Against The Grain
We enjoyed another active day. Jeff helped me pull the cap off the back of my truck so I could wax underneath it and wash those impossible-to-get-to windows where the front of the cap faces the back of the truck (yes, I am running out of things to fix and polish). After breakfast, and after the morning’s crossword puzzle, HO and I worked on her new email address book and continued to explain her absence to her cyberbuddies. Then I drove to the mall to buy food and computer-related parts, and for dinner we all went to Jeff and KarenÃs.
The amount of food consumed by the Millers was most impressive. Helen had, in her subtle way, complained of the lack of flavor in the fixings I’d been providing. Little did I know that the chicken soup I created was so similar to what she’d been eating for the last two months. We feasted on salmon, tuna, baked potatoes and spinach salad, as much for taste as hunger.
After dinner we drove the thoroughly exhausted Helen back and put her to bed. I switched on her TV and did what I always do – sit at the computer and respond to her minor requests. She watched another British comedy, and I typed; she fell asleep, I played computer chess. We experienced one brief scary choking period before I left, and I think that helped set the stage for what happened next. Let’s say it knocked over another chess piece on an already messy board.
With my camera slung over my shoulder and my new black Irish sweater tossed almost preppy-like on my back, I headed towards Jeff and Karen’s. The streets were dark. This time as I shuffled along I thought about the girl who had been shot in the park across from the Ruthenburgs. I even imagined her slumped on one of the benches. I don’t know the real details.
From behind me, I heard a voice, a question. I turned and saw a guy on a bicycle. He appeared too old and too big for the bike; I said “Hi.” He looked at me and mumbled, “I thought you were someone else.” I thought, I’m much older than you, I’m white, and other than my blue jeans I’m sure I’m not dressed like anyone you know.
“It’s an easy mistake,” I offered under my breath. I might as well have said, “Yep, I”m prey. Take a bite.”
He turned on his bike, looked harder at me, and said something else I didn’t understand. I walked on and he cut his front tire sharply and coasted up to me. For some reason, maybe it’s that male thing, but when I feel like someone is pushing, I push back. I knew where he was headed, my face, but he had no idea where I was going, his face. Now he’s straddling his bike and I’m staring through the dark lenses of his glasses, our noses maybe five inches apart.
Had I a moment to reflect, I might have laughed. An old white guy, far from home; a young black guy, in his hood. And moments before I was sitting with my mother clearing the phlegm from her throat.
We stood for a few moments, then he said something conciliatory, and I responded in kind. We disengaged.
“I’m in a lousy mood. I’m visiting my sick mother.”
We walked together the last two blocks to Jeff’s house, me telling him about my mother, he telling me about his parents, where he went to high school, his military service, the work he does, the work he has done, his belief in God, how he prays when he is depressed, and on and on. We talked so long that Jeffrey, who was inside listening to music and thought he was hallucinating me outside talking to this guy, moseyed out to see what was up. As Jeff approached, my new friend said,
“Hey, man, I didn’t mean anything earlier. No disrespect or anything.”
Crime in Evansville? Somehow I visualized Evansville as the last bastion of the ’50s, where “everyone” was white, middle-class, and likely as not to have been painted by Norman Rockwell. But now I realize that in reality it’s just like most other American towns.
Say, Mike, if you’re running out of things to fix, I can bring up Katie’s 1985 Tercel. Maybe you can get the radio to work properly, and make the doors stop creaking.
Comment by rakkity — April 5, 2005 @ 12:16 pm
Evansville is the prototypical American city. Corporations know it, they test many products here before they attempt nationwide marketing.
If I were to work on, let alone fix, another radio in another car before I repair Diane’s, there would be absolutely no reason to return home. The lock on the front door would be changed, my name on the mail box scratched out, and my beloved G3 would be cracked open on the front lawn with crocuses growing between the memory modules.
Comment by michael — April 5, 2005 @ 12:25 pm
A well-told tale, with good detail and character observation. Love the insta-shift contextual vector realignment (whatever that means), with the improbable (for anybody but Mikey) save at the end. Fight-or-flight’s pretty cellular, I guess, but humanity can be given sway.
Comment by there but for the grace of... — April 5, 2005 @ 1:12 pm
Great story, and I don’t get it. Like, what do you suppose shifted things for him? What was the slightly concilatory something? And ARE you friends? I mean, are you ever going to see each other again? Would your answer to that be different if he was white?
Speaking of car radios, does anyone have any suggestions for possible tricks for accessing the time adjustment in a Pioneer car radio/CD player? (Diane would let you answer that, right?)
Comment by jennifer — April 5, 2005 @ 10:15 pm
Hey, why won’t the “POST A COMMENT” section “Remember personal info?” as it implies it will by asking me if I want it to?
I guess my question about bonding and race is … let’s see, how to make this clear. First of all, I wasn’t criticizing. For me, the ability to connect with a stranger is pretty buried, and the more different from me they appear to me to be, the more deeply buried. I get the sense from the depth of your conversations with many people who would remain strangers to me that you do that pretty well. For instance, you’ve described the woman at the lumberyard and the man on the walk to the pterydactyl nests so clearly that … well, clearly you would recognize them. Now it sounds like you had a similarly connecting conversation with this guy. But maybe you (Michael) only get to the point of being able recognize people in a different light when you’ve met up with them in the same light and context several times, but … well, I’m wondering how this all operates.
I can’t stop by a stranger’s house! But I’m thinking it might help to try with my glasses on, in full light, and not just while I’m waiting for the traffic signal to change.
Comment by j — April 7, 2005 @ 10:11 am
Dear Jennifer,
Michael is a very interesting sort. He so easily recognizes people in a different light, except when blinded by his own anger or angst. I so admire his open heart. He has this unique window on the world that my conventional self has needed/craved.
For instance, when we were young, we drove in a broken down jeep throught the jungle of Guatemala to see Tikal when it was being excavcated, and when we got there. the community of small Mayan workers greeted him in wonder. He had this crown of long blonde curly hair and eyes the color of the Caribbean, and he was mighty gorgeous, let me tell you. And they thought, in Mayan, that maybe he was some kind of god, and he thought, wow, isn’t it a privilege to be here, and I sat shyly by.
His partner
Comment by response to j — April 7, 2005 @ 10:12 am