He Never Did Like Rice

It was warm, so I sat outside, to eat my lunch in the sun
I met a man who'd lost his way, and didn't know anyone
He swallowed his pride, avoided my eyes,
and in a tiny voice, shared with me his plight

My stomach's churnin', feet are burnin', and my heart cries
He nodded his head, self-consciously said, he hadn’t eaten in nights
I offered to share my meal, and without thinking twice
He said thanks, you're awfully nice, but I never did like rice

He looked so sad standing there, I offered him a smile
Tried to show I truly cared, before he walked another mile
I didn't have a penny to spare, but I tried to be nice
Said I had enough to share, but he still didn't like rice

I see him nearly every day, on corners here and there
I still hear him ask, have you a dollar to spare
I always say a little prayer, please help him through the night
Let him know how much I care, even if he won't eat rice

He ages faster than he should, from sleeping on the street
Carries along a stick of wood, to aid his crippled feet
I'd help the man, if I could, his stomach pays the price
no matter how hungry he feels, he simply won’t eat rice

Could be rice was all he had when he was in Hanoi
Could be hunger isn't so bad, compared to life without joy
Or maybe choice matters more when it’s the only thing left in life
So he treasures the freedom - to voice his distaste for rice

Sandy Knauer, © July, 1998
 

She Was Someone's Little Girl

Karen has a room on York,
a far cry from the mansion she lost on Winter.

Maybe it isn't far.

Three miles, give or take,
seen differently by car, bus, or foot.

It's far enough she can't walk over to look at it any more.

Truth be told,
it wasn't ever a mansion
except in Karen's heart.

It was an investment
to the man who scarfed it for a song at auction
and remains a source of irritation
to the renters who pay a small fortune for it now,
getting little in return for their money.

It was a cry, for sure.
That part was true and never changes.

Karen was someone's little girl. Had to be.

Mothers can't run out before the baby is born,
so she belonged to someone for a few minutes
no matter what happened later.

Like all little girls,
she came into the world with innocent eyes
and a spontaneous smile.

Maybe the investor got what was left of those at auction too.

With or without joy,

Karen was someone's pride at some point.

Someone clapped when she took her first run across the room,
and noticed when she strung her vocabulary into a full sentence.

Surely, Miss Gray patted herself on the back
for implanting the multiplication tables in Karen's hard head,
and Johnny Rogers puffed his chest
over distracting her from them.

Ah, yes, Karen was someone's crush.

She attracted plenty of attention
from the football player who shared her table in biology class,
and the big eared boy on the bus.

And there was that driver at the moving company
where she answered phones after graduation,
who couldn't keep his eyes off her.

She might even be someone's unforgettable first love.

She thinks she was someone's wife in the seventies.

He might have died,
or wanted her dead
and he might still dream about her smile.

Speaking of smiles,
she smiled a lot on Winter,
when she was someone's neighbor.

She waved from her chair on the porch,
took soup over when anyone was sick,
shoveled Mr. Turner's steps,
and made a quilt for every baby born on the street.

She didn't get to smile the day she left.

Her friends weren't out there
when she sorted through her things at the curb
to gather what she could carry,
but she would smile the next time she saw them.

She walked back to Winter as long as she could,
because babies aren't born on York
and there aren't any porches.

She would walk back to Winter to look for smiles,
if she could still walk.

She smiled a lot when she still had teeth,
and others smiled back.

She had teeth when she still had insurance.

Teeth and glasses, and allergy medicine
so her eyes and nose weren't so runny, and red.

Maybe she's glad she doesn't have glasses on York,
so she doesn't know when people don't smile back.

She had insurance when she still had a job.

She was somebody's valued employee for thirty years
and has a pin to prove it.

Well, she had the pin
until she lost it on the curb on Winter,
but sometimes she still has memories of the job she loved.

She had a job when she still had her health,
or at least when she still had the strength
to pretend she had her health.

She was someone's inspiration
when she ignored her pain
and continued to work
for her insurance and smile.

The doctor got that
long before the investor came along.

She was someone's friend
when she still had health and a job
and teeth and a smile.

She was everyone's friend.

She loved.

She cared.

She was someone's savior,
everyone's champion,
a crusader of causes.

She is someone's cause now.

She is someone else's sin.

Reverend Stanton

The alcove seemed a strange location for sorting laundry, but who was I to judge this man? He wasn't blocking the entrance or hurting anything. In fact, his sweet smile was a nicer welcome than I usually received from the security guard.

"Good morning," I said as I passed him to open the door.

"That it is," he replied. "God bless you, dear."

"And you." The door closed behind me. He was out of my line of vision as I stood to wait for the elevator, but not out of my mind.

Another employee joined me before the car arrived. "Where's security? Did you see the bum outside the door?"

It was difficult to honestly answer her question. I had seen the man, but didn't want to call him a bum. "He's a pleasant man," I said.

The elevator arrived and she continued her rant as we rode up together. "I'm complaining. We don't need bums out there blocking the door and begging every time we come or go."

"He did neither when I came through," I reported. "Said good morning and blessed me. Did he ask you for money?"

"No, I didn't give him the chance."

Grateful for my third floor exit, I wished her a good day and headed for my office. When I opened the door, I found my coworkers huddled around our frantic receptionist. "I'm calling the police," she exclaimed. "He has no business out there."

"The man in the alcove?" I asked. "Did he do something wrong?"

"He's loitering," a secretary said.

"He smells bad and he's crazy," the bookkeeper added.

The receptionist picked up the phone and I went out the door and down the stairs. "Have you had breakfast yet?" I asked the man.
He continued to sort clothes into two stacks, darks on one side and light on the other. I say light because he only had one white sweatshirt to go with the three dark items.

"Not yet," he answered. "I'm planning out my day now. Gotta get the laundry done so I'll be ready when they call." He moved the darks to the right and the white to the left. "VA's making room for me to have my surgery. Gonna call when they have a bed available."

"Sir, I have a strange favor to ask. Will you go eat breakfast for me?"

"Reverend," he said proudly. "Reverend Stanton. Army chaplain."

"Reverend Stanton, Miller's cafeteria is two blocks away. I'd give anything to run over for scrambled eggs and a bagel, but I'm already running late for work. Can I talk you into going there to eat for me?" I held three dollars out to him. "Please?"

"Gave up my place last week," he said, ignoring my money and my request. "They keep you forever at the VA, you know. No sense wasting rent money while I'm in the hospital."

"Reverend, you have to move from this spot before the police come. Some employees in the building are uncomfortable with a stranger on the premises. I'm sorry."
Reverend Stanton gathered his laundry, draping one item at a time over his arm until all four were settled. He used his other hand to hold onto the wall and struggle to his feet. When he turned to face me, he looked at my money but made no attempt to take it.

"Knee replacement. Was supposed to just pray and counsel like my first tour. Only reason I re-upped for the second one was to pray with those guys who had been there too long. Ended up getting my knee blown out." He smiled through foggy eyes. "But I can't complain. God brought me home alive."

"Then take this money as a token of my appreciation for what you did for your country," I encouraged.

He patted the clothes with his right hand. "Would you mind if I used your money for
the laundry instead of breakfast? If I eat, it won't do anything for your hungry."
I opened my purse and took out another five. "Here, have breakfast and do the laundry. You can't take dirty clothes to the VA hospital."

He stuck the money in his pocket and blessed me a few more times before limping away. I watched until he crossed at the corner, hoping he'd find a friendlier alcove in which to wait for his call from the VA hospital.

Going, Going, Gone

Macy stood beside the door to blow her nose on the remnants of her tissue. There was no stopping the tears but she could at least save herself a bit of humiliation by not sniffing at her guest. The timing couldn’t be worse, so she hoped it was an understanding friend.

She wiped her eyes on the cuff of her blouse, stuck the tissue in her pocket, and opened the door to a man she had never seen before. Good. He probably had the wrong address. This would end quickly and she could return to her pity party. Sometimes crying it out was the best way to move forward. Forcing a smile, she nodded her greeting.

“Richard Zwicker,” the man announced, extending a business card between his index and middle fingers. “I want to buy your house.”

A wave of relief washed over as Macy opened the door to take the card. How close she had come to ignoring the bell and missing this opportunity. Maybe luck was on her side now.

“Who told you? I haven’t even called anyone yet,” she said, reviewing the information this man wished to share with the world. He paid cash for houses.

“Your house is scheduled for auction at the court house. Public information. I can help you keep it out of auction.”

Wrestling emotions, Macy curbed disappointment over not knowing her private life was on display at the courthouse and let a real smile emerge for this man who had come to help. “That would be nice. Do you want to see inside?”

He shook his head. “I’m prepared to make an offer. I’ll pay the taxes due and give you fifteen hundred dollars. Keep it out of auction, which you don’t want on your record, and give you some cash to relocate.”

“You must have the wrong information. The house is paid for and I only owe eight thousand in taxes and interest.”

He scanned the top paper in his stack. “I see that. I’ll pay the taxes. You’ll be relieved of that debt and can walk away free.”

“Fifteen hundred dollars? What about the other hundred thousand?” The tears returned.

“You’d get less than this in auction,” he warned. “It’s a nasty business.”

“I’ll have to think about it.” She held his card up. “I have your number.” She closed the door before he witnessed the flood.

The house needed work, but was worth at least a hundred thousand even after deducting the cost of a new roof. Richard Zwicker was a thief. She went to the bathroom to wash her face and opened the medicine cabinet to get something for the headache she felt coming on. More tears rushed forward as she moved the morphine the hospice nurse had missed when flushing what was left of George’s medications.

She tossed the morphine in the trash and pulled a bottle of generic aspirin off the shelf as the doorbell rang again. If the thief had returned, she would tell him what she thought of him this time. Wiping her nose on her cuff, she yanked the door open.

“Macy, you okay?” Olivia Franks stood on the porch with a tall blonde. “I brought Jasmine. She’s in real estate and might be able to help, or at least answer some questions.”

Macy let them in and apologized for the state she was in. “I felt bad enough before that man came and insulted me,” she explained. “I’m afraid he sent me over the edge.”

Olivia went to the kitchen to pour tea while Jasmine and Macy got acquainted. “I had to quit work and take care of George in the end. They gave me six weeks, on account of that Disability Act or something, but the company wasn’t happy about it. Harassed me constantly about needing me to come back. George hung on for two years, ate up all our savings.”

Jasmine shook her head. “That must have been very hard for you.”

“Taking care of George wasn’t so hard, it was worrying about money that made me nervous. Ever notice how one bad thing leads to another? Anything that could go wrong during that time did. They canceled my homeowners policy because I was out of work and behind on bills. Said I was high risk, even though I’d never filed a claim in twenty-two years. And then a storm whipped up and blew the neighbor’s tree on my roof and knocked the fence out. I had to fix the fence on account of George’s dog. He loved that dog and I couldn’t let him get out and get hit by a car or something with George in that shape.”

Olivia chuckled as she came back in the room. “She fussed over that dog almost as much as she did her husband, and she hated the mangy mutt before George got sick.”

“I still wasn’t fond of him, but he was George’s baby. I had to care for him, for George’s sake.” She took a sip of tea. “I’m afraid we’re wasting your time,” she said to Jasmine. “There’s not time to sell the house before the auction. We only have two weeks.”

Olivia smiled at Jasmine and nodded.

“I still might be able to help,” Jasmine said. “I have cash. If you’re willing, I can buy your house as quickly as we can schedule a closing.”

Macy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I hope you’re going to offer more than fifteen hundred.”

“Fifty thousand,” Jasmine offered. “I’ll have to pay the taxes you owe, make repairs and update before I can sell it again. And I have to make some profit for my time and investment.”

“Sounds better than the last offer,” Macy said. “I need to think about it. I can’t buy another place for fifty thousand.”

Olivia moved over to the couch and put an arm around Macy. “Honey, you’re gonna lose everything if you don’t do something quick. Fifty thousand’ll pay a lot of rent. All you need’s a small apartment now that it’s just you.”

Macy closed her eyes. She didn’t want to look at her visitors, or at the house George had worked so hard to provide for his family. Losing him had been enough. It was too soon to face another loss.

“Fifty thousand is one year’s salary. Even if I’m careful, that isn’t going to last the rest of my life,” Macy argued, more with herself than the others. “Who’s going to hire a broken, sixty-year-old woman and pay her enough to live?”

Jasmine wrote some figures on a paper and handed it and her business card to Macy. “Think about it. It’s a big decision, and one you shouldn’t make too quickly. You can call me when you’ve decided what you want to do.”

“What about a home equity loan?” Olivia asked after Macy had shown Jasmine out. “You could pay the taxes and fix the roof.”

“Tried that. I need a job and to clean up my credit first,” Macy said.

Frustrated, Olivia reached for her purse. “Why’d you let things get this far out of hand, Macy? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I had to take care of my dying husband,” Macy said. “My mind couldn’t go beyond that.”

Olivia headed for the door and stopped to offer her final thoughts. “You don’t have much time. Better give Jasmine’s offer serious consideration."

Lori

Back to the wall and eyes fixed on the door, Lori shook an oily strand of hair from her face and ignored her bladder’s scream for relief. With the bathroom at the end of the hall, she had no way out if he came in while she was back there. She sighed, curled a leg to sit on her foot, and grieved the end of the short-lived reprieve the security system had offered.

Now that the court psychologist had passed the good news on to her prosecutor - Joe is a sociopath and nothing will stop a true sociopath - she regretted the grocery and insurance money she had wasted on lock changes and a security system. It wasn’t very comforting to know the legal system couldn’t stop violent men when they labeled them and predicted their next crimes.

It’s hard to pee with a phone in one hand and the butcher knife in the other anyway. Impossible to shower with both hands full. The bladder would have to understand until she found new courage.

Three jobs. Damn him. He had caused her to lose three jobs and now she was too nutzo to concentrate, even if someone would hire her. Mr. Johnson knew how badly she needed the money. He also knew it wasn’t her fault the lunatic kept coming into the store to harass her while she worked. Much as she wanted to resent him for firing her, she couldn’t really blame Mr. Johnson. His customers shouldn’t have to dodge sociopaths when they came in to pay for gas or pick up a bag of chips.

Angela had used absences as a reason to let her go, like she wanted her to come in with black eyes and broken ribs. “It would be different if it wasn’t so soon after the week off with the bleeding ulcer,” Angela had explained. “Or if it hadn’t fallen in the same evaluation period with the dislocated shoulder.” The action was mandatory under company policy, not an option. Angela was sorry and even called a time or two to check on her after she left.

Thomas had flat out given her an ultimatum. Leave Joe or quit. He was tired of the personal phone calls. He wouldn’t listen when Lori explained she had left Joe, but that only caused him to call more often. Even when she refused to accept the calls, Thomas insisted Joe still disrupted the office and it wasn’t fair to the other employees or to the company.

Her parents wouldn’t take her back again, especially without a job. Joe wrecked their house the last time, throwing bricks through the window and driving across the lawn. He scared her younger sister and threatened her parents. Who cold blame them for not wanting a repeat performance?

God, she had to pee so bad it made her head hurt.

He should be off work now. If he stopped at the bar, she would have a one-hour window of freedom. That’s how long it usually took him to either start a fight or become so obnoxious Fred had to call him down and he’d leave the bar, sulking. He used to come home and take it out on her. The restraining order put an end to that, but they told her it was only temporary. Eventually, he’d stop caring about the order and come back anyway, madder than ever. First, he’d cut her face, and then he’d kill her. Can court psychologists really predict such things? She’d be foolish to discount it, crazy as it seemed.

Fifteen minutes, she promised her bladder. In fifteen minutes, she would call the bar and find out if he was there. If so, she’d dash to the bathroom. Later, she would worry about the house payment.

Maybe they were right; she should leave town and start over somewhere else where he couldn’t find her. It just didn’t seem fair that she should have to leave her life behind because he was a sociopath. Shouldn’t he have to leave?