Friday, July 26, 2002
Her hand was soft, much
Her hand was soft, much softer than her voice. I stood at the bank of metal boxes that dispensed BART tickets, trying to tell which one was working and gave change for a $20. My bill wilted in my hand as I picked out the details I needed, started noticing what I had to do next. Then she was beside me, speaking as gently as her thrashed throat let her. I’d heard her angry moments earlier, cursing a machine that ate her dime. She wore a tourist’s sweatshirt and her jeans weren’t stained or torn - the cheapest clothes, carefully preserved. “Here’s the one you need, it’s giving change today, it’s taking bills, I just seen it, ate my dime but does okay with paper money...” Thanking her, I turned to buy my ticket. She was hovering beside me, odorless and frail, an older woman younger than her wrinkled skin would have me think, faint light shining from behind her wide-spaced pale eyes. I fed the bill into the slot; it spat it out at me again. I started flattening the corners of the twenty, anxious to get on my way. “You gotta cut it,” she suggested, nervous fingers demonstrating that she meant to “fold” the bill. Her fingers twitched their way to mine and that was when I noticed how her hands were soft and clean and gentle. However, she was touching me, my moneyhand, and I had had enough of her. As I folded and unfolded my net worth I thanked her for her time and hoped she’d go away. That’s when she started pawing at my arm, trying to direct my fingers as I picked my ticket price. “See you push this one for dollars, this one here you push for pennies, this is where the ticket comes, and I can help - “ I’d had enough. I turned to her and told her that I had the matter well in hand, she ought to go help someone else, I had to go and didn’t need her to assist me any more. She stiffened, soured, spat and cursed - “You bastard prick, you need my help, its obvious you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, I’m not homeless, this is what I get for being nice to people...” Coming from her raspy lips the words were harsh and grating; I could hear them as I made my way away from her down to the platform. Her hands were pink and soft and gentle but she had made me feel foul, like an ingrate, like a part of everything I think I hate.
It’s not that I wanted her to like me, I don’t care to have her as a friend. I just don’t like to leave a negative impression, even on the crazy woman by the change machines at BART. I am working on caring less but I keep forgetting....
