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.
Showing posts with label social issue. Show all posts
Showing posts with label social issue. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Ethics, Morals, Honesty - Seven syllables, three words, carrying the weight of the world
Most of us would probably agree that truth is delivering honest statements. Beyond that basic definition, I believe concurrence falls apart rather quickly.
Some believe truth is not necessary if it will hurt another's feelings, threaten their own popularity, or cause financial loss. Others don't consider withholding fact or failure to challenge false information abuses of truth. In addition, many exempt behavior and actions from requisite truth. Even more confusing to me are those who have others deliver their false information, thinking that somehow protects them from accepting responsibility for their dishonesty. In other words, truth is only important to many people when it is convenient or profitable.
To me, truth is not limited to delivering honest statements. It is living honestly, by the same set of morals and principles every day, in every situation, with everyone. Morals are the set of principles by which I live my personal life. Ethics are how I apply those morals in my interactions with others and the world.
If my daughter comes in and sings a song off-key, or my grandson fails to wipe the milk off his upper lip, I am dishonest if I tell the daughter she sounds great or the grandson he looks fine. If I believe Wal-Mart practices are abusive to employees and communities, and I choose to shop there anyway, I have neglected my principles and I am amoral. If I profess to care about a person yet go into the world and make decisions that harm that person, I am unethical.
In my opinion, standards don't come on a sliding scale. It is not okay to misrepresent myself on a message board any more than it would be acceptable to use false information when applying for a job. Unless I apply the same standards to everyone I meet, I am dishonest and unfair to both sides because I have blurred the truth for everyone.
I see blurred lines everywhere around me, and believe this collective weight is harming all of us.
Some believe truth is not necessary if it will hurt another's feelings, threaten their own popularity, or cause financial loss. Others don't consider withholding fact or failure to challenge false information abuses of truth. In addition, many exempt behavior and actions from requisite truth. Even more confusing to me are those who have others deliver their false information, thinking that somehow protects them from accepting responsibility for their dishonesty. In other words, truth is only important to many people when it is convenient or profitable.
To me, truth is not limited to delivering honest statements. It is living honestly, by the same set of morals and principles every day, in every situation, with everyone. Morals are the set of principles by which I live my personal life. Ethics are how I apply those morals in my interactions with others and the world.
If my daughter comes in and sings a song off-key, or my grandson fails to wipe the milk off his upper lip, I am dishonest if I tell the daughter she sounds great or the grandson he looks fine. If I believe Wal-Mart practices are abusive to employees and communities, and I choose to shop there anyway, I have neglected my principles and I am amoral. If I profess to care about a person yet go into the world and make decisions that harm that person, I am unethical.
In my opinion, standards don't come on a sliding scale. It is not okay to misrepresent myself on a message board any more than it would be acceptable to use false information when applying for a job. Unless I apply the same standards to everyone I meet, I am dishonest and unfair to both sides because I have blurred the truth for everyone.
I see blurred lines everywhere around me, and believe this collective weight is harming all of us.
Living Around Disability
I carry a rather long list of diagnoses, several of which alone would qualify my permanent, total disability status. Most of the time, I try to ignore my disabilities. I am not embarrassed by my condition, nor am I apologetic. Thinking about them makes me feel sorry for me, which isn't productive or healthy.
However, I do write articles that I think will promote understanding or protection of people with disabilities without addressing my particular diagnoses or complaints*. Writing from this once-removed point of view serves two purposes. It protects me from pity which, despite, or maybe because of, the good intentions of the person delivering it usually leaves me feeling undeserving, because I am okay. Politically and financially, circumstances are not okay for most people living on disability incomes, so writing general essays, stories, and poems allows me an opportunity to use my experience and understanding of difficult political and financial circumstances to help others. Once in awhile, I write articles that include a universal glimpse from the inside.**
In this article, I want to share my guide to living around disability - a positive note, because singing the blues, especially with my vocal talent, doesn't get me far. Being born with optimism, a helpful measure of self-importance, and rose-colored glasses probably gave me a giant head start, but I believe with determination those who want can catch up.
Knowing and appreciating my self and my body are the most important steps I can take to ensure I live a happy, productive life. When I am aware of and loyal to my strengths, weaknesses, limits, and dreams, I function with confidence and I leave no questions for the other people in my life.
I live on a schedule and activity level that works for my body, with my conditions. I don't expect to be like anyone else or for anyone else to be like me, and I demand the same in return. I would not be ashamed if I were diabetic and required a strict dietary regime, insulin injections, and protective footwear. If I were a cardiac patient, I would insist my family and friends understand my need for frequent walks and my refusal to shovel snow. Likewise, I expect the people around me to understand that I will eat, sleep, exercise, and entertain around my conditions. I would not apologize to anyone if I had been born with no legs or a big nose, and I will not apologize for having no energy or walking funny.
My energy is precious to me. I will leave the dishes on the drain rather than spare the energy it takes to open and close the cabinets and drawers, and the toilet paper on the counter instead of putting in on the roll. I clean house and do laundry when I am able, which is not usually as often as others do. The only people I give permission to comment on those activities are those who say, "Move over so I can do that for you," and people under the age of three.
I make sure what I will do is nothing more than what I can do, comfortably. I don't over commit, and I don't apologize for not being able. To some, this may sound selfish. I believe just the opposite. When I take care of me, everyone around me knows exactly what to expect. The ones who truly care about me are happier because I haven't sacrificed my pride, my energy, or my mental health in apologies and regret.
However, I do write articles that I think will promote understanding or protection of people with disabilities without addressing my particular diagnoses or complaints*. Writing from this once-removed point of view serves two purposes. It protects me from pity which, despite, or maybe because of, the good intentions of the person delivering it usually leaves me feeling undeserving, because I am okay. Politically and financially, circumstances are not okay for most people living on disability incomes, so writing general essays, stories, and poems allows me an opportunity to use my experience and understanding of difficult political and financial circumstances to help others. Once in awhile, I write articles that include a universal glimpse from the inside.**
In this article, I want to share my guide to living around disability - a positive note, because singing the blues, especially with my vocal talent, doesn't get me far. Being born with optimism, a helpful measure of self-importance, and rose-colored glasses probably gave me a giant head start, but I believe with determination those who want can catch up.
Knowing and appreciating my self and my body are the most important steps I can take to ensure I live a happy, productive life. When I am aware of and loyal to my strengths, weaknesses, limits, and dreams, I function with confidence and I leave no questions for the other people in my life.
I live on a schedule and activity level that works for my body, with my conditions. I don't expect to be like anyone else or for anyone else to be like me, and I demand the same in return. I would not be ashamed if I were diabetic and required a strict dietary regime, insulin injections, and protective footwear. If I were a cardiac patient, I would insist my family and friends understand my need for frequent walks and my refusal to shovel snow. Likewise, I expect the people around me to understand that I will eat, sleep, exercise, and entertain around my conditions. I would not apologize to anyone if I had been born with no legs or a big nose, and I will not apologize for having no energy or walking funny.
My energy is precious to me. I will leave the dishes on the drain rather than spare the energy it takes to open and close the cabinets and drawers, and the toilet paper on the counter instead of putting in on the roll. I clean house and do laundry when I am able, which is not usually as often as others do. The only people I give permission to comment on those activities are those who say, "Move over so I can do that for you," and people under the age of three.
I make sure what I will do is nothing more than what I can do, comfortably. I don't over commit, and I don't apologize for not being able. To some, this may sound selfish. I believe just the opposite. When I take care of me, everyone around me knows exactly what to expect. The ones who truly care about me are happier because I haven't sacrificed my pride, my energy, or my mental health in apologies and regret.
Ignorance is Bliss
Her friends all went to Dr. Weiss, so Cindy made an appointment to see him after missing her second period. She thought he was a total jerk, but how could she say that about the most popular obstetrician?
Everyone else she knew breast-fed, used disposable diapers, delivered at Methodist Hospital with an epidural, after having had an ultrasound to determine the gender so they could choose names, clothes, and nursery decors accordingly. She would do the same, even though she preferred formula, cloth diapers, natural childbirth, and surprises. She didn't want her child to start life as an outcast.
Cindy wanted an unusual name, something fun to say and hear, Eli, with a long 'e' for a boy and short 'e' for a girl. Robert, never original, wanted a boy named Robert. His mother put in a request for Sarah, which meant she would criticize anything else and make life miserable for everyone concerned unless she got her way.
Sarah Elizabeth was born at Methodist Hospital, assisted by Dr. Weiss, an epidural, and a lactation specialist. She went home to a pink nursery and Dora the Explorer accessories, almost identical to a dozen other nurseries in the neighborhood.
At three months, Sarah had her picture made at Wal-Mart, dressed head-to-toe in Baby Phat, immortalized in the same poses, using the same props every other child in town used. The photographer worked with her until she flashed the traditional grin.
Over the years, Cindy took Sarah to the same movies her friends saw, bought her the same toys her friends played with, and cloned her in the latest child-fashions. She repeated the worn out clichés the other mothers spewed, because those were the same lessons their mothers had taught them.
"Don't ask him why his eyes are slanted or tell her she has spinach between her teeth. If you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything at all. Pretend you don't notice the wheelchair or color of her skin." The subliminal messages bled from one generation to the next. Slanted eyes, wheelchairs, skin color, and accidents must be bad if they aren't good enough to talk about.
"Stay away from controversial topics like politics, religion, racism, ignorance, and poverty. You want people to think you're nice, don't you? Don't rock the boat. Never mind why they're different; what you don't know can't hurt you. Ignorance is bliss. You will never be given more than you can handle, so this too shall pass, without your voice or investigation. Ask not want not.
Use your manners, respect your elders, get along with everyone, and you will be fine."
Sarah made it through high school without rocking any boats. She wore the right clothes, joined the popular clubs, used her manners, avoided tough topics, and respected her elders. She never questioned the passes her history teacher made at her, or told anyone what she had witnessed in the stairwell at ten thirty-seven on the last day of her sophomore year. She did not question the 'D' Miss Sands gave Lori Meeks, even though she had seen Lori turn in the term paper Miss Sands said she never received, and heard Miss Sands call Lori a lesbian. She didn't tell anyone about the gun Jason White kept in his locker. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them and she was not one to rock boats or take risks. She said no sir and yes maam, please and thank you, and not much else.
The big wedding wasn't Sarah's idea, and she hated the Evangelical Church. However, who was she to argue with him, or his parents. Everyone in their family had a big wedding at the Evangelical Church and expected him to do the same.
Everyone in his family used drugs, cheated on their taxes, and voted Republican. Yes maam, she would do the same. Who was she to question tradition, rock the boat, or bring up difficult topics?
Sarah had no trouble hiding her husband's affair from herself, or her drug addiction from him and the kids. Their kids were too polite to ask questions or bring up the wrong topics. Ignorance was bliss.
Everyone else she knew breast-fed, used disposable diapers, delivered at Methodist Hospital with an epidural, after having had an ultrasound to determine the gender so they could choose names, clothes, and nursery decors accordingly. She would do the same, even though she preferred formula, cloth diapers, natural childbirth, and surprises. She didn't want her child to start life as an outcast.
Cindy wanted an unusual name, something fun to say and hear, Eli, with a long 'e' for a boy and short 'e' for a girl. Robert, never original, wanted a boy named Robert. His mother put in a request for Sarah, which meant she would criticize anything else and make life miserable for everyone concerned unless she got her way.
Sarah Elizabeth was born at Methodist Hospital, assisted by Dr. Weiss, an epidural, and a lactation specialist. She went home to a pink nursery and Dora the Explorer accessories, almost identical to a dozen other nurseries in the neighborhood.
At three months, Sarah had her picture made at Wal-Mart, dressed head-to-toe in Baby Phat, immortalized in the same poses, using the same props every other child in town used. The photographer worked with her until she flashed the traditional grin.
Over the years, Cindy took Sarah to the same movies her friends saw, bought her the same toys her friends played with, and cloned her in the latest child-fashions. She repeated the worn out clichés the other mothers spewed, because those were the same lessons their mothers had taught them.
"Don't ask him why his eyes are slanted or tell her she has spinach between her teeth. If you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything at all. Pretend you don't notice the wheelchair or color of her skin." The subliminal messages bled from one generation to the next. Slanted eyes, wheelchairs, skin color, and accidents must be bad if they aren't good enough to talk about.
"Stay away from controversial topics like politics, religion, racism, ignorance, and poverty. You want people to think you're nice, don't you? Don't rock the boat. Never mind why they're different; what you don't know can't hurt you. Ignorance is bliss. You will never be given more than you can handle, so this too shall pass, without your voice or investigation. Ask not want not.
Use your manners, respect your elders, get along with everyone, and you will be fine."
Sarah made it through high school without rocking any boats. She wore the right clothes, joined the popular clubs, used her manners, avoided tough topics, and respected her elders. She never questioned the passes her history teacher made at her, or told anyone what she had witnessed in the stairwell at ten thirty-seven on the last day of her sophomore year. She did not question the 'D' Miss Sands gave Lori Meeks, even though she had seen Lori turn in the term paper Miss Sands said she never received, and heard Miss Sands call Lori a lesbian. She didn't tell anyone about the gun Jason White kept in his locker. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them and she was not one to rock boats or take risks. She said no sir and yes maam, please and thank you, and not much else.
The big wedding wasn't Sarah's idea, and she hated the Evangelical Church. However, who was she to argue with him, or his parents. Everyone in their family had a big wedding at the Evangelical Church and expected him to do the same.
Everyone in his family used drugs, cheated on their taxes, and voted Republican. Yes maam, she would do the same. Who was she to question tradition, rock the boat, or bring up difficult topics?
Sarah had no trouble hiding her husband's affair from herself, or her drug addiction from him and the kids. Their kids were too polite to ask questions or bring up the wrong topics. Ignorance was bliss.
How Your Job Affects My Life
I purposely broke the law. That's how far down my life had gone. Things that had once been important to me no longer mattered. With little shame and much defiance, I armed myself and hobbled out the door, making a conscious, premeditated decision to do wrong.
It was a big move for a person whose friends had mocked her for refusing to walk through a door with Employees Only posted on it.
"Anything goes, when everything's gone." Even before I lived it, the words of this song had tugged at my heart every time I heard them. Now that my understanding had gone from sympathetic to personal point of view, the chorus embraced me as validation for my deed.
"When you lose all hope, there ain't no right or wrong." Melodramatic? Maybe. Indefensible? Probably, but the sentiment expressed the defeat I felt at the time.
I reached my destination without incident, waited for my daughter to join me in the car and thank me for picking her up, and retraced my three-mile, back-street route. As I drove, she delivered every detail of the workshop. The instructor was from Spain and had brought a guitarist with him. The dancer's technique was worth every dollar the workshop cost and she couldn't wait to get home and practice what she had learned.
She raved on as I drove past the park, but stopped when flashing blue lights caught up with us on the other side of the overpass. My heart pounded as the police car pulled in behind mine instead of speeding around me.
I reached for my purse, and the protection I had remembered to bring. There were no red lights or stop signs. I had not exceeded the speed limit, or hit anyone or anything, so this had to be about my willful crime.
"Your license plate has expired," the officer announced.
"I know. Thirty-six days ago." My shaking hand closed around the defense in my purse, knowing he wouldn't stop with the expired tag. I pulled it out and left it in my lap while I showed him my driver's license and registration, and waited for the dreaded words.
"I need to see proof of insurance," he said, keeping my documents.
"That's the reason for my expired tag." I presented the envelope from my lap. "I recently renewed my policy and the insurance company failed to send my updated proof of insurance cards. I have a letter from my agent."
He refused the envelope I extended, so I removed the letter and opened it. Without looking, he informed me he could not accept my letter.
Remembering the time a police officer had removed my intoxicated husband from his car and delivered him home instead of taking him to jail, I felt sure, since I had endangered no one, this man would apply the same discretion with me. Unsound optimism drove my plea.
"I had to pick up my daughter, and the insurance company assures me the updated cards are in the mail. Please don't do this." I stopped short of telling him how many phone calls it had taken to resolve this situation, what a toll every simple problem took on my energy level, or how weary I was from being out of bed the last two hours.
He scribbled on a form. "It's only a citation. No problem. Get your paperwork in order, take it to the courthouse and show it to the clerks at the windows, and it'll be over."
No problem? Even for a healthy person, a trip to the courthouse was a problem. Time out of any day, driving downtown, finding a parking place, standing in line, dealing with overworked clerks, were all problems. For me, that entailed at least a week's worth of energy and endangered my life. I didn't have the oomph to explain, even if I had thought it would matter to this man. I put the citation and letter in my purse and hoped I had the resilience to make it home.
I switched insurance companies the next day and called the old one to tell them what had happened because of their mistake and cancel. This time, they immediately sent the card with a request to reconsider my decision. I didn't.
Insurance card in hand, I returned to the County Clerk's office to secure my updated license plate. After telling me about the late fee, this clerk said the one who had previously refused my letter should have called the insurance company for verification and saved me the fee and the citation.
I drove downtown, gave up hope of finding a meter space after three trips around the block, wound my way to the roof of a parking garage, waited for a smelly elevator, walked two blocks to the building, waited in line to be scanned for weapons, found 'the windows', and waited in a second line. My head swam as my blood pressure dropped and my temperature rose. When my turn came, I ditched my instinctive skirting of public surfaces and grabbed the counter for support before presenting my paperwork.
Relieved to have this experience behind me, I left the building and leaned against an outside wall to gather strength for my return to the car. I couldn't have identified the clerk inside if my life depended on it, but I did remember her words. "That's all we need. Everything's taken care of."
A short time later, I received a court notice for failing to resolve the citation. I called the clerk at 'the window'. After several transfers and a long wait, someone assured me the notice was a mistake; their records documented my 'taken care of' status.
I lost faith in 'the windows' crew when the second court notice arrived. This time, I called the court clerk, explained that I was on an anti-rejection drugs, had no immune system or energy, and that sitting in a crowded courtroom during flu season could have serious consequences for me. I requested permission to wait outside the courtroom in a safe place, or to go first. She told me the court does not make special allowances for disabilities.
On my second court date, my temperature was 104, every bone, muscle, and nerve in my body reminded me it wasn't happy with our connection, and I would have welcomed the flu if it promised to kill me and end the pain. Unfortunately, I did not have the strength to dress and leave the house to contract a new germ. I called the court clerk, who informed me I could not call in sick to court.
I tried 'the window' clerk again. She still insisted everything 'was taken care of' and the court notice was an error. She said not to worry, stay in bed, and she hoped I would feel better soon.
Four years later, I went to renew my driver's license and discovered that my failure to appear in court had resulted in a suspension of my license and a bench warrant. In no condition to deal with it then, I parked my car for months. My daughters drove me the only places I went - to the grocery, and the fourteen doctors offices and hospitals my most recent diagnoses and a surgery made necessary.
When ready to drive again, I returned to 'the windows' to see what I needed to do to get my driver's license back. The clerk looked me up in her computer, put me back on the docket, and handed me directions to a location across town. I was to go there, pay forty dollars, and have my license reinstated, before my court date.
Finally, something had gone my way. Actually, the before my court date information led me to believe more than one thing had gone my way. Why would I be eligible for reinstatement if they didn't know I brought in proof of insurance and updated tags? Before I left, the clerk told me I needed to take a money order because the office she was sending me to did not accept credit cards or cash.
My daughter drove me to the bank for the money order. I didn't have forty dollars cash, so I wrote a check to the bank – my bank, my branch. The teller asked for identification and I handed her my driver's license.
"I can't accept an expired ID," she told me. Fine. I pulled out my birth certificate, my Medicare card, and my social security card. None of them had a picture, so she would not accept them. I argued that the picture on my driver's license proved my identity, and the others were all valid. She wasn't going for any of it.
My daughter drove me to an ATM for cash, we went down the street to purchase a money order, and then to the off-site building listed on the paper 'the window' clerk had given me. A sign on the door said, Now Accepting Debit and Credit Cards. If only 'the window' clerk had known, I would not have wasted the last two stops.
I signed in, waited my turn, and found out they only renew licenses within one year of suspension, but I was eligible to get my license, I just had to start over with a learner's permit. I would have to test for the permit at another location. If only 'the window' clerk had known this, we wouldn't have wasted the last three stops and I wouldn't be holding an unnecessary money order.
"We're already out," my daughter said. "Let's go ahead and drive over there." I let her convince me I could pass the written test in my frazzled state.
She drove me to the next location. I waited in line. The clerk took my information, confiscated my expired driver's license that had been useful as identification everywhere except the bank, handed me a form, and instructed me to go around the corner to the testing room.
I smiled when I saw the giant stop sign outside the open door. I figured it was the first part of the test, and stopped. The clerk inside the room looked up and huffed. "You can come inside," she said. Her tone indicated I might be the stupidest person ever to come through the door.
I smiled again and handed her my paperwork. Without returning my smile, she pointed to a machine with goggles on the front. "Step up there for your vision test," she ordered.
My forehead pressed the lever on top and illuminated a screen. Through the goggles, I read the top line as instructed.
"Read the third column," she said.
There were no letters in my third column. All I saw was a blank rectangle. I told her this.
"You're blind," she said. "You fail and you should see a doctor."
I laughed. No one would tell another she was blind, in a flippant tone, unless kidding. Almost no one, this one did not laugh with me.
"There must be something wrong with this machine," I said. "There are no letters in the third column."
"Yes there are. You need to see a doctor."
I stepped away from the machine. "I see my ophthalmologist more often than most people see their spouse. I promise you I am not blind."
The next clerk correctly detected my loss of patience and invited me to try her machine. I stepped over, activated the lever on her machine with my forehead, and read off the letters in the first two columns. Her third column was also empty. I knew I wasn't blind, but panicked all the same. Obviously, something was wrong with my vision.
This woman smiled and turned to retrieve forms from a folder on the desk behind her. "You must have mono-vision," she guessed. I confirmed. "Our machines can't test mono-vision, so you will have to have your doctor fill out these forms." If the first girl had known this, she might not have been so rude.
I returned to the waiting room, told my daughter the outcome, and decided I might not want my driver's license after all. "You aren't blind, Mother. We probably have time to go to the doctor's office and get back here before they close. Let's go."
In the car, I looked at the forms and decided it would be inconsiderate to the doctor and the patients who had scheduled this time if I walked in and asked him to complete two pages of questions on my forms. I had my daughter take me home, where I faxed the forms to the office and asked the doctor to return them at his convenience.
Obviously, I did not get my driver's license before my court date. My other daughter drove me to court. As usual, the docket was long and the attorney cases went first. An hour is about how long I can sit on a hard surface, or speak without a drink. Two hours into the session, I considered taking the pain pills in my purse, but knew I'd choke if I tried to swallow them, and didn't want to risk compromising mental clarity. I changed positions often, unable to find one that relieved the pain in my hip although the movement secured my ability to walk when I did finally get to stand again.
"I'm going to ask the sheriff if they can call you soon," my daughter whispered. I reminded her that the court does not make special allowances for disabilities. The sheriff noticed my distress, or our whispering, and came to see if I was okay. I explained my situation and asked if he could permit me to leave the courtroom to walk and get a drink of water, and explain my absence if they called my name while I was out. He granted permission.
When I returned, the sheriff said he had pulled my case, explained the situation, and asked the judge to call me soon. I thanked him. An hour later, he shook his head when I pulled out a tissue to dry my eyes.
My hip was out of socket when I walked to the front of the room, but I made it there without limping or falling. I leaned on the podium for support. No one read my charges so I didn't know they had dropped my real crime - driving with an expired license plate. I might have suggested that was proof I had satisfied someone at the windows' at some point.
The judge asked if I had documentation to prove I had insurance on that date five years earlier. I said I had given my documentation to the clerk at 'the windows', and could not reproduce it because I didn't remember the name of the insurance company. She gave me another court date and said to return with the documentation. Assuming she either hadn't heard or didn't understand, I explained that I could not produce the document on any court date, since I had left my proof at 'the windows' and could not remember the name of the insurance company to ask for a duplicate.
She sneered, chuckled, rolled her eyes at the snickering bitch beside her, and finally asked, "Do you expect me to believe you don't remember who you had insurance with?"
I said yes, I did ask her to believe that because it was the truth. I had cancelled the policy five years before and had no reason to maintain that information since I had delivered it to the court and been assured my citation was 'taken care of'. She told me to either bring the documentation on the next court date or go to jail. Again, she said she could not believe anyone would forget who they had insurance with five years before.
My daughter came forward and explained that she had been with me the night the officer pulled me over. "I'm a witness. My mother had the insurance information in her purse that night, but the police officer wouldn't look at it." The judge told her to sit down.
I wanted to explain that I live on disability income, drive junker cars, and go with whichever insurance company offers me the lowest rate, but the judge refused to listen to another word from me.
"Who do you have insurance with now," she asked.
"I don't have insurance now," I answered. "I don't have a driver's license and my car has been parked for months."
"For months?" She feigned horror. "But you haven't had a license for years."
"No one told me I didn't have a license," I explained. "I only found out when I tried to renew my driver's license."
"I simply don't believe you," she said. "And I've done everything I can to help you."
"No, you haven't," I countered, because she had not allowed me to present my entire defense, or called the clerk from 'the window' to testify that the court notice was a mistake.
She slammed her hand on the desk and ordered me to sit in a chair in the front of the courtroom, until I was ready to apologize or she decided to send me to jail, whichever came first.
I went to my time-out chair, more humiliated and angrier than I had ever been in my life. Someone at the insurance company had made a mistake. Someone in the County Clerk's office had been too lazy to call my insurance company and renew my registration. While twenty thousand unserved warrants sat in a pile somewhere in this city, a police officer pulled me over for driving with a license plate that was thirty-six days expired and couldn't give me the time it took to read the two-paragraph letter I presented in my defense. My crime was paying my taxes late, and the system's built-in late fee would compensate.
Somewhere between the clerks at 'the window' and the person who sends out court notices, someone missed the fact that I had 'taken care of' my citations. Later, someone(s) behind 'the windows' lost my paperwork, and someone in the system forgot to inform the clerks at 'the windows' about the policies in that the office across town. Now, I was stuck with a judge who rolled her eyes, called me a liar, and denied me the opportunity to present my case.
On a scale of one to ten, my physical pain was at least a ten. Emotionally, I probably registered somewhere around fifteen. Something about being treated like a two-year-old made me behave the same. I sobbed. I wiped my nose on my sleeve because my purse was unattended in the back of the courtroom and the judge wouldn't allow anyone to come near me. The judge asked the giggling fat bitch beside her what my problem was, and together they laughed at me. The sheriff looked at me like his heart might break.
One brave man defied the judge's warning glare and brought my purse to me so I could blow my nose. Others ventured forward. An attorney pled with me to apologize, because she would put me in jail for contempt. My daughter, who had left the courtroom to call her sister and plan for my bail, came back and asked if there was something she should do. I asked her to contact the media if I went to jail.
I ended up apologizing, and I'm sorry I did because it was not sincere. The courthouse doesn't have my records from five years ago. Our system purges DUIs at five years, even if fatality cases, but not my citation. The County Clerk's office keeps records four years.
That judge's last words to me were, "I advise you to get a good attorney."
I told her I was on disability and could not afford an attorney. She refused to order a public defender for me.
It is now five years and four months since I made that decision to break the law. My next court date is at the end of June.
The lovely judge in this case has been the lowest rated judge in this county for several years.
She is on the ballot for re-election in November.
Considering the circus of errors in this situation, and the fact that none of the people involved knew how sick I was or how much their actions affected me, I wrestled with my willingness to dump my resentment on this judge. In the end, I believe this is where it belongs. The buck stops with her, and she decided to call me a liar when there were people in the building who could have proven I brought my documentation to 'the windows' in 2001. She also refused to allow me to defend myself, or use a public defender, although I qualify for the service.
My campaign has just begun.
Update: This judge was not re-elected in November.
It was a big move for a person whose friends had mocked her for refusing to walk through a door with Employees Only posted on it.
"Anything goes, when everything's gone." Even before I lived it, the words of this song had tugged at my heart every time I heard them. Now that my understanding had gone from sympathetic to personal point of view, the chorus embraced me as validation for my deed.
"When you lose all hope, there ain't no right or wrong." Melodramatic? Maybe. Indefensible? Probably, but the sentiment expressed the defeat I felt at the time.
I reached my destination without incident, waited for my daughter to join me in the car and thank me for picking her up, and retraced my three-mile, back-street route. As I drove, she delivered every detail of the workshop. The instructor was from Spain and had brought a guitarist with him. The dancer's technique was worth every dollar the workshop cost and she couldn't wait to get home and practice what she had learned.
She raved on as I drove past the park, but stopped when flashing blue lights caught up with us on the other side of the overpass. My heart pounded as the police car pulled in behind mine instead of speeding around me.
I reached for my purse, and the protection I had remembered to bring. There were no red lights or stop signs. I had not exceeded the speed limit, or hit anyone or anything, so this had to be about my willful crime.
"Your license plate has expired," the officer announced.
"I know. Thirty-six days ago." My shaking hand closed around the defense in my purse, knowing he wouldn't stop with the expired tag. I pulled it out and left it in my lap while I showed him my driver's license and registration, and waited for the dreaded words.
"I need to see proof of insurance," he said, keeping my documents.
"That's the reason for my expired tag." I presented the envelope from my lap. "I recently renewed my policy and the insurance company failed to send my updated proof of insurance cards. I have a letter from my agent."
He refused the envelope I extended, so I removed the letter and opened it. Without looking, he informed me he could not accept my letter.
Remembering the time a police officer had removed my intoxicated husband from his car and delivered him home instead of taking him to jail, I felt sure, since I had endangered no one, this man would apply the same discretion with me. Unsound optimism drove my plea.
"I had to pick up my daughter, and the insurance company assures me the updated cards are in the mail. Please don't do this." I stopped short of telling him how many phone calls it had taken to resolve this situation, what a toll every simple problem took on my energy level, or how weary I was from being out of bed the last two hours.
He scribbled on a form. "It's only a citation. No problem. Get your paperwork in order, take it to the courthouse and show it to the clerks at the windows, and it'll be over."
No problem? Even for a healthy person, a trip to the courthouse was a problem. Time out of any day, driving downtown, finding a parking place, standing in line, dealing with overworked clerks, were all problems. For me, that entailed at least a week's worth of energy and endangered my life. I didn't have the oomph to explain, even if I had thought it would matter to this man. I put the citation and letter in my purse and hoped I had the resilience to make it home.
I switched insurance companies the next day and called the old one to tell them what had happened because of their mistake and cancel. This time, they immediately sent the card with a request to reconsider my decision. I didn't.
Insurance card in hand, I returned to the County Clerk's office to secure my updated license plate. After telling me about the late fee, this clerk said the one who had previously refused my letter should have called the insurance company for verification and saved me the fee and the citation.
I drove downtown, gave up hope of finding a meter space after three trips around the block, wound my way to the roof of a parking garage, waited for a smelly elevator, walked two blocks to the building, waited in line to be scanned for weapons, found 'the windows', and waited in a second line. My head swam as my blood pressure dropped and my temperature rose. When my turn came, I ditched my instinctive skirting of public surfaces and grabbed the counter for support before presenting my paperwork.
Relieved to have this experience behind me, I left the building and leaned against an outside wall to gather strength for my return to the car. I couldn't have identified the clerk inside if my life depended on it, but I did remember her words. "That's all we need. Everything's taken care of."
A short time later, I received a court notice for failing to resolve the citation. I called the clerk at 'the window'. After several transfers and a long wait, someone assured me the notice was a mistake; their records documented my 'taken care of' status.
I lost faith in 'the windows' crew when the second court notice arrived. This time, I called the court clerk, explained that I was on an anti-rejection drugs, had no immune system or energy, and that sitting in a crowded courtroom during flu season could have serious consequences for me. I requested permission to wait outside the courtroom in a safe place, or to go first. She told me the court does not make special allowances for disabilities.
On my second court date, my temperature was 104, every bone, muscle, and nerve in my body reminded me it wasn't happy with our connection, and I would have welcomed the flu if it promised to kill me and end the pain. Unfortunately, I did not have the strength to dress and leave the house to contract a new germ. I called the court clerk, who informed me I could not call in sick to court.
I tried 'the window' clerk again. She still insisted everything 'was taken care of' and the court notice was an error. She said not to worry, stay in bed, and she hoped I would feel better soon.
Four years later, I went to renew my driver's license and discovered that my failure to appear in court had resulted in a suspension of my license and a bench warrant. In no condition to deal with it then, I parked my car for months. My daughters drove me the only places I went - to the grocery, and the fourteen doctors offices and hospitals my most recent diagnoses and a surgery made necessary.
When ready to drive again, I returned to 'the windows' to see what I needed to do to get my driver's license back. The clerk looked me up in her computer, put me back on the docket, and handed me directions to a location across town. I was to go there, pay forty dollars, and have my license reinstated, before my court date.
Finally, something had gone my way. Actually, the before my court date information led me to believe more than one thing had gone my way. Why would I be eligible for reinstatement if they didn't know I brought in proof of insurance and updated tags? Before I left, the clerk told me I needed to take a money order because the office she was sending me to did not accept credit cards or cash.
My daughter drove me to the bank for the money order. I didn't have forty dollars cash, so I wrote a check to the bank – my bank, my branch. The teller asked for identification and I handed her my driver's license.
"I can't accept an expired ID," she told me. Fine. I pulled out my birth certificate, my Medicare card, and my social security card. None of them had a picture, so she would not accept them. I argued that the picture on my driver's license proved my identity, and the others were all valid. She wasn't going for any of it.
My daughter drove me to an ATM for cash, we went down the street to purchase a money order, and then to the off-site building listed on the paper 'the window' clerk had given me. A sign on the door said, Now Accepting Debit and Credit Cards. If only 'the window' clerk had known, I would not have wasted the last two stops.
I signed in, waited my turn, and found out they only renew licenses within one year of suspension, but I was eligible to get my license, I just had to start over with a learner's permit. I would have to test for the permit at another location. If only 'the window' clerk had known this, we wouldn't have wasted the last three stops and I wouldn't be holding an unnecessary money order.
"We're already out," my daughter said. "Let's go ahead and drive over there." I let her convince me I could pass the written test in my frazzled state.
She drove me to the next location. I waited in line. The clerk took my information, confiscated my expired driver's license that had been useful as identification everywhere except the bank, handed me a form, and instructed me to go around the corner to the testing room.
I smiled when I saw the giant stop sign outside the open door. I figured it was the first part of the test, and stopped. The clerk inside the room looked up and huffed. "You can come inside," she said. Her tone indicated I might be the stupidest person ever to come through the door.
I smiled again and handed her my paperwork. Without returning my smile, she pointed to a machine with goggles on the front. "Step up there for your vision test," she ordered.
My forehead pressed the lever on top and illuminated a screen. Through the goggles, I read the top line as instructed.
"Read the third column," she said.
There were no letters in my third column. All I saw was a blank rectangle. I told her this.
"You're blind," she said. "You fail and you should see a doctor."
I laughed. No one would tell another she was blind, in a flippant tone, unless kidding. Almost no one, this one did not laugh with me.
"There must be something wrong with this machine," I said. "There are no letters in the third column."
"Yes there are. You need to see a doctor."
I stepped away from the machine. "I see my ophthalmologist more often than most people see their spouse. I promise you I am not blind."
The next clerk correctly detected my loss of patience and invited me to try her machine. I stepped over, activated the lever on her machine with my forehead, and read off the letters in the first two columns. Her third column was also empty. I knew I wasn't blind, but panicked all the same. Obviously, something was wrong with my vision.
This woman smiled and turned to retrieve forms from a folder on the desk behind her. "You must have mono-vision," she guessed. I confirmed. "Our machines can't test mono-vision, so you will have to have your doctor fill out these forms." If the first girl had known this, she might not have been so rude.
I returned to the waiting room, told my daughter the outcome, and decided I might not want my driver's license after all. "You aren't blind, Mother. We probably have time to go to the doctor's office and get back here before they close. Let's go."
In the car, I looked at the forms and decided it would be inconsiderate to the doctor and the patients who had scheduled this time if I walked in and asked him to complete two pages of questions on my forms. I had my daughter take me home, where I faxed the forms to the office and asked the doctor to return them at his convenience.
Obviously, I did not get my driver's license before my court date. My other daughter drove me to court. As usual, the docket was long and the attorney cases went first. An hour is about how long I can sit on a hard surface, or speak without a drink. Two hours into the session, I considered taking the pain pills in my purse, but knew I'd choke if I tried to swallow them, and didn't want to risk compromising mental clarity. I changed positions often, unable to find one that relieved the pain in my hip although the movement secured my ability to walk when I did finally get to stand again.
"I'm going to ask the sheriff if they can call you soon," my daughter whispered. I reminded her that the court does not make special allowances for disabilities. The sheriff noticed my distress, or our whispering, and came to see if I was okay. I explained my situation and asked if he could permit me to leave the courtroom to walk and get a drink of water, and explain my absence if they called my name while I was out. He granted permission.
When I returned, the sheriff said he had pulled my case, explained the situation, and asked the judge to call me soon. I thanked him. An hour later, he shook his head when I pulled out a tissue to dry my eyes.
My hip was out of socket when I walked to the front of the room, but I made it there without limping or falling. I leaned on the podium for support. No one read my charges so I didn't know they had dropped my real crime - driving with an expired license plate. I might have suggested that was proof I had satisfied someone at the windows' at some point.
The judge asked if I had documentation to prove I had insurance on that date five years earlier. I said I had given my documentation to the clerk at 'the windows', and could not reproduce it because I didn't remember the name of the insurance company. She gave me another court date and said to return with the documentation. Assuming she either hadn't heard or didn't understand, I explained that I could not produce the document on any court date, since I had left my proof at 'the windows' and could not remember the name of the insurance company to ask for a duplicate.
She sneered, chuckled, rolled her eyes at the snickering bitch beside her, and finally asked, "Do you expect me to believe you don't remember who you had insurance with?"
I said yes, I did ask her to believe that because it was the truth. I had cancelled the policy five years before and had no reason to maintain that information since I had delivered it to the court and been assured my citation was 'taken care of'. She told me to either bring the documentation on the next court date or go to jail. Again, she said she could not believe anyone would forget who they had insurance with five years before.
My daughter came forward and explained that she had been with me the night the officer pulled me over. "I'm a witness. My mother had the insurance information in her purse that night, but the police officer wouldn't look at it." The judge told her to sit down.
I wanted to explain that I live on disability income, drive junker cars, and go with whichever insurance company offers me the lowest rate, but the judge refused to listen to another word from me.
"Who do you have insurance with now," she asked.
"I don't have insurance now," I answered. "I don't have a driver's license and my car has been parked for months."
"For months?" She feigned horror. "But you haven't had a license for years."
"No one told me I didn't have a license," I explained. "I only found out when I tried to renew my driver's license."
"I simply don't believe you," she said. "And I've done everything I can to help you."
"No, you haven't," I countered, because she had not allowed me to present my entire defense, or called the clerk from 'the window' to testify that the court notice was a mistake.
She slammed her hand on the desk and ordered me to sit in a chair in the front of the courtroom, until I was ready to apologize or she decided to send me to jail, whichever came first.
I went to my time-out chair, more humiliated and angrier than I had ever been in my life. Someone at the insurance company had made a mistake. Someone in the County Clerk's office had been too lazy to call my insurance company and renew my registration. While twenty thousand unserved warrants sat in a pile somewhere in this city, a police officer pulled me over for driving with a license plate that was thirty-six days expired and couldn't give me the time it took to read the two-paragraph letter I presented in my defense. My crime was paying my taxes late, and the system's built-in late fee would compensate.
Somewhere between the clerks at 'the window' and the person who sends out court notices, someone missed the fact that I had 'taken care of' my citations. Later, someone(s) behind 'the windows' lost my paperwork, and someone in the system forgot to inform the clerks at 'the windows' about the policies in that the office across town. Now, I was stuck with a judge who rolled her eyes, called me a liar, and denied me the opportunity to present my case.
On a scale of one to ten, my physical pain was at least a ten. Emotionally, I probably registered somewhere around fifteen. Something about being treated like a two-year-old made me behave the same. I sobbed. I wiped my nose on my sleeve because my purse was unattended in the back of the courtroom and the judge wouldn't allow anyone to come near me. The judge asked the giggling fat bitch beside her what my problem was, and together they laughed at me. The sheriff looked at me like his heart might break.
One brave man defied the judge's warning glare and brought my purse to me so I could blow my nose. Others ventured forward. An attorney pled with me to apologize, because she would put me in jail for contempt. My daughter, who had left the courtroom to call her sister and plan for my bail, came back and asked if there was something she should do. I asked her to contact the media if I went to jail.
I ended up apologizing, and I'm sorry I did because it was not sincere. The courthouse doesn't have my records from five years ago. Our system purges DUIs at five years, even if fatality cases, but not my citation. The County Clerk's office keeps records four years.
That judge's last words to me were, "I advise you to get a good attorney."
I told her I was on disability and could not afford an attorney. She refused to order a public defender for me.
It is now five years and four months since I made that decision to break the law. My next court date is at the end of June.
The lovely judge in this case has been the lowest rated judge in this county for several years.
She is on the ballot for re-election in November.
Considering the circus of errors in this situation, and the fact that none of the people involved knew how sick I was or how much their actions affected me, I wrestled with my willingness to dump my resentment on this judge. In the end, I believe this is where it belongs. The buck stops with her, and she decided to call me a liar when there were people in the building who could have proven I brought my documentation to 'the windows' in 2001. She also refused to allow me to defend myself, or use a public defender, although I qualify for the service.
My campaign has just begun.
Update: This judge was not re-elected in November.
Friday, March 17, 2006
You Will Have A Concrete Garage
“Call the fire department!” Ira shouted for his wife as he unlocked the back door to run out to his burning garage. Flames rolled out the side windows and crackling wood discouraged him from going any close than the picnic table midway between the house and garage.
His wife and father-in-law joined him, leaving the mother-in-law watching through the window with the children. They waited, in shock and awe, as the sirens approached. “How could this have happened?” the father-in-law wondered aloud.
As the fire engine turned into the alley, Mr. Ame from two doors down backed his SUV out of his garage and blocked the passage, ignoring the engine’s horn and orders to move from the firemen on board. “Go away,” Mr. Ame shouted. “This isn’t your business.”
Too angry to think about the danger, Ira ran past the flaming remains of his property, through the back gate, and confronted Mr. Ame. “Move your truck. My garage is burning.”
“Don’t fight me,” Mr. Ame warned. “It’s for your own good. I want you to have a concrete block garage.”
The firefighters jumped off the truck. One tried to wrestle the SUV key from Mr. Ame but was stopped by an army of police officers who had been waiting inside Mr. Ame’s garage.
“Stay back or we’ll have to arrest you for insurgence,” the leader of the pack warned.
“Are you crazy?” the driver of the fire engine asked. “This is our domain. There’s a fire up the block, and it is in our district. Move the SUV.”
“Mr. Ames is the wealthiest, strongest man on this bock,” the cop explained. “If he wants Ira to have a concrete block garage, then that’s what Ira will have. Butt out.”
“But I don’t want a concrete garage,” Ira argued. “I’m happy with wood.” He looked back at the flaming mess and shook his head. “I have pigeons in there. My Hyundai. Things I care about are being destroyed.”
“You ungrateful son-of-a-bitch,” Mr. Ame shouted. “I sacrificed an hour of sleep to get out her early enough to minimize the risk to your family and the neighbors. My family is forfeiting a European vacation to build your concrete block garage and this is the thanks we get?”
“Bull,” Ira countered. “Your brother builds concrete garages. Don’t tell me you are sacrificing anything. I’m losing my property. I built that garage myself.”
Mr. Ame’s family rallied around him, “My husband is a good man,” his wife spat. “How dare you look a gift horse in the mouth?”
“I don’t want your gift,” Ira said. “I want my garage just the way it was.”
Frank Herman bound through the gate across the way. “This argument is ridiculous. A brick garage is what he needs.”
Mr. Ame backhanded Frank. “You’ll rue the day you contradicted my will,” he frothed. “This is between me and Ira.”
“How?” Ira asked. “I didn’t welcome your input. I didn’t ask your advice and I don’t want your concrete. Leave me in peace to live the way I want to live.”
“Oh, no you don’t” Ira’s father-in-law chimed in. “He’s going to repair the damage he’s caused now. He ruined your garage, he’ll fix it.”
Mrs. Ame rolled her eyes at a police officer. “As usual. The old man’s asking for charity. First they insult us, and then they want our money when times get tough. Same old story.”
“Yeah,” an Ame daughter shouted from the background. She waved her pom poms. “Push ‘em back, push ‘em back, waaay back,” she chanted.
“Let me beat up Ira Junior,” her twin brother offered. “Can I, Dad?”
Mr. Ame gave his son a thumb up. “Your loyalty warms my heart. Go get him. He asked for it.”
His wife and father-in-law joined him, leaving the mother-in-law watching through the window with the children. They waited, in shock and awe, as the sirens approached. “How could this have happened?” the father-in-law wondered aloud.
As the fire engine turned into the alley, Mr. Ame from two doors down backed his SUV out of his garage and blocked the passage, ignoring the engine’s horn and orders to move from the firemen on board. “Go away,” Mr. Ame shouted. “This isn’t your business.”
Too angry to think about the danger, Ira ran past the flaming remains of his property, through the back gate, and confronted Mr. Ame. “Move your truck. My garage is burning.”
“Don’t fight me,” Mr. Ame warned. “It’s for your own good. I want you to have a concrete block garage.”
The firefighters jumped off the truck. One tried to wrestle the SUV key from Mr. Ame but was stopped by an army of police officers who had been waiting inside Mr. Ame’s garage.
“Stay back or we’ll have to arrest you for insurgence,” the leader of the pack warned.
“Are you crazy?” the driver of the fire engine asked. “This is our domain. There’s a fire up the block, and it is in our district. Move the SUV.”
“Mr. Ames is the wealthiest, strongest man on this bock,” the cop explained. “If he wants Ira to have a concrete block garage, then that’s what Ira will have. Butt out.”
“But I don’t want a concrete garage,” Ira argued. “I’m happy with wood.” He looked back at the flaming mess and shook his head. “I have pigeons in there. My Hyundai. Things I care about are being destroyed.”
“You ungrateful son-of-a-bitch,” Mr. Ame shouted. “I sacrificed an hour of sleep to get out her early enough to minimize the risk to your family and the neighbors. My family is forfeiting a European vacation to build your concrete block garage and this is the thanks we get?”
“Bull,” Ira countered. “Your brother builds concrete garages. Don’t tell me you are sacrificing anything. I’m losing my property. I built that garage myself.”
Mr. Ame’s family rallied around him, “My husband is a good man,” his wife spat. “How dare you look a gift horse in the mouth?”
“I don’t want your gift,” Ira said. “I want my garage just the way it was.”
Frank Herman bound through the gate across the way. “This argument is ridiculous. A brick garage is what he needs.”
Mr. Ame backhanded Frank. “You’ll rue the day you contradicted my will,” he frothed. “This is between me and Ira.”
“How?” Ira asked. “I didn’t welcome your input. I didn’t ask your advice and I don’t want your concrete. Leave me in peace to live the way I want to live.”
“Oh, no you don’t” Ira’s father-in-law chimed in. “He’s going to repair the damage he’s caused now. He ruined your garage, he’ll fix it.”
Mrs. Ame rolled her eyes at a police officer. “As usual. The old man’s asking for charity. First they insult us, and then they want our money when times get tough. Same old story.”
“Yeah,” an Ame daughter shouted from the background. She waved her pom poms. “Push ‘em back, push ‘em back, waaay back,” she chanted.
“Let me beat up Ira Junior,” her twin brother offered. “Can I, Dad?”
Mr. Ame gave his son a thumb up. “Your loyalty warms my heart. Go get him. He asked for it.”
Uncle Charles Hates Towel-heads and Queers
There I was with fifty years of love and admiration invested when I discovered his love meant nothing at all. What do you do when that happens?
This man had shown up on every holiday, picked me up when I fell, cried when I cried, laughed when I laughed, clapped when I sang, carried my furniture up three flights of stairs, visited me in the hospital, danced with me at my wedding, and dried my tears at funerals. What did that mean if he could just as easily hate other people for no reason?
“Nuke them all,” was the first sign. I thought it was a joke (not a funny one). But he didn’t laugh. “We need to nuke that whole area off the map,” he continued.
He would get over it. He would realize how wrong he was to say that, and regret the confusion that allowed those words to slip between his lips. I had faith in him; he would never truly wish innocent people dead.
But he didn’t take it back. He never did laugh, or apologize. He didn’t catch the splinters of my heart as they scattered in unexplored directions.
Those people became towel heads. He wanted them dead. He said it often and loud.
I heard every possible rationalization for continuing my relationship with him from other family members. He’s family. He’s a good Christian man. He donates time and money to charities. He hasn’t ever done anything to you. He’s entitled to his opinion. Did they agree with him?
“We aren’t taking sides,” they said. “Don’t ask us to.” I wasn’t asking for sides, I was asking them to stand for principles. Everyone should have their own principles and standing for them isn’t taking a side. It’s being real.
As the political climate changed, so did Uncle Charles’ vocabulary. Nigger and queer joined towel head and spic. Uncle Charles hates them all and his ability to hate came as a devastating surprise. I had assumed he loved everyone the same as he loved me. Should I be grateful for the climate that made openly expressing his hatred so comfortable for him, so I’d know the truth? Or was this a case of what I didn’t know didn’t hurt me?
“If you have nothing good to say, don’t say anything,” my mother advised. “He has a right to his opinion.” He has a right to hate people he doesn’t know? I had to think about that. On the surface, it made sense but deeper, where my heart and mind dissected the situation into possibilities, probabilities, and consequences it wasn’t acceptable. Was it my business?
Education was the answer. Somewhere along the way, he had missed some important lessons in Sunday school. He hadn’t absorbed Grandma’s seldom spoken messages of love, and everyone knew he hadn’t read a book in years and watched the news only long enough to catch the sports and weather. I would help by bringing the needed information to him. He was a good man. He’d appreciate my help.
I collected articles and books, and prepared debates and composed scenarios. He didn’t appreciate my effort. He didn’t look or listen. He laughed. “You sound like a damned hippy,” he shouted. “Keep that crap to yourself. You have a heart and a brain. The heart belongs to the church and the brain will get you in trouble if you go twisting what the church teaches this way.”
“Your church doesn’t teach you to love everyone?” I asked. “Don’t they tell you it’s wrong to kill? That’s what nukes do, Uncle Charles. They kill.”
“I’m not killing anyone,” he offered as his final comment.
Uncle Charles didn’t want to talk to me any more. But his kids had plenty to say.
“You need to keep your mouth shut and get along,” one said. “You hurt his feelings,” came from another. My aunt shook her head. “You’ve divided the family with your hatred,” she accused.
My hatred? My mouth? My division? All I had done was try to talk to him about his hatred of innocent people and the death wish his mouth delivered. I was the bad guy?
Pleas came in from everywhere. “The family that prays together stays together. You have to come on Thanksgiving for the sake of the family, and don’t cause trouble,” they warned. “Don’t ruin our holiday with your negativity.”
I tried. I really did. I packed up my children and grandchildren and joined the rest of the family for a day of gratitude and kinship. Uncle Charles said grace. While he thanked God for wealth and health, flashes of starving Iraqi children with blown off limbs distracted me and ruined my appetite. I bowed my head lower, in shame for what my country was doing to other families while we gathered to express gratitude for not suffering the same fate we forced on them. Is that how God planned it? Should I participate in thanking Him for something I believed He wanted no part in?
“Dig in everyone,” brought me out of my trance. “Gramma, what’s a towel head?” delivered me from my quiet.
“It’s a very ugly name some people call others,” I whispered.
“Why?”
“Because they don’t know better,” I explained. “But you do, so don’t ever say that again.”
“Can we teach them better?”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
What Uncle Charles didn’t know might not have hurt him, but it did hurt me. When his hatred filtered through his family, and they used it to vote for an administration that would use their uneducated opinions to kill people in my name, they hurt me, they hurt my children and grandchildren, and they hurt innocent people in Iraq and Afghanistan. Do people really have a right to be this ignorant, and demand that I keep my mouth shut?
“Don’t brainwash that baby with your liberal bullshit,” the nearest cousin advised, with the amen of his hypocritical prayer still on his breath. “Towel heads are terrorists who’ll kill us if we don’t kill them first.”
My semi-brainwashed baby’s eyes stretched in fear. “Kill us?”
“Nobody is going to kill us,” I said. “Eat your turkey.”
“Are we going to kill them first?” my grandson asked.
“Do you want mashed potatoes?” I answered.
This man had shown up on every holiday, picked me up when I fell, cried when I cried, laughed when I laughed, clapped when I sang, carried my furniture up three flights of stairs, visited me in the hospital, danced with me at my wedding, and dried my tears at funerals. What did that mean if he could just as easily hate other people for no reason?
“Nuke them all,” was the first sign. I thought it was a joke (not a funny one). But he didn’t laugh. “We need to nuke that whole area off the map,” he continued.
He would get over it. He would realize how wrong he was to say that, and regret the confusion that allowed those words to slip between his lips. I had faith in him; he would never truly wish innocent people dead.
But he didn’t take it back. He never did laugh, or apologize. He didn’t catch the splinters of my heart as they scattered in unexplored directions.
Those people became towel heads. He wanted them dead. He said it often and loud.
I heard every possible rationalization for continuing my relationship with him from other family members. He’s family. He’s a good Christian man. He donates time and money to charities. He hasn’t ever done anything to you. He’s entitled to his opinion. Did they agree with him?
“We aren’t taking sides,” they said. “Don’t ask us to.” I wasn’t asking for sides, I was asking them to stand for principles. Everyone should have their own principles and standing for them isn’t taking a side. It’s being real.
As the political climate changed, so did Uncle Charles’ vocabulary. Nigger and queer joined towel head and spic. Uncle Charles hates them all and his ability to hate came as a devastating surprise. I had assumed he loved everyone the same as he loved me. Should I be grateful for the climate that made openly expressing his hatred so comfortable for him, so I’d know the truth? Or was this a case of what I didn’t know didn’t hurt me?
“If you have nothing good to say, don’t say anything,” my mother advised. “He has a right to his opinion.” He has a right to hate people he doesn’t know? I had to think about that. On the surface, it made sense but deeper, where my heart and mind dissected the situation into possibilities, probabilities, and consequences it wasn’t acceptable. Was it my business?
Education was the answer. Somewhere along the way, he had missed some important lessons in Sunday school. He hadn’t absorbed Grandma’s seldom spoken messages of love, and everyone knew he hadn’t read a book in years and watched the news only long enough to catch the sports and weather. I would help by bringing the needed information to him. He was a good man. He’d appreciate my help.
I collected articles and books, and prepared debates and composed scenarios. He didn’t appreciate my effort. He didn’t look or listen. He laughed. “You sound like a damned hippy,” he shouted. “Keep that crap to yourself. You have a heart and a brain. The heart belongs to the church and the brain will get you in trouble if you go twisting what the church teaches this way.”
“Your church doesn’t teach you to love everyone?” I asked. “Don’t they tell you it’s wrong to kill? That’s what nukes do, Uncle Charles. They kill.”
“I’m not killing anyone,” he offered as his final comment.
Uncle Charles didn’t want to talk to me any more. But his kids had plenty to say.
“You need to keep your mouth shut and get along,” one said. “You hurt his feelings,” came from another. My aunt shook her head. “You’ve divided the family with your hatred,” she accused.
My hatred? My mouth? My division? All I had done was try to talk to him about his hatred of innocent people and the death wish his mouth delivered. I was the bad guy?
Pleas came in from everywhere. “The family that prays together stays together. You have to come on Thanksgiving for the sake of the family, and don’t cause trouble,” they warned. “Don’t ruin our holiday with your negativity.”
I tried. I really did. I packed up my children and grandchildren and joined the rest of the family for a day of gratitude and kinship. Uncle Charles said grace. While he thanked God for wealth and health, flashes of starving Iraqi children with blown off limbs distracted me and ruined my appetite. I bowed my head lower, in shame for what my country was doing to other families while we gathered to express gratitude for not suffering the same fate we forced on them. Is that how God planned it? Should I participate in thanking Him for something I believed He wanted no part in?
“Dig in everyone,” brought me out of my trance. “Gramma, what’s a towel head?” delivered me from my quiet.
“It’s a very ugly name some people call others,” I whispered.
“Why?”
“Because they don’t know better,” I explained. “But you do, so don’t ever say that again.”
“Can we teach them better?”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
What Uncle Charles didn’t know might not have hurt him, but it did hurt me. When his hatred filtered through his family, and they used it to vote for an administration that would use their uneducated opinions to kill people in my name, they hurt me, they hurt my children and grandchildren, and they hurt innocent people in Iraq and Afghanistan. Do people really have a right to be this ignorant, and demand that I keep my mouth shut?
“Don’t brainwash that baby with your liberal bullshit,” the nearest cousin advised, with the amen of his hypocritical prayer still on his breath. “Towel heads are terrorists who’ll kill us if we don’t kill them first.”
My semi-brainwashed baby’s eyes stretched in fear. “Kill us?”
“Nobody is going to kill us,” I said. “Eat your turkey.”
“Are we going to kill them first?” my grandson asked.
“Do you want mashed potatoes?” I answered.
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.
"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."
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."
Coddled Insanity
Renee shoved the tank tops aside and pulled a long-sleeved tee shirt from the bottom of the drawer. The out-of-season lecture never lasted as long as the where-did-I-go-wrong martyr fest, and she needed to get out fast. She slapped a band-aid over the new gash on her wrist and poked her arms through the sleeves on her way down the hall.
On guard, on cue, on Renee’s last nerve, her mother looked up from the bible in her lap and hit Renee with the usual question as soon as she entered the room. “Where you headed?”
“To meet Mark. Gotta hurry.”
“It’s ninety degrees outside. You’ll burn up in that shirt.”
“So, I’ll burn up. My choice.” Why couldn’t she have a normal mother, with a normal job, or at least a life of her own?
“People will think I never teach you anything.”
“I’ll tell them I’m adopted. I have to go.” Renee skirted through the room and out the door before the tears or preaching started, wishing she had taken a second to flash the new cut before leaving. They could both suffer.
Worried Mark would sell the Vicodin to the slut at work if she didn’t get there before he left, Renee kicked up to a trot. If he dogged her with that bitch one more time, she’d never speak to him again.
As she rounded the corner and almost ran over Mrs. Lowry, she spotted Mark farther down the block, headed for his car. “Mark, hold on.” She called out, passing Mrs. Lowry without a word. A bonus for Mom. Sympathy when the busybody called to tattle, and an opening for the ever-famous Do-Unto-Others lecture. God, she needed drugs to deal with it all.
“You ass.” Renee stopped in front of Mark and leaned over to catch her breath. “You were going to leave me.”
He opened his car door. “That any way to talk to a friend? Hurry up and get in.”
She ran to the other side. “Is running off without me how you treat a friend?” She asked and slammed her door.
“Told you I couldn’t be late. Try being on time once.”
“Screw you. You sound like my mother. Where is it?”
Mark grabbed her arm and looked at the drop of blood spreading on her cuff. “You’re twisted, Renee. You cut yourself on fuckin’ purpose and think I’m supposed to worry about getting your pain pills to you. That’s insane.”
“Look, ass. I decide when I want to feel pain and when I don’t. Not you.”
He started the car and backed out the drive. “Ever think people might treat you better if you acted like you care about yourself first?” He tossed a bottle of pills on her lap once the car was on the street. “Make 'em last. No more refills on that script.”
“Did you ever wonder what being a drug dealer says about you?” She stuck the bottle in her pocket and threw a wad of cash back at him.
He grinned. “Says I know what feels good to me and want to help my friends feel good too. You know, Love Thy Neighbor, and all that good stuff.” He pulled up in front of her house and she opened the door to get out.
“Yeah.” She giggled. “Love Thy Neighbor. Think I should go inside and bleed Mom to release her anger? Where’d that crap come from, anyway?”
“Bullshit cliches?” He shrugged. “More like coddled insanity, passed down from one crazy generation to the next, if you ask me.”
On guard, on cue, on Renee’s last nerve, her mother looked up from the bible in her lap and hit Renee with the usual question as soon as she entered the room. “Where you headed?”
“To meet Mark. Gotta hurry.”
“It’s ninety degrees outside. You’ll burn up in that shirt.”
“So, I’ll burn up. My choice.” Why couldn’t she have a normal mother, with a normal job, or at least a life of her own?
“People will think I never teach you anything.”
“I’ll tell them I’m adopted. I have to go.” Renee skirted through the room and out the door before the tears or preaching started, wishing she had taken a second to flash the new cut before leaving. They could both suffer.
Worried Mark would sell the Vicodin to the slut at work if she didn’t get there before he left, Renee kicked up to a trot. If he dogged her with that bitch one more time, she’d never speak to him again.
As she rounded the corner and almost ran over Mrs. Lowry, she spotted Mark farther down the block, headed for his car. “Mark, hold on.” She called out, passing Mrs. Lowry without a word. A bonus for Mom. Sympathy when the busybody called to tattle, and an opening for the ever-famous Do-Unto-Others lecture. God, she needed drugs to deal with it all.
“You ass.” Renee stopped in front of Mark and leaned over to catch her breath. “You were going to leave me.”
He opened his car door. “That any way to talk to a friend? Hurry up and get in.”
She ran to the other side. “Is running off without me how you treat a friend?” She asked and slammed her door.
“Told you I couldn’t be late. Try being on time once.”
“Screw you. You sound like my mother. Where is it?”
Mark grabbed her arm and looked at the drop of blood spreading on her cuff. “You’re twisted, Renee. You cut yourself on fuckin’ purpose and think I’m supposed to worry about getting your pain pills to you. That’s insane.”
“Look, ass. I decide when I want to feel pain and when I don’t. Not you.”
He started the car and backed out the drive. “Ever think people might treat you better if you acted like you care about yourself first?” He tossed a bottle of pills on her lap once the car was on the street. “Make 'em last. No more refills on that script.”
“Did you ever wonder what being a drug dealer says about you?” She stuck the bottle in her pocket and threw a wad of cash back at him.
He grinned. “Says I know what feels good to me and want to help my friends feel good too. You know, Love Thy Neighbor, and all that good stuff.” He pulled up in front of her house and she opened the door to get out.
“Yeah.” She giggled. “Love Thy Neighbor. Think I should go inside and bleed Mom to release her anger? Where’d that crap come from, anyway?”
“Bullshit cliches?” He shrugged. “More like coddled insanity, passed down from one crazy generation to the next, if you ask me.”
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?
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?
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