Big Dog

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My eleven-year-old and I were trying to decide between two foster dogs. One was a calm, half-blind, small Boston terrier, and the other was an eighty-five pound longhaired mutt who lived for years as a stray in a forest outside of Istanbul. “Let’s foster the terrier,” my daughter said. “She’s so sweet. Look how cuddly she is. Take our picture.”

“No,” I said, “Let’s get the big one.”

“He’s huge,” my daughter said. “Wouldn’t the terrier be easier?”

“But he lived in a forest. How cool is that? Plus, you and your sister always get to choose. It’s my turn. And I want the big one.”

“But I don’t want him.”

“What if I buy you some Skittles?”

“Ok.” 

The dog refused to get in the car and I had to send my daughter back to the shelter for assistance. Once he was safely in the backseat, I put the windows down and blasted Cyndi Lauper. Finally, I was a person with a startlingly large dog. It was like driving a mascot to a football game. I couldn’t see out the back window, which made me feel giddy with rebellion. 

As we were heading up Market Street, the dog threw up all over the seats and my daughter. “This is the most disgusting thing in the entire world,” she said quietly, staring out the window in a state of paralysis. She hates vomit. Sometimes she wants to be a doctor but “only the kind that never has to deal with vomit.”

“I can’t stop now,” I said. “Let’s just get home.” In the rear view mirror was a panting, drooling, brown and white face the size of a computer monitor. He looked like a full-grown man in a handmade, poorly fitting, Bernese Mountain Dog costume.

The dog threw up some more which made the car smell like airplane beef stroganoff.

We made it home and I told my daughter to run in and shower. My older one stayed outside with the dog while I cleaned up the car. The vomit had leaked down the back of the seats and got all over my hand as I reached down into the crack with a paper towel. My older daughter called out, “Oh my god Mom, this is the biggest poop I have ever seen.” I cleaned that up too. Looking back, the dog was getting himself into fighting shape, ridding himself of unnecessary weight.

“He’s just nervous,” I said, rubbing his soft head and staring into his beautiful brown eyes. “I mean, he lived in a forest. Did you know that?”

“You said that already, Mom.” She used a small towel to try and remove a piece of poo from the dog’s hair.

“In Turkey!” I shook my head in disbelief. I tend to get carried away with the history of dogs we foster, regardless of accuracy.

The younger daughter was clean now, in pajamas. She was sad that we couldn’t stop for Skittles earlier due to the vomit situation, and asked if we could watch TV. I ordered pizza and we settled in with the dog to watch Parks and Rec.

We ate quickly, on edge because the dog had started to pace. Also, he had discovered that if he got up on his hind legs, he could reach any surface. I moved the plums and lemons to the fridge, and the leftover challah to the pantry. I also put the phone chargers in a drawer, and the jar of pencils in a cupboard.

It was time to feed the cat. My younger daughter emptied a can of creamed chicken into the cat’s dish and within three seconds, our house turned into a National Geographic episode.

Apparently, while I was putting away pencils, the dog attacked the cat. There was screaming, and blood, and it was awful. In a heroic feat reminiscent of Mother Lifting Car Off Toddler, my younger daughter, who weighs less than the dog, yanked the beast off the cat, and then the older one, wisely, lured the dog outside. My children instinctively and bravely addressed the disaster while I was organizing office supplies. It was like peeking into a future where I am sipping Ensure through a straw while they balance my checkbook and interview home aids. 

I brought the dog back to the shelter that night. And then I threw myself into the arms of my husband, who was finally home from work. He told me it sounded like everyone did the right thing, and his understatedness was both a breath of fresh air and a nuisance. I put my head on my younger daughter’s lap and sobbed. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I should have never brought that dog into this house. I forced it on you and I bribed you with Skittles.” She patted my back, told me it wasn’t my fault, and reminded me that the dog was very gentle with people. “He just shouldn’t be in a home with cats,” she said sensibly. I wiped my face on my sleeve and told her how strong she was.

Her older sister relayed, in vivid detail, the way the younger one had pulled the dog off the cat, and told her she was the bravest person she knew, which made me cry even harder. I complimented her on quickly removing the dog from the house, saying, “I don’t know what I would do without you.” She told me she didn’t know what she would do without me either. And then she said this will make a good blog post. 

Our cat, who survived nearly four years in Australia without being attacked by a single snake or spider, appears to be fine. And our new foster, a Chihuahua, was found as a stray in the East Bay.

The Girl Is Now A Mother

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She was five when I first met her. Hiding behind her mother, who was wearing a forest green robe and slippers. They weren’t expecting visitors, but here we were, pulling up in a dirty burgundy Buick. A time before cell phones, a time of surprises, what’s forty-five minutes out of the way? Let’s try it, they might be home. 

I was traveling with a close friend, and this was his family. He grew up outside of Providence, across the street from fields and cows he used to say. The oldest of seven, my friend was in college now, and wanted to check in on his mother and the kids. 

When his mother saw he wasn’t alone, she teased him. You could have given me a heads up, she said, tightening her terrycloth belt. The girl giggled. I can’t imagine being the youngest of seven children but I suppose you might need to physically attach yourself to your mother’s robe if you wish to spend any time with her. 

I shook the mother’s hand, which was small and soft. I remember these details, like the small hand and the green robe, because this was one of the few times I met my friend’s mother, before the darkness that swirls around all of us seeped in and took her away. I waved at the little girl. She was beautiful with dark eyes, light brown skin, and soft curly hair. She had the kind of face that would inspire origin questions, to which the answer could equally be Iceland, Indonesia, or in this case, Rhode Island.

It was three years after this first meeting, after this friend of mine and I had fallen in love, when the darkness struck. Witnessing children of various ages lose their mother was a study in dread and quiet fascination. This was the saddest thing I had ever seen, and to this day, still is. Some of the children reacted in anger, others in denial, and the little girl, now eight, in stoicism. She announced, with confidence, that her mother would not want her to hide, that she would want her to be strong. As an adult now, I understand that we often look to children for tips on how to live, but then I was twenty-two, pretending to be an adult, and her bravery stunned me. 

I have had the privilege of watching this brave girl grow up, along with her equally courageous and kind siblings. The loss of their mother was character defining for all of them. 

Recently I visited this girl, now thirty-one and the mother of a newborn. She has the same beautiful face, and the same measured strength. With the support of a devoted partner, she is confidently sorting out nursing and sleeping. Her cozy apartment in Queens is decorated with family photos, including one of her mother in aviator sunglasses. When I first saw her baby, who has dark eyes, light brown skin and a few tiny soft curls, I felt that a mysterious question had been answered. I don’t believe in an afterlife, or spirits watching us, but then again, I choose to believe my deceased father is now living on the moon. Things don’t happen for reasons, but they do happen. And this girl is now a mother. 

Stories Can Save Us

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The carpet in the San Mateo Marriott Airport Hotel is a pattern of geometric beige and grey shapes, impervious to dirty loafers and rolling suitcases. Someone designed this carpet, I think as I rush through the lobby. This shall be our carpet, someone declared. 

I am late to the conference. The marching band is finishing a pump it up number, as I enter the back of the banquet hall, balancing a side plate of mini-croissants and sliced cantaloupe atop my conference program, scouring the room for an open seat. I find one in the back between a short man with dreadlocks and a woman on her laptop with a spreadsheet open and a pencil behind her ear. The nametag hanging around my neck is attached to a green lanyard. Most other people seem to have blue or red lanyards. Perhaps I signed up for the vegetarian lunch. I look down at my kangaroo leather boots and try to recall which meal preference I stated.  

It is sweltering outside but inside it is conference weather, drafty from the air conditioning. I am wearing a sleeveless dress and regret forgetting to bring a conference shawl. Everyone else in the room is in long sleeves except for one woman in a sleeveless navy dress with a spider web tattoo covering her shoulder. 

This is my first conference in four years. Well that’s not true. I attended a bloggers conference in Perth where I learned I didn’t want to be a blogger. I wanted to be a writer. 

As a woman with a news anchor haircut officially welcomes us to the conference and reviews the day’s schedule, I polish off the mini-croissants and contemplate returning to the buffet for a yogurt cup. Instead I open my program and circle the workshops I plan on attending. 

I spot a colleague across the room. I text him, Hi I can see you. I see him check his phone and look around. Finally he sees me and waves. He is in a blue lanyard. 

A woman at my table (red lanyard) gets up and leaves behind a pink notebook. The cover reads, in cursive, A Place For Your Dreams. Soon she is back with coffee and two apricot pastries.

It is freezing in here. Many years ago I attended a fundraising conference where the keynote speaker was a man with a disability who climbed Mount Everest. I do not remember his disability but I remember some of his slides made me feel very cold. 

The first clue that this is not a fundraising conference is it is quieter. Also there are more men.

The workshops are surprisingly good. One of them is about storytelling as persuasion, and my eyes unexpectedly fill with tears when the communications consultant in the black jumpsuit says, “Especially in turbulent times, stories can save us.” She has smoky eye makeup and elegant arm movements that make it look like she is gently scooping up her audience. She tells us humans are narrative animals. She says Martin Luther King said I have a dream, not I have a pie chart. 

This is an example of using humor at a conference. 

In another workshop, a woman asks too many questions that aren’t actual questions (red lanyard), and I want to say something but remind myself I am not in charge of this room. 

At lunch I join my coworkers at a round table with cloth napkins and two breadbaskets. We swap stories about the sessions we just attended. Who knew the mayor of Stockton was so dynamic, one of them says. I notice I am happy to be with these people. We are a team, I think, as I unwrap a butter patty. 

Men in black serve us grilled chicken with sides of cooked carrots and mashed potatoes. The lanyard colors didn’t mean a thing. I shiver and dig in.

Instructions: Spa Locker Room

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Do not be alarmed by the soft sound of Tibetan bells. The Spa Locker Room music is here to relax you. You may or may not have been given a tour of the locker room by a woman with a top bun in a black polo shirt. Either way, you will not be able to locate the toilets. They are not in fact behind the shower curtains, but around a corner near the self-serve cucumber water station. In your assigned locker, you will find a robe that doesn’t fit and plastic slip-on shoes that are a half size too small and look like the sandals your neighbor wears when he’s outside smoking. Place your belongings on the shelf and try to secure your locker using the keypad. It will not work and you will want to punch it, but then you remember to press the C button before entering your code. 

Four women are in a huddle whispering. They are not talking about your butt. One of them is getting married or turning 40 or getting divorced, and her friends have brought her to the Spa Locker Room to eat chocolate covered almonds and use the spray deodorant. There is free stuff all around, and you might be tempted to take the eco-friendly bamboo toothbrush wrapped in plastic. Instead, moisturize your entire body with the white lotion that smells like sour peaches from Shaw’s Candy. As you rub your belly, do not fall into the trap of thinking about your younger body. You are alive and you are in a Spa Locker Room. Acknowledge your privilege and moisturize your elbows. 

You might overhear the following:

“And then he said his girlfriend’s a slasher.”

“What’s that?” 

“Model Slash Actress.”

“What a douche.”

There might be a basket of green apples and a selection of tea with names like Margaret’s Hope, Vive Le Thé, and Paris For Her. You can sit by the gas fireplace, on the beige patterned couch, surrounded by beige patterned pillows, and read articles like Change Your Life In Seven Days and Your Best Abs in a magazine called Women’s Health. Toss the magazine back on the coffee table with the small wooden Buddha and consider women’s bodies as property, containers, vessels, weapons, cradles, and caskets. Vigorously scratch your thigh. Recognize your body has been itchy lately. Perhaps it is angry with people who are trying to control it. Think of your body as something to protect fiercely, like a child.

A woman in a cotton wrap shirt the color of a fresh bruise will enter the Spa Locker Room and call your name. You will follow her to a lavender-scented room and undress. 

The Run-In

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I ran into myself today. She was waiting for the bus, wearing a floral print baby doll dress, a black ribbon choker necklace, and clunky black shoes. She had a pixie haircut, deep purple lipstick, and had just recently turned twenty. Black leather bag slung over one shoulder, she was reading the bus schedule posted next to the shelter.

I pulled over and popped on my hazards. I slammed the door and walked towards her. “Hey!” I called out.

She looked over and seemed annoyed and not at all surprised. “Hey yourself,” she said, glancing at my white sneakers. “Or myself. Whatever.”

She smelled like clove cigarettes.

“What are you doing here?” I said, jamming my car keys in the back pocket of my jeans. “You’re not supposed to be here.” I had left my sunglasses in the car and was now squinting at her.

“Well I’m here.” Me at twenty was snarky. She was also chewing gum.

“But you don’t live in San Francisco yet.” I lived in Boston in my twenties.

She scowled. “I’m visiting.”

“Visiting who?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Of course I did know, once I thought about it. “Philippe,” I said finally, shaking my head.

Philippe was a French exchange student I had met earlier that year, in Boston when I was nineteen. He and I worked at the same Tex-Mex restaurant until he moved to San Francisco on a whim, at least it had seemed that way at the time. Of course it wasn’t a whim. His French girlfriend was in San Francisco and he moved here to reunite with her.

This me standing in front of me didn’t know this yet. She had had dinner with Philippe last night. They kissed in the car and he told her he loved her. Then he went across town to fuck his girlfriend but I didn’t find this out until tomorrow.

“He’s not worth it,” I said to my younger self.

“Maybe not,” she said, shrugging. At this point, she was already regretting flying out here for a long weekend to visit Philippe from La Caverna. Tomorrow he will call her, sobbing, saying he’s still in love with Anne-Marie, Anne-Margaritte, Anne-Something. I won’t cry because I won’t be shocked. This was never a real thing. I just wanted to hop on a plane and chase after something.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” I asked her.

“I guess you know that I do.”

We got in the car and she held up my New Yorker magazine that she had found on the seat. “Really?” she said and laughed. “Is this what you’re into?”

“What we’re into,” I said, putting on my sunglasses, suddenly self-conscious.

“Whatever,” she said reaching in her bag for a slip of paper. “Ninth and Judah. I’m going to Ninth and Judah.”

Grace’s apartment. Holy shit.

“I forgot Grace lived there,” I said. Grace was my best friend for fifteen years. “Have you met her roommates yet?”

“Nope, first time.”

“You’re in for a real treat,” I said sarcastically. Grace lived with two supreme slobs who played video games all day. One of them peed in a Snapple bottle in his room instead of walking eight feet down the hall to the bathroom.

“It’s annoying,” she said, propping up her foot on the dashboard and wiping the corner of her mouth where her dark lipstick had accumulated. “How you know everything.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, honking at the car in front of me. The driver was distracted and the light had turned green. “It must be really annoying.”

“You must remember this, yeah?” she said.

“Remember what?” I said, turning on Lincoln Drive.

“Running into your older self?”

“Yeah,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. Wondering when it was that I ran into you. Or me. Whatever. It’s weird being on the other side now.”

We drove in silence. I glanced over at her occasionally but she was staring out the window. Her haircut showed off her neck, long and freckled, and her choker was held together by a gold clasp wrapped in scotch tape. I loved that necklace and wore it months after it had broken, peeling off the tape at night and attaching a new piece in the morning.

Younger me scratched her thigh aggressively. I was still having eczema breakouts, hadn’t yet sorted that out with the shea butter and the avoiding wheat. I opened my mouth but decided against saying anything. She’ll figure it out.

I thought about Grace. How we were still close at that point, before her mental health veered into a dark pit. Now, as a forty year old, I hadn’t spoken to her in nearly ten years. She called when my mom died. She was married to a banker and living in Westchester. She had recently spent three months in a locked ward following a miscarriage.

Our mom died. I looked at younger me, and blinked back tears.

“I think it’s that faded pink one on the right,” she said, after glancing at her paper with the address.

I pulled into the driveway.

“Thanks,” she said, looking at me. It startled me how unremarkable she seemed to think all of this was. Later, she’ll tell Grace and the slobs, and they’ll gasp and convince her it was a remarkable coincidence, running into her future self. They’ll think it’s crazy she didn’t ask me a single question about my life, our lives.

She slammed the door and rang the bell of the four-story apartment building. She was bouncy, even in her clunky shoes. As I started to drive off, I watched her and Grace embrace. As I caught a glimpse of Grace’s smile, a lump formed in my throat. Before she fell apart, years later, before her shadow took over, her smile was radiant. It could have saved the world.

Instructions: Gray Hair

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The first step towards having gray hair is to stop dyeing your hair. Highlights, lowlights, permanent color, temporary washouts, henna, lemon juice, beet extract, all of it. Stop dyeing your hair. You might start telling yourself that you look washed out or sluggish. Go for a walk or buy a bright lipstick at Walgreens. These feelings will come and go. This is a part of growing out your hair. These feelings are the bullying cries of the dyed follicles matched with the background boom of social convention.

The second step is to invest in a few brightly colored cotton headbands. As your gray roots emerge, you may wish to cover them. Now is the time to channel your inner fortuneteller. Wear dangly earrings and that beaded necklace you inherited from your Aunt Ruth. Headbands also go well with long skirts, culottes, or overalls. If you have an office job, consider a more conservative black or brown headband. If you are comfortable wearing a head wrap, then by all means, dive in. I am a big fan of red lipstick as a mood lifter. If you don’t enjoy makeup, then don’t wear any. As my teenager would say, you do you.

When you are two or three inches into the growing out process, people will start to tell you that you are brave. Don’t fall for this. You are brave for reasons having nothing to do with your hair. Now might be the time to reflect on lessons learned in difficult times. This is not one of those times. You are just growing out your hair.

Let’s talk about hats. If you like a hat, wear one.

At three or four inches of growth, you will have moments of wanting to dye your hair again. At these times, reach for the Internet. Follow @grombre on Instagram, where regular gals post their gray hair photos. Ask yourself what Jamie Lee Curtis would do. Think about how much money you are saving. If you have young people in your life, think about the example you are setting.

A year will pass. The next step is a cute, short haircut. Think Winona Ryder’s floppy pixie in Reality Bites. Pull up photos of Lupita Nyong’o, Helen Mirren, Tilda Swinton, Pink, and Mary Stuart Masterson in Some Kind of Wonderful. Find a hairdresser that supports your decision to go gray. It is a conflict of interest for the hairdresser, like asking an orthodontist whether or not you need braces. Be patient.

With your cute, short haircut, you are now ready to be a gray-haired lady of the world. You can keep your hair short, or as my hairdresser in Australia used to say, grow it out “wizard-like.” You will become an ambassador. You will be approached often for advice, sometimes three times in one night, at a friend’s 50th birthday party. You might go home and write about it.

To The Memory Of Lily Allen-Hughes

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“Why don’t we remember everything?”

I am driving up Clarendon, past the park that’s on the side of a cliff, the one with the steep wooden staircase. Clarendon Street in San Francisco is what my father used to call, “a good street to know.” It takes you to the Haight without driving down Lincoln, and can also get you to Market Street by avoiding Portola. Before GPS, Clarendon felt like a secret. I often drive this route, and whenever I pass the park, I think about how I’ve never climbed those stairs, and wonder what it’s like at the top. Sometimes I consider pulling over but never do.

My daughter repeats her question. “Why don’t we remember everything?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I think our brains deci—”

“I mean, why don’t our brains just store everything and then we can just look something up when we want to?” She rests her foot on the dashboard. “It wouldn’t feel like we’d have all this packed information in our brains, but,” she pauses, “it would be there if we needed it.”

“Some people have photographic memories and can remember what they had for breakfast three years ago.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

We drive in silence for a little while, and pass the street where our friends used to live before they moved to Marin to escape the fog. Today it is foggy and cold. We have just come from volunteering at Muttville, the dog rescue organization with the endless stream of stray Chihuahuas and free donuts. In the past six months, since moving back from Perth to San Francisco, we have, surprisingly, become a dog family, fostering and volunteering. I keep wanting to write about how fostering dogs is our therapy, but the fact that taking care of others helps you take care of yourself is not rocket science, so there’s not much else to say about that.

“I don’t remember much before fourth or fifth grade,” I tell my daughter, who is now staring out the window.

“Don’t you have a memory from kindergarten about how you got in trouble when you switched the inks in the markers?”

“Oh yea, that’s right.”

We are now six blocks from home, in traffic. The traffic is also something I will never write about because the only thing more boring than talking about traffic is writing about it. But I remember when San Francisco was less crowded, less expensive, with much fewer headphones. And coming home after nearly four years abroad is like moving in with an ex-boyfriend. You know why you fell in love with him, but you’re not sure you want to see him every day.

“I guess we don’t remember everything because we don’t need to,” I say, squinting and lowering the visor. The sun is setting. “But we might. Someday. That’s my point.” She picks up some dog hair from her black leggings.

Tomorrow I will drive up Clarendon after work and, for the first time, stop at the park. I will climb the uneven staircase, in heels, to finally see what’s up there. At the top of the hill, a dirt path will lead me to a bright green bench overlooking the city. The bench is in memory of someone named Lily
Allen-Hughes, and I will sit down, close my eyes, and listen to the traffic. I
will make a new memory that I will share with my daughter, who will  safely store it for me, in her wonderful mind.

Instructions: Dog Diaper

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When putting a diaper on a dog, it is important to first pull its tail through the hole. Otherwise, you will find yourself in the position of jamming two fingers through a tiny opening in the diaper and then grasping the tail in bemusement. After all, a dog’s tail is an extension of its spine, full of bones and muscles and nerve endings, and how on earth can you force a spine to curl and fit through a hole? You cannot.

Once the tail is through the hole, you have approximately two seconds to reach between the dog’s legs and pull each of the tabs up and around the belly to secure the Velcro. The dog can easily wriggle out of the diaper if it is not fitted properly, so get those tabs in place as soon as possible. Dogs are quick, even the old ones with bum legs. They don’t want to wear diapers. Who can blame them.

The dog diaper must be tight, otherwise the urine will seep out the sides. If you have taken care of a person in diapers, you know tighter is better. If you ask yourself, is the diaper tight enough, it is not, and you will discover this later, after a day at work or a night of sleep. Only when you say to yourself, perhaps this diaper is too tight, then you know it is tight enough.

Dog diapers look just like human diapers, except for the tail hole. They come in bright colors and have names like Simple Solution and Paw Legend. They can be tossed in the wash, and air-dry quickly.

If you can help it, try not to get sad when you see a dog wearing a diaper. Of course you cannot control your feelings, but if you are the kind of person who can coax your feelings into a general category, I suggest storing them under Humor (“How funny! A dog in a diaper!”), or, Miracles of Human Invention (“How lucky we are that someone invented a doggie diaper!”).

First thing in the morning, check the diaper. Do this outside if possible. Rip away the Velcro tabs and hold the diaper in one hand, away from your face. The weight of the diaper will suggest the level of activity. Although you might be tempted, do not smell the diaper to check for urine. There is no reason to do this.

If the diaper is dry, say something encouraging to the dog like, “Good job! I knew you could do it!” If the diaper is heavy with pee, it is best not to say anything at all. This is not the time for humiliation.

Stay outside with the dog for a while to air out the bottom, and to encourage outside pee time. Feel the cool morning breeze. Listen for birds. Try and imagine what the dog is thinking. If you are fostering this dog, think about its many days leading up to this one. Its mysterious life that you will never know. Briefly entertain the notion that you and this dog were meant to find each other, and then remember you think that about everyone. Look up at the sky. Sometimes calling out, “Good morning world!” can help put a smile on your face, and you forget for a split second that you are holding a diaper made for a dog. A dog that is doing the best it can.

All That Glitters

Karim will arrive in four minutes. My phone tells me he is driving a Tesla with the license plate NEWCAR.

The car is quiet, black, and shiny and there are no plates. As it pulls up, the window lowers, revealing a man with a black moustache and white polo shirt. He smiles and explains how to open the door. I push on the left side of the shiny rectangular metal piece and the right side pops forward.

Resting against the leather seat, I think of the day I once sat in a Batmobile, one of the actual cars from one of the Michael Keaton movies. A family friend collected cars, including a James Bond one. We arrived for Thanksgiving dinner to find the Batmobile in the driveway. Soon after, my dad bought a vintage British taxi with a rear-facing bench backseat.

I am not a car person. In Australia, I drove a used SUV for two years before a young child asked me what kind of car I drove and I realized I had no idea. At this moment, I think it was a Mitsubishi but I would not bet my life on it. Now I drive a Honda because I insisted we buy one. Ten years ago, a Honda saved my life in a head-on collision by releasing its air bags and folding like an accordion. I walked out of that accident with a tiny bruise on my nose. Maybe I am a Honda person.

“Nice car,” I say to Karim, as he speeds toward Dewey Boulevard. He just bought it and tells me it’s a Model 3. “Well it’s really nice,” I say again, checking my phone. I am on my way to meet two friends for dinner. “The ceiling is all glass,” Karim says. Isn’t it though, I want to say, cracking a feminist joke. But I stay quiet and look up to see twinkling stars where I would normally see car. It is exquisite. I ask permission to take a photo to send to my husband. I am in a Tesla Model 3, I text Dave. I do not hear back. He is away with friends for the weekend, kayaking and drinking wine and not caring about what sort of car his wife is sitting in.

Karim presses something on the large touchscreen attached to the dashboard, and tells me he lost $2.7 million in the stock market in 2008. I tell him I’m sorry and that must have been hard. He tells me it was awful, that I have no idea, and then says, “Too bad we’re not going on the highway because I would turn on Self-Driving.”

We talk about the Salesforce tower lighting up like the Eye of Sauron on Halloween and he asks if I’m going out to dinner. I tell him I’m meeting two friends I’ve known since sixth grade. He tells me friends are the most important thing in this life, while driving fifty-two miles per hour down Clipper Street, past red and white signs that say, Drive like your children live here.

Karim pulls over in front of the tapas restaurant and shows me how to open the car door from the inside. I have arrived before my friends so I sit on a bench outside and look up at the sky. I live in a city where an Uber driver owns an electric self-driving robot machine and thousands of people petition for a skyscraper to light up like a Tolkien fairytale. I hear screaming and turn around to see a toddler throwing a tantrum in the middle of the sidewalk.

Taking Things Apart And Putting Them Back Together

Movers haul things in and out of trucks, carry bookcases up and down stairs, tear open boxes, and unload books and teacups and ukuleles and tiny ceramic figurines, all while handling the emotions and nitpicky preferences of their clients. I have lived in four countries, and never cease to be impressed by the sheer perseverance and strength of professional movers.

In every moving crew, there is the person who is responsible for taking things apart, and putting things back together. He doesn’t spend as much time in the truck or on the stairs, because he is camped out in the living room or in a bedroom, with a bag of screws, a drill, and zero instructions.

Last Friday, at my house, this person was Antoine, a thin muscular man in a black sleeveless top and a slight limp due to a recent fracture.

I last saw Antoine four years ago, unscrewing table legs and bedposts, preparing to move all of our furniture to Perth. My daughters, then seven and nine, stood at the doorway to their bedroom and watched him take apart their bunk bed. He joked with them about Australia, and told them to keep an eye out for boxing kangaroos.

On Friday, all of our belongings came back from Perth, and with them, Antoine. “It’s you!” I exclaimed, opening the door. I was happy to see this man who was so helpful to us in a time of transition. “I remember this place,” he said, wiping his feet on the welcome mat. “Nice view. Can you see them from here?”

“Who?”

“The Blue Angels.” Antoine was not feeling particularly nostalgic. He rushed over to the living room window and looked out, past the cypress tree. I told him they usually fly over Twin Peaks, so yes, perhaps later that afternoon we would see them.

“He’s obsessed,” said Antoine’s boss, showing the crew around our house. “He wants to fly planes,” said the big guy with the star tattoo on his neck. “Too bad he’s stuck here with us,” said the little guy with the black glasses and backwards baseball cap. They all laughed.

Within the hour, our front patio was filled with boxes marked Artwork, Bedframe 2, Kids Toys. My husband suggested they get the rugs first. Star Tattoo carried an eight-by-ten rug over his shoulder like it was a foam pool noodle. “Where do you want it?”

I showed him downstairs, and he rotated the roll and flopped it on the floor. I stared at his inked neck and thought of The Sneetches. He pulled a razor out of the front pocket of his jeans and sliced the plastic wrapping expertly, as if fileting a fish. Antoine followed us and took a peek. “It’s blue,” he announced and then cocked his head. “Did you hear that?” I reminded him the Blue Angels don’t start flying until the afternoon. Star Tattoo rolled out the rug. “That’s good right there,” I told him, and he headed upstairs to help bring in a couch. I knelt on the rug and leaned down to take a whiff, hoping to smell something, anything, from Australia. Eucalyptus, or bush fire, or maybe grilled sausage. It smelled like a rug. The song “Nothing” from A Chorus Line popped in my head. And I dug right down to the bottom of my soul to see what I had inside. 

The men carried six enormous boxes downstairs, all labeled Bunk Bed. Antoine ran to the foot of the stairs to help and the small guy with the baseball cap said, “Thanks, that was awesome.” Without missing a beat, Antoine snickered, “I’ve heard that before.” The guys groaned like they heard that joke daily. The boss called me ma’am and said he had been unwrapping a tall box upstairs and discovered a spider clinging to the floor lamp, a castaway from Australia. “Scared the shit out of me,” he said. “Give me anything but spiders.”

I watched Antoine put together the bunk bed. I admired the gentle way he handled each wooden slat, applying pressure to each one after it was in place, testing its resilience.

Recently I received an email from an American friend considering a job in Australia. He asked if it’s worth it, the enormous effort of leaving the familiar, the challenge of taking kids out of their comfort zone. I wrote him back in all caps, DO IT, and later I felt that I should have added something about the fact that you’re never completely alone. That there is a world of people out there, holding you up, helping reconstruct your life after you have disassembled it.

I asked Antoine how he landed this particular role with his moving crew. He said he has always loved taking things apart, and especially putting them back together. “Ever since I was a kid,” he said, with screws hanging out of his mouth. “It’s such a sense of satisfaction.” I told him I understood. He looked at the ceiling and said, “Do you hear something?”