He: Our Regular Deal
He knows my name is Donna, but he met Sylvia, my sister, first….and was smitten by her beauty.
“Hey Sylvia’s Sister, it’s Monday.”
After ten years of weekly liaisons, exactly at closing time, you would think he would have shared his name or grown weary of our indistinguishable conversations. But his scruffy moustache, framing a cock-eyed mouth, rarely reveals his thoughts.
“Our regular deal today?”
“Absolutely! Go ahead,” I shout back, through the barely cracked coffeehouse door.
I’ve tried to broach the how, when, and why his life became so hard, but a crumpled brow and quivering lips, are the only answers I receive. Reaching back to social work days, I’ve offered suggestions for a place to get a donated winter jacket or tire for his bike. Consummately gracious, but shrouded, his thanks never divulge if he will actually seek help.
When demons have gotten the best of him, because he couldn’t get his prescribed drugs, or had self-medicated with Malt Liquor and Tylenol PM, I ask if he needs a ride to the Salvation Army Shelter. From his camouflaged pants pocket he pulls a Stephen King novel, with a library sticker, and a barely legible military ID. Reassuringly he explains that he’s already served the Army….Vietnam…and has “two medals and an honorable discharge certificate.”
Today, moved by his loyalty to come to work on such a cold-rainy afternoon, I pat him on the shoulder while handing him our ‘regular deal’… five one-dollar bills, and bag with a sandwich, fruit, and two cookies inside. Taking his hand, I compliment him on his commitment to his word. I praise him on being a good, honest man. I tell him I’m proud to be his friend. I thank him for the way the windows shine.
I speak from the heart, wanting him to hear that he matters.
My words devastate him, and as hard as he tries to stop his chest from heaving up and down and as quickly as he scurries to gather up his belongings, he can’t hold back the pain. Tears drenching his paper towel roll and bicycle handlebars….he cannot regain composure. His stained, but laundered “FUN IN THE FLORIDA SUN” sweatshirt sleeves now serving as both handkerchief and blindfold.
“Sylvia’s Sister,” his trembling, chafed hands pressed firmly to his face, hiding his mouth, muffling his words, “I used to be someone different. You’re my friend? You think I’m a good person?”
“I do,” I recite firmly, “you are all those things, but I’m so sorry I made you sad.”
Window Washer Man, his hard earned, bagged salary, tucked in a scuffed-up bucket does not respond. Loading sponges and glass cleaner into his frayed backpack, slinging it over his slumped shoulders; he pedals down the sidewalk, away from my coffeehouse window.
Turning off the “OPEN” sign, I lock the door, zip my jacket, and walk to the car.
It’s freezing outside!
I’m glad I snuck extra sandwiches and cookies in his bag, because he’s never accepted charity.
He’s too darn proud.
Myself: Sunrise-Sunset
Nano’s porch steps were where I first heard the story of the Lady in the Harbor, and in his moist eyes saw the pride of an immigrant peasant boy, disembarking at Ellis Island to a new homeland. Daddy’s father’s heavy accent, gentle spirit, and oft-used wistful response: “No So Much” tethered me to his heart. The old man wasn’t funny…but Mom’s mom was hysterical! Her storytelling recipe: exaggerated facial expressions, parable-based topics, naughty words, and Seagram’s’ VO on the rocks, stirred with Nano’s old world style, nourished my childhood.
While the Titty Fairy, Graceful Fairy, or IQ Fairy visited my three, younger sisters, I was whacked, twice, by the Humor Fairy’s wand. With good reason, because early on it was obvious modeling or athletics were not going to be an option! Corkscrew hair, teeth sized for a larger mouth, curves of a javelin, void of rhythm…no wonder while my girlfriends were taking ballet or twirling batons, I was scribbling down silly, sassy, satire about Ballerinas and Baton Twirlers.
Hair bows and Barbie shoes gave me a rash, as did Teen Magazines and eye-liner, but Catholic school plaid and an ecumenical early job history, with God-awful uniforms, reinforced childhood expectations to look beyond appearance for substance and worth...in ourselves and others.
I dated, married, had kids with, and still love the only boy I ever kissed. And when a Weeble-shaped Irish priest raised his hands to our foreheads’ and announced to the congregation, “You will forever be called Husband and Wife!”- I took him literally. Thirty-five years later I still call that boy-of-mine ----Husband. Cards, messages, pillow-talk…it’s always simply----Husband. I must admit, In keeping with the required integrity of essay writing, which I studied in an awesome class, I have called him things that were not part of the sacrament of marriage.
Husband and I raised a house filled with sons, two we gave birth to; the rest, in need of an extra family, chose us. This colorful home initiated teachable moments with curious, new neighbors or police officers sent to check out the tall, black kids on bikes…in an all white, affluent neighborhood. Discipline rarely an issue, choosing my creative side as the in-house Dean of Men. No time-outs or threats of restriction, not my TRADITION…Cue Fiddler on the Roof or Peter, Paul, and Mary. Yessiree, missing curfew won you four hours of sitting through Mom’s favorite movie or music. I had the only basketball team who could perform, albeit irreverently, “If I Were a Rich Man” and “This Land is Your Land” from beginning to end.
Managing a children’s program in a domestic violence shelter. Facilitating groups. Teaching young felons. Seeing the devastation of untreated mental illness or addictions gave perspective to the rudimentary hardships in my life.
I desperately needed to learn to listen, rather than hear. I'm still working on that one!
Stubborn, shamelessly sentimental, brutally pragmatic, controlling, stubborn, bossy, rule obsessed, hopeful, stubborn, and afraid of the dark....at sunrise or sunset.
I: One Ringy-Dingy
“I’m waiting for the phone to ring.”
And the caller ID to read…PLAYBOY…so Hugh Hefner can invite me to do his ‘Women with Scars” issue.
Luckily, c-sections, a hysterectomy, and breast tumor scars hide under my unmentionables. But the long, thin line that divides my chest, the open-heart surgery wound, gets lots of sun and attention in swimsuits or sundresses. I’ve bristled at thoughtful suggestions, from well-heeled peers, about body make-up, hell….I don’t wear face make-up, except a scosche of lipstick when donning grown-up clothes for a business dinner or charity event.
Evening attire isn’t my strong suit. It’s not the actual “suit” that stresses me…it’s the accessorizing. Size 10 shoes with heels, even kitten ones, add inches to my 5’9” frame, and increases the distance to the ground and subsequent injuries, when my clumsiness visits.
My jewelry is purpose driven. My left ring-finger proudly embraced by my wedding set, that bonds me to the present, on the right, my Great-Grandmother’s engagement ring anchors me to generations past...
….as does my Father’s bird chest and Mother’s broad-Latin hips.
Calloused, un-manicured hands betray my love of yard work and aversion to nail polish. An outgoing smile flashes perfect, bright teeth that my parents paid good money to straighten.
Bifocals hide fifty-two year old, brown eyes and pre-mature crows-feet. My thick, dark mane, which on dry, winter nights is sleek Jackie O and on humid, summer days, is free-spirited Gilda Radner.
Big ears? Perhaps…but they'll help me listen for Heff’s call!
He knows my name is Donna, but he met Sylvia, my sister, first….and was smitten by her beauty.
“Hey Sylvia’s Sister, it’s Monday.”
After ten years of weekly liaisons, exactly at closing time, you would think he would have shared his name or grown weary of our indistinguishable conversations. But his scruffy moustache, framing a cock-eyed mouth, rarely reveals his thoughts.
“Our regular deal today?”
“Absolutely! Go ahead,” I shout back, through the barely cracked coffeehouse door.
I’ve tried to broach the how, when, and why his life became so hard, but a crumpled brow and quivering lips, are the only answers I receive. Reaching back to social work days, I’ve offered suggestions for a place to get a donated winter jacket or tire for his bike. Consummately gracious, but shrouded, his thanks never divulge if he will actually seek help.
When demons have gotten the best of him, because he couldn’t get his prescribed drugs, or had self-medicated with Malt Liquor and Tylenol PM, I ask if he needs a ride to the Salvation Army Shelter. From his camouflaged pants pocket he pulls a Stephen King novel, with a library sticker, and a barely legible military ID. Reassuringly he explains that he’s already served the Army….Vietnam…and has “two medals and an honorable discharge certificate.”
Today, moved by his loyalty to come to work on such a cold-rainy afternoon, I pat him on the shoulder while handing him our ‘regular deal’… five one-dollar bills, and bag with a sandwich, fruit, and two cookies inside. Taking his hand, I compliment him on his commitment to his word. I praise him on being a good, honest man. I tell him I’m proud to be his friend. I thank him for the way the windows shine.
I speak from the heart, wanting him to hear that he matters.
My words devastate him, and as hard as he tries to stop his chest from heaving up and down and as quickly as he scurries to gather up his belongings, he can’t hold back the pain. Tears drenching his paper towel roll and bicycle handlebars….he cannot regain composure. His stained, but laundered “FUN IN THE FLORIDA SUN” sweatshirt sleeves now serving as both handkerchief and blindfold.
“Sylvia’s Sister,” his trembling, chafed hands pressed firmly to his face, hiding his mouth, muffling his words, “I used to be someone different. You’re my friend? You think I’m a good person?”
“I do,” I recite firmly, “you are all those things, but I’m so sorry I made you sad.”
Window Washer Man, his hard earned, bagged salary, tucked in a scuffed-up bucket does not respond. Loading sponges and glass cleaner into his frayed backpack, slinging it over his slumped shoulders; he pedals down the sidewalk, away from my coffeehouse window.
Turning off the “OPEN” sign, I lock the door, zip my jacket, and walk to the car.
It’s freezing outside!
I’m glad I snuck extra sandwiches and cookies in his bag, because he’s never accepted charity.
He’s too darn proud.
Myself: Sunrise-Sunset
Nano’s porch steps were where I first heard the story of the Lady in the Harbor, and in his moist eyes saw the pride of an immigrant peasant boy, disembarking at Ellis Island to a new homeland. Daddy’s father’s heavy accent, gentle spirit, and oft-used wistful response: “No So Much” tethered me to his heart. The old man wasn’t funny…but Mom’s mom was hysterical! Her storytelling recipe: exaggerated facial expressions, parable-based topics, naughty words, and Seagram’s’ VO on the rocks, stirred with Nano’s old world style, nourished my childhood.
While the Titty Fairy, Graceful Fairy, or IQ Fairy visited my three, younger sisters, I was whacked, twice, by the Humor Fairy’s wand. With good reason, because early on it was obvious modeling or athletics were not going to be an option! Corkscrew hair, teeth sized for a larger mouth, curves of a javelin, void of rhythm…no wonder while my girlfriends were taking ballet or twirling batons, I was scribbling down silly, sassy, satire about Ballerinas and Baton Twirlers.
Hair bows and Barbie shoes gave me a rash, as did Teen Magazines and eye-liner, but Catholic school plaid and an ecumenical early job history, with God-awful uniforms, reinforced childhood expectations to look beyond appearance for substance and worth...in ourselves and others.
I dated, married, had kids with, and still love the only boy I ever kissed. And when a Weeble-shaped Irish priest raised his hands to our foreheads’ and announced to the congregation, “You will forever be called Husband and Wife!”- I took him literally. Thirty-five years later I still call that boy-of-mine ----Husband. Cards, messages, pillow-talk…it’s always simply----Husband. I must admit, In keeping with the required integrity of essay writing, which I studied in an awesome class, I have called him things that were not part of the sacrament of marriage.
Husband and I raised a house filled with sons, two we gave birth to; the rest, in need of an extra family, chose us. This colorful home initiated teachable moments with curious, new neighbors or police officers sent to check out the tall, black kids on bikes…in an all white, affluent neighborhood. Discipline rarely an issue, choosing my creative side as the in-house Dean of Men. No time-outs or threats of restriction, not my TRADITION…Cue Fiddler on the Roof or Peter, Paul, and Mary. Yessiree, missing curfew won you four hours of sitting through Mom’s favorite movie or music. I had the only basketball team who could perform, albeit irreverently, “If I Were a Rich Man” and “This Land is Your Land” from beginning to end.
Managing a children’s program in a domestic violence shelter. Facilitating groups. Teaching young felons. Seeing the devastation of untreated mental illness or addictions gave perspective to the rudimentary hardships in my life.
I desperately needed to learn to listen, rather than hear. I'm still working on that one!
Stubborn, shamelessly sentimental, brutally pragmatic, controlling, stubborn, bossy, rule obsessed, hopeful, stubborn, and afraid of the dark....at sunrise or sunset.
I: One Ringy-Dingy
“I’m waiting for the phone to ring.”
And the caller ID to read…PLAYBOY…so Hugh Hefner can invite me to do his ‘Women with Scars” issue.
Luckily, c-sections, a hysterectomy, and breast tumor scars hide under my unmentionables. But the long, thin line that divides my chest, the open-heart surgery wound, gets lots of sun and attention in swimsuits or sundresses. I’ve bristled at thoughtful suggestions, from well-heeled peers, about body make-up, hell….I don’t wear face make-up, except a scosche of lipstick when donning grown-up clothes for a business dinner or charity event.
Evening attire isn’t my strong suit. It’s not the actual “suit” that stresses me…it’s the accessorizing. Size 10 shoes with heels, even kitten ones, add inches to my 5’9” frame, and increases the distance to the ground and subsequent injuries, when my clumsiness visits.
My jewelry is purpose driven. My left ring-finger proudly embraced by my wedding set, that bonds me to the present, on the right, my Great-Grandmother’s engagement ring anchors me to generations past...
….as does my Father’s bird chest and Mother’s broad-Latin hips.
Calloused, un-manicured hands betray my love of yard work and aversion to nail polish. An outgoing smile flashes perfect, bright teeth that my parents paid good money to straighten.
Bifocals hide fifty-two year old, brown eyes and pre-mature crows-feet. My thick, dark mane, which on dry, winter nights is sleek Jackie O and on humid, summer days, is free-spirited Gilda Radner.
Big ears? Perhaps…but they'll help me listen for Heff’s call!
Now we're talkin'! Excellent, that's our Donna!
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed this. Was this an assignment you gave yourself or one that was given to you? Inspires me to do something creative on my blog.
ReplyDelete