kept walking for about another 10 yards and then he crossed just beyond the light over to Dairy Queen’s side.
Last time I saw Mr. Murrow at the shelter he came by asking for a Goodwill clothing voucher. He wore white Bermuda sweat shorts and an orange tank top and a knit cap with a turquoise pom-pom on top. He stood by the door patting his head while I filled out the voucher for him. Everywhere he was calm and composed and utterly ordered and he just stood there, patting. The pom-pom jiggled with each pat. The time before that he was sitting in front of the TV by the toiletries room talking to commentators and commercials. It’s supposed to be 38 degrees and raining tomorrow morning.
At the grocery Michelle and the man from the deli were sitting outside on the flower racks smoking and talking about how alcoholism is a disease, Michelle hunched in her red hoodie and tan puffy coat and the deli man in a yellow parka. We wished each other happy Thanksgiving. Inside Ty and Curtis were rounding up carts and baskets. They rattled and clattered. Bespectacled and lumbering Joe was the only cashier working. I was glad I was not buying any strawberries or eggs. It always bothers me when he inspects them. I always do so myself. Sometimes I will try to preempt him. Berries are good! Eggs are fine! I don’t know why it bothers me so much. But tonight I am glad it was one less bother on top of things that were almost too much.
Soon after I was home a storm brought in some thunder and lighting and wind. I heard the porch door bang once and then again. Just as I got to the front door I saw a UPS delivery van pulling away from the curb and my box on the porch. After picking it up I stayed on the porch for a moment. The rain in the glare of the streetlights looked like it was just shredding the air.
To read my previous post, “Same?: 21,” please click here.
You may also support my work at Buy Me a Coffee.
I hope your package didn't get wet.
Must be tempting to give these folks an extra hand in any form
Of assistance