Nonfiction

The Man In The Water

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We’re all learning lessons about resilience and gratitude and isn’t that great. Last week my 15-year-old flopped on the couch and said, “Remember when we called it sheltering in place, and now it’s just life?” I squeezed her knee and closed my eyes. Later that afternoon we drove to her high school to pick up last year’s yearbook. A school with 3,000 students and famously crowded, chaotic hallways, the stained gray building is now deserted with a red digital sign flickering, “Congratulations Class of 2020.” On the ride home, my daughter quietly turned the pages looking for friends. A pop song about a sweater was on the radio. At a stoplight, she raised the book so I could see. There she was at a school dance with her arms around two girls. 

The next morning, a man swam into me in the Bay. I had been sighting every four strokes, looking for buoys and seals, but he came out of nowhere. Bam, his fist into my side. Wearing a black cap and red swim trunks, he kept swimming, as if through me. “Hey!” I yelled after him. “Hey!” Nothing. I treaded water for a while, adjusted my goggles, and glared at the man’s shiny back heading towards the beach. I fantasized about chasing him, throwing myself on top of him like a rodeo champion and demanding an apology. But of course, I just swam.

That night I called a friend in Australia whose children are playing field hockey and spending the night with friends. I told her our flights to Perth had been canceled. She sighed and said I would have had to spend two weeks quarantining in a hotel room. “By then I reckon you’d have to go home.”

Frustrating moments are piling up like dirty dishes. Some days I ignore them. Other days I look around for someone to blame. Like the man in the water. That’s why he fled. If he had started to apologize, he wouldn’t have been able to stop. I’m sorry for the President. I’m sorry for the racism. I’m sorry for the pandemic, the deaths, and the ignorance. I’m sorry you can’t go to work. I’m sorry pop stars are writing songs about cardigans. I’m sorry your children can only see their friends in old photographs. I’m sorry I swam into you. I didn’t see you.   

Nuanced Nuisance

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“I am not waiting another fucking half hour for you.” A woman is sitting on a step, in front of the ATM. She is wearing workout clothes, a paper mask, and holding her phone in front of her face. Her screaming is so loud I can hear her from across the street, up one floor, through a closed window. “You need to get home, feed him, and then get your fucking ass over here.”

After a brief pause she continues, “I said feed him! Then get over here!” 

Feed who? A child? The dog? An elderly person? Now I am stressed. Someone needs to get fed, and someone else is in big trouble. 

I am reminded of the time I screamed at my husband (then boyfriend) after waiting for him in a car in Harvard Square. That was more than 20 years ago, and I remember I waited exactly 45 minutes. 

Today it is unsafe to be outside. The air quality is poor due to wildfires and the pandemic rages on. Schools remain closed. Nonetheless, today’s top news story is the death of a famous socialite. The article mentions the deceased’s nephew who was kidnapped in the 70’s and held for ransom. The family paid after the boy’s severed ear was sent to an Italian newspaper. I touch my yellow beaded earring given to me by a friend who Kondo-ed her jewelry collection. As a child, I was scared of being kidnapped. My dad told me not to worry, that we weren’t wealthy enough to warrant a kidnapping. Still I slept with a knife under my pillow for several weeks. It occurs to me I could have cut my own ear.  

The screaming woman has calmed down slightly. She is on the phone with someone else complaining about the first person. “Can you fucking believe that shit? I KNOW.”

This morning I awoke with my nightgown twisted around me like a broken corset. I rolled over and wrote the words Nuanced Nuisance on the pad of lined paper I keep next to my bed. Then the cat came over and sniffed my face. “I don’t know what it means,” I said to the cat while scraping some black gunk out of his eye corners. “I must have had a dream.” 

Now I look out the window and the woman is gone. Did she get picked up, or did she storm away on foot? I hope everyone got fed. This is the time of unresolved everything. 

Funny Things Don’t Happen Anymore

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I thought the era of funny things was over. This is the age of fear, sorrow, and fed-up-ness. This is a pandemic.

I was walking home up the hill, just past the yard with the artichoke plant, across from the hoarder’s house. My neighborhood is pin-droppingly quiet which is why, at this particular moment, my cloth mask was hanging from my wrist and not strapped to my face. I was alone. 

A black car drove past, then turned around and pulled over beside me. 

The window opened and a man called out, “Is your name Denise, by any chance?” He had a bushy moustache and thick black glasses. He was smiling at me. 

“No,” I said, and kept walking.

“You’re not Denise?”

I paused. I hadn’t slept well in several nights. Could my name be Denise? Had we all been renamed?

“No,” I repeated, moving my bag to my other shoulder. 

The man asked if I used to live near SF State. He seemed happy and hopeful. 

“Nope.”

“Really?” He stared at me and shook his head. “You are the spitting image of Denise.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I hope she’s a nice person.” 

He laughed. “Oh, she’s the best,” he said reassuringly. “I haven’t seen her in twenty years though. Funny thing, because I’ve been thinking about her recently and then – I drove by you, and I swear – ” As his voice trailed off, he kept staring at me, head cocked.

I put down my bag. “Maybe that’s why you thought you saw her?” I was no longer in a rush to get home. This was my first spontaneous chitchat with a stranger in five months, and it had nothing to do with the virus.  

He asked what I meant. I explained that when someone is on my mind, particularly someone I miss, I see them everywhere. For example, in every older man who smokes a cigar, for a split second I see my dad. 

Moustache ran his hand across the steering wheel and looked wistful. “Denise had a great sense of humor. Really funny girl. I always wondered what happened to her.”

“I hope you find her someday,” I said, meaning it.

“Thanks. You too. I mean – ” He laughed and shook his head before driving away.

Back at home, I told my husband about the encounter. He questioned the plausibility of Moustache’s story while adding I look different from twenty years ago, which I found both rude and beside-the-point. But everyone’s sensitive right now. It’s a pandemic. 

Maybe this isn’t a funny story after all. Denise is nowhere to be found, and my husband thinks I look like an old lady. Maybe it would have been funnier if I had told the man that, yes, I was Denise, and hopped in the car with him. We would have had a lot to catch up on.  

Ideas For A Pandemic

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We could chart our panic attacks and name new star formations. We could make cup and string telephones, or eat black olives off our fingertips. We could secretly meet in the woods and take off all our clothes. 

We could slowly burn something like a brisket or a new relationship. We could throw quarters off a cliff, four at a time. We could scream, “Edith Piaf!” at the top of our lungs. 

We could make clothing out of postage stamps. We could change religions.

What have you done?

What have you done?

The Opposite Of Jogging

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My teenager saw it first. Pointing across the street to a handwritten cardboard sign, she was speechless. Somehow I had missed it earlier, when I was out walking. I had been staring straight ahead, listening to a podcast of a famous person interviewing another famous person. 

But there it was. Three blocks away from our house in San Francisco. White Lives Matter. I told my daughter I wanted to rip it down and she said she did too. It was too high to reach. 

My daughter went home with the foster dog who was the size of a chipmunk. I stayed on the street, staring at the sign.

I called 311, the support line for non-emergencies. 

“Hello, this is Ron.”

I spoke quickly, trying to stay ahead of my emotions. I told Ron I wanted to report a White Lives Matter sign in my neighborhood. He said it was freedom of speech and unless the owner of the house was presently threatening anyone, there’s nothing to do. I told him I felt the sign in and of itself was threatening, particularly at a time like this.

“Freedom of speech ma’am. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No. Thank you Ron.”

“Goodbye then.”

As I knelt on the ground to tie my shoe, my stomach began to hurt. My anger felt like a contraction, painful and purposeful.

In a moment of panic that would be more accurately described as a moment of spiraling insanity, I concluded that Ron hadn’t heard me correctly. 

I called back.

“Hello, this is Nicole.”

“Hi Nicole, my name is Rebecca. I just spoke with Ron. Do you know Ron?”

“Yes. We work together.”

I rambled on and on, explaining that I had called before and I understood freedom of speech, but I wanted to make sure Ron knew the sign said, White Lives Matter.

“Sorry?”

“The sign. I called about a sign that someone posted on their house. And I wanted to make sure Ron didn’t think I was calling to complain about a Black Lives Matter sign. Can you tell him this?”

“Sure.”

“There are just so many crazy people out there right now. I just – .”

“I’ll tell him. Thanks.”

I was nuts of course, for calling back a helpline operator in a frantic, defensive, drive to explain myself. 

Hours later, in the middle of the night, I had a nightmare where I was trapped under ice, and I woke up trembling. The moonlight streaming in through the shutters lit up a black and white photo on our bedroom wall. In the photo, I am eight months pregnant with my first child and my husband is laughing, trying to touch my belly. Something about that photo and the thought of the sign up the street made me cry. 

In the morning, puffy-eyed and groggy, I rolled over and asked my husband, “What is the opposite of jogging?” 

“What are you talking about?”

I was still half-asleep and wanted to know if the opposite of jogging was running or walking. 

“Standing still. The opposite of moving is not moving.”

I put my arm over his bare chest and pulled him close. I had always liked the way he solved problems. Not that this was a problem that needed solving. There were much larger problems to solve, looming like demons. 

Through The Wall

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If I sink down low enough in the bath and close my eyes, it’s a room of my own. My mother used to bathe every night and I wonder if it was because, with the exception of Bridge Night, my dad was home all the time. My feet are often sore these days from pacing around the neighborhood, crossing the street when anyone approaches. I don’t know what day we’re on of Sheltering In Place. I’m not counting. I don’t remember anything anymore. I like scooping up bubbles with my toes. 

It is warm outside, but I’m going in the bath anyway. Thai food has been ordered and I have forty minutes. I make myself a vodka with lime, close the bathroom door behind me, and crack open the window.

I step into the hot water. My drink rests on the windowsill, amidst the collection of rubber duckies passed down from my French cousin, and several My Little Ponies I once found on the street. In the bath I like to style the ponies’ hair. Tiny purple and pink fishtails. 

We live off a public stairwell which is normally empty. But these quarantined days, San Franciscans are seeking less populated pockets of the city to roam, and our stairwell seems to be one of them. Fitness junkies are using it as a gym, and children are sliding down banisters. Pedestrians think they’re alone when, in fact, mere meters away, a naked middle-aged woman is massaging her feet and talking to ducks.  

Tonight, a family walks by speaking a language that must be Portuguese because at first it sounds like Spanish, and then French, but is neither. The mother sounds frustrated, and a boy is whining. Soon I hear, “Alaska, come on. Come here Alaska.” I can picture this husky and its friendly blond owner, because we once met at the local dog park. I think she has twin preschoolers.

I start humming the song “Through The Wall” by an 80’s a cappella group called The Bobs. I hear you in the morning shower. How can you sing that song at that hour?

I hear a plane overhead and then footsteps on the stairs. A man’s voice says, “It is feeling powerless that is the hardest. I still want to drink but my pattern is that it won’t end well.” I think that he must be on the phone because I don’t hear a response. I take a sip of vodka and sink lower into the water. “Trust me, you can get through this. I’ve been sober for two years now.” I return my glass to the windowsill and look down at my legs. Stray hairs stand at attention on my kneecaps. On my thigh is a new purple vein in the shape of a tiny bass clef. 

The hardest part is not knowing when anything is going to end.

Let’s Meet In A Dream

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My daughter offered an explanation. “Maybe because our days are so alike right now, our imaginations are on overdrive.” 

We are sheltering-in-place during a pandemic. Days run into one another, separated only by disco ball rope swings and cafés filled with handsome flight attendants and chocolate chip wallpaper. 

Baz Lehrman is hopping from bed to bed, wreaking havoc in the form of vivid hallucinations. Two nights ago, I was on a double-decker bus that turned into a cupcake float. People were singing about a cat conference (the song was called “Kitty Con”). And then I woke up, pulled on the same pair of jeans, did some work, and made yet another banana bread. 

My friend, I don’t want to do a distance walk with you. Instead, let’s meet in a dream. Tonight, I choose an island with rocky cliffs and a crowded restaurant that smells like French onion soup. You will bring your dog and I will bring a friendly python wearing a tiny rainbow hat. You will say something so hilarious that all the other patrons fly over to our table and sprinkle actual snow on our heads. When I reach up to touch my hair, I will cheerfully discover that I can painlessly pluck an idea from my scalp, as one might pluck a dandelion. I will hand you one of my ideas and then you will pluck one of your own and offer it to me. Our eyes will sparkle with mischief as we hold onto each other’s thoughts. 

See you soon.

Here We Are

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Deep in a plastic bin marked “B’s Crafts,” under scraps of linen and cotton, nestled against a felt needle book, is a small jar of buttons I purchased at a flea market in Perth many years ago. “They’re all from baby clothes,” the woman with the wrinkled face and purple scarf had said. She was also selling a basket of mismatched gloves, and an assortment of broken toys. The buttons are the tiniest I’ve seen, all various pastel shades. There is a pale green one in the shape of an eye, and several white star-shaped buttons easy to imagine clinging to a tiny cardigan. I have searched the jar for signs of thread, evidence that these buttons once served a purpose.

Don’t worry. This isn’t going to be a lecture about value without function. Sheltered-in-place during the coronavirus, we are who we are these days. The girl up the street with the scooter is as friendly as ever, and the dog-hating man in the green house who once served prison time for a stash of illegal weapons should still be avoided. Here we are. Walking laps around the neighborhood like mice looking for cheese. Binging on videoconferencing like it’s fake meat. 

When this started, I ordered vitamins Alicia Silverstone recommended because I love Clueless. Between hand-washings, I am chewing turmeric and elderberry. The “expertly formulated” oil of oregano needs to be diluted in water. If you apply six drops directly into your mouth, it creates a burning sensation that will cause you to rush to the sink to dry heave into your dirty dishes. 

I told a friend the best thing about quarantine is women can finally cross the street to avoid oncoming creeps without offending anyone. I said this as a joke, but then I remembered the only way we could have a female president in the next several years is if a man dies. 

I am finding it easy to slip into doom. A sweet story about buttons has gotten away from me. 

Mother-In-Place

I still shop at my local grocery store, even though there are more rotisserie chickens than avocados, and small stickers on every mediocre apple. Ever since my store was purchased by a larger chain, it has felt more Disney than Indie, but I’ve known the butcher for twenty years, and one of the baggers for ten.

Several years ago, I happened to see one of the checkers on his last day. He and his wife were moving to Las Vegas. I told him that for about a year, when I had a newborn and a toddler, I came to this grocery store every day so I would have a reason to put on pants. I told him I appreciated the way he always told me funny stories about his customers. He said he would find me on Facebook, and he did, which is how I learned of his passion for guns. 

For the next few weeks, to slow the spread of the coronavirus, San Francisco residents are supposed to shelter-in-place except for essential errands like food, drugs, and outdoor exercise. Older people have been instructed to stay inside. Last night, my mother requested canned soup (“nothing fancy”), eggs, and white wine, so I drove down the hill to my store. I was expecting a crowd, but it turned out, there were more rule-followers in this city than I would have guessed. The few shoppers included a young woman wearing a mask and a black beanie, an old man with a scarf wrapped around his face, and a woman in yoga pants with a turtleneck sweater pulled over her mouth. It looked like everyone just had nose jobs, or someone had just farted. 

They were out of canned soup so I got three packets of gourmet ramen which my mother would probably hate. There was still plenty of wine left, and a million cartons of eggs for some reason. I stood in line behind a woman buying miso, aspirin, and wilted celery. This particular combination made me sad and I turned my head. The man behind me was staring at my basket of ramen and three bottles of pinot grigio. 

When the checker greeted me, I noticed he was rewrapping his hand in a cloth towel. I asked him what happened, and he said he cut it earlier but hadn’t gotten around to getting a bandage. “It’s not that bad,” he said. Miso and I looked at each other. I wasn’t sure where open wounds ranked among contamination concerns. In my purse I had two Band-Aids that I handed over to him. “I owe you a coffee,” he said. I shrugged my shoulders and said I’m a mom. He scanned my items, one by one, with his bandaged hand.

I arrived at my mother’s house and promptly washed my hands. I didn’t sing Happy Birthday. Mom had canceled all of her social engagements and had a stack of books on her coffee table. We sat across the room from each other and drank wine. She wore a pretty purple lipstick and black jeans. She was trying to change the subject to the presidential election, but we kept coming back to the fact that she shouldn’t leave her house. “Except to walk the dog,” she said. “Thank god for the dog.” We looked down at the elderly deaf dog with big brown eyes and a bark that sounded like a sea lion. 

Mom’s right. We don’t need fancy soup. 

Instructions: How To Collect Urine From A Dog

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You have just been told to collect urine from your elderly foster dog. Do not panic. You can do it! With these few helpful hints, you will be gathering pee like a pro. 

First, ask your children to do it. Remind them of the 3,000 school lunches you have made (you have done the math). The child who volunteers will be the same one who once scooped up a dead possum with a shovel and dropped it into a garbage bag. This child is unfazed by disgusting tasks. 

Wake up before the dog and get your own pee over with. Greet your child. Do not take it personally when she growls at you because it is still dark outside. Tell her to put on shoes and latex gloves. Carry the dog outside and place it on a patch of dirt or grass. 

While you wait for the stream to commence, sing a verse of a popular 80’s pop song. Laugh when your daughter refers to George Michael as, “the Harry Styles of Wham!” 

Waiting for someone to pee is an exercise in patience. You have done this before, with very young and very old humans. As the dog begins to urinate, you will want to exclaim, “Hallelujah! For the love of God!” Rather, in a calm voice, so as not to disturb the peeing chihuahua, say to your daughter, “Now.” She will crouch down and slide a purple plastic plate from IKEA under the dog. 

Now there is a plate of pee on the ground. Instruct your child to carefully carry it into the house and place it on the counter which you have covered in newspaper. 

Here begins the challenge. Transferring the plate pee into a small container requires patience and a syringe. Slurp is the wrong word here, but you know what I mean when I say slurp up the pee with a syringe and spit it into the small container. This will take approximately two minutes. During this time, it is important you fill your mind with pleasant images like a bright red door on a cabin in the woods, or a school of silver fish swimming through seaweed.

Seal the container of pee and dispose of everything else: the purple plate, the gloves, the newspaper, the daughter. Just kidding. Hug that daughter tight because you love her. You will remember this moment five hours later when you are with her at urgent care. She will fall down at school and gash her hip. It won’t require stitches, only bandages and three episodes of Brooklyn 99. 

Collecting pee from an old dog is easy.