Thursday, February 19, 2004

Katrina Rides the Bus - Part II

I started this piece in the post just below this one, so you might want to check there first before hopping on this particular ride.

Let’s take a moment now and see who we’re dealing with.  Katrina is about 5’4”, looks to be in her 40s, with a ruddy complexion and solid bone structure.  Her hands are stubby; her clothes are clean and well-maintained.  She doesn’t wear makeup or perfume, and I’m relieved to report that she doesn’t appear to have much of an odor about her.  All four of her top front teeth are capped with gold, and a mole the size of a jujube has taken up residence near the corner of her mouth.  She has large pores and dry, untidy, rough-looking hair cut short and combed with a part like a schoolboy’s.  And she’s sitting there on my bus bench next to me, smiling at me.  I can feel her even as I paw through my 50 page contract, making notes and inserting marginalia.  She’s rocking slightly on the edge of the seat, nodding, tapping her fingers on her pudgy knees, waiting for me to be done.  But I’m on page 3 of 54 and I don’t plan on being done anytime soon.  I know she gets off at Laguna; I saw her do it yesterday, and that’s not even halfway to my office.  I just have to wait her out.

She lacks patience.  She lacks restraint.  “You working!,” she tells me.  I realize it’s a question, and I am going to keep hearing it till I answer it.  My choices are to answer rudely or politely, and I ride that bus every day - I can’t be giving myself a reputation for being a jerk or it will come back to bite me.  So I answer, “Yes, I’m working.  This is work I’m trying to do.” “A report!” “No, it’s a contract.  A long, complicated contract.  I promised someone I’d read it.” “Ah!  It’s okay!” “I don’t know if it’s okay or not.  I haven’t read it yet.” “It’s okay!  It’s okay!” And Katrina falls silent.  I return my attention to the page, wondering how long the lull will last.

Not very damn long.  She’s only not talking because she’s fishing out a small clear ziplock bag, opening it, pulling out a crumpled fold-over plastic baggie inside of it, from which she removes a semi-recent photograph of a very young and rather homely girl, maybe 2 years old, with a strange headpiece like a floral version of an old-fashioned doctor’s head-mirror.  She’s thrusting it toward me, but I don’t take it.  Still, I am obliged to look at it.  So I look at the photo, and then back to Katrina.  She stretches her grin a bit further and blurts, “My sister!” There’s got to be 40 years between her and this kid, I’m thinking; I don’t believe that’s her sister at all, but I’m not going to tell her that.  It might be her sister’s kid.  I don’t really want to pursue it.  I just reply, “Very nice.” “Sacramento!” “Oh.  Nice town.”

She carefully replaces the photo in the baggie in the bag, and then shows me her Muni pass again.  “Yes,” I repeat. “Very nice.” I lift the contract from my lap closer to my face in the universal gesture of “I’m going to read this now,” but I know in my heart that the subtlety will be lost on her. 

“You go to Laguna!” She’s talking again and it’s obvious now that there will be no stopping her; my best bet is to minimize the aggravation by accepting my lot and submitting to her inquiries.  “No, I work downtown.” “Van Ness!” “No, all the way to the water.” “Oh, okay!”

“So you work this weekend!” “No, I got the weekend off.” “You are going away!” “No, I’ll stay at home. I’m going to paint a room in my apartment.” “Okay!” This is going pretty smoothly.  Something is going to go wrong at any moment, but it hasn’t happened yet.  But like a bus that’s a block away when I’m standing at the stop, I can feel it approaching.  I just don’t know what it will be. 

“You married!” Oh god, no.  Don’t get into this with me.  I’m not your type, lady.  Let’s be fair to each other.  “Yes.  I’m married.” I show her the ring that’s two feet from her face.  She laughs, covers her eyes with her thick fingers, peeking at me through them.  “I didn’t know!” Her laughter seems a bit forced.  “Me, no husband, no boyfriend...”

She pauses briefly and her emotions shift.  She’s crying now, silently, her palms pressed to her face.  “My baby, she died… she is gone… my husband - “ She pulls out the ziplock again, fishes out the baggie, removes another photo - a prognathic, scowling man, built like Richard Kiel, stalking through some sort of plaza; the photo is black and white, printed on thin stock with frayed edges as though it might have been taken from a magazine many years prior. 

She’s crying harder now: “He is dead, my husband, dead, and my baby….” At this point I’m having trouble following her story, the words are mumbled and jumbled; she’s growing increasingly emotional as she goes on.  “She went ... she died… he is dead… the car went - went - “ and here she loses all capacity for speech and begins to pantomime the event, using her hands on the backpack on her lap, showing two things coming together and then flying apart, her fingers each playing a different role, her eyes imploring me as she weeps openly on the bench next to me, showing the accident again and again.  She says “school.” “Was she hit by a car at school?” Katrina sobs and nods.  “And your husband, what happened to him?” Her sobs turn to wails.  “Did they die together?” She’s nodding hard now, gasping, choking back her emotions; I can smell onions on her breath.  I have to say something, so I say, “I’m sorry, that’s so sad.  When did it happen?” Her only answer is, “Dead, my baby, dead, I’m all alone now, all alone...”

We’re at Fillmore street now, one stop from Laguna.  She’s struggling to pull herself together, putting away the strange old photo of the heavy-jawed man, looking around and getting her bearings.  She is ready to get off this bus and I am ready to let her.  The bus is delayed, idling at the stop.  She starts yanking the cord to get moving again, keening impatiently, “too long, too long....” I remind her, “The cord means to stop, don’t pull it if you want to go,” but she keeps pulling at it and the bus eventually moves on anyway, crossing Fillmore and lumbering up the hill to Laguna.  As we near her stop she gets up and turns to me a final time, asking, “You work tomorrow!” “No, I get a vacation tomorrow.” “Okay!  Bye-bye!” She gives me a big broad gleaming golden smile and slips into her backpack, out the door, and down the sidewalk, jogging cheerfully as if nothing in the world was wrong. 

I immediately put the contract away in my messenger bag and pull out my writing book, start sketching notes on what had just happened.  The first words I write are, “I am such a ghoul.” I can’t get her teeth out of my brain.

You are not a ghoul. You are human. It’s a heart wrenching story, for sure. She is one of those people who constantly remind us how good we have it.

Whoa, do you do alot of writing for your work? Excuse me I am trying to ask questions without getting to personal or dangerously close to sounding like a stalker.
Your writing style on these last two posts is fascinating, I am going to say this and hope I don’t sound like a butt kissing moron but, have you ever considered writing a book?
I went through your 100 things before asking just to make sure you hadn’t already proclaimed yourself to be a novelist. Anyway, I should shut up now and say thanks for the read, I am glad I found your blog.

this is another lovely portrait, dan.  lovely.

If Jeff’s a butt kissing moron, then so am I. You always manage to wrench the truth out of a thing, be it ugly or beautiful.

A very sad lost soul.

Oh Dan...I’m a butt kissing moron too.  Once again you transported me and I was there on the bus with you feeling uncomfortable and sad and compassionate but still wishing it would all stop.  Wonderfully written.

I read somewhere that God talks to us through children and crazy people because they don’t have the means or the inclination to change the message. 

I’m not sure exactly how that relates here, but it’s all I could think of when I finished reading.

General Alert: This blog has an anti-moron filter; if you are reading it, you presumptively qualify as a certified genius and are entitled to wear a t-shirt so declaring. 

I’m working on the pro-butt-kissing filter but I’m still working out the kinks.  (rim shot.)

I felt pretty weird about that whole experience, even about writing about it - the blog helps me sublimate some of my angst when the world gets really strange in my face.  I appreciate very much, more than you might believe, that you (each of you) are sharing those feelings with me.  And Nikita, I love that adage, I don’t think I’ve heard it before but I will keep it in my mind and my heart.

I’ve heard that before as well (God talking to us through chldren and crazy people). This sounds funny, but I think it was from the book/movie Fried Green Tomatoes. I think there is definitely some semblance of truth to that, as well. I’m reminded of that story about the little girl asking her Grandparent who is dying to tell her what God looks like because she’s starting to forget.

(ooooh, kim, i like that.)

and dan, there’s nothing ghoulish about your reaction.  raw unfiltered emotion sets us all on edge.  it’s uneasy-making.  we appreciate its candor at the same time we want to escape its candor.  and there’s such inspiration in it.  such honesty.  and you’ve done a wonderful job of capturing that, and making us all live it with you.

thank you for katrina, who will stay with me every time i ride the bus here.

amazing, as always. i can’t help but join the chorus singing your praises. you always take me to exactly where you were with your writing.

these surreal encounters with strangers always remind me of how vast the human experience is, and how much closer it is to us than we thought. and the teeth - weird what totems we retain to hold the memory, huh?

We feel so secure in our lives, don’t we?  I’ve shed a few tears for Katrina.  Thank you for sharing her with us.

You live more life in a week than I do in a year.  Actually… lemme step that back.  You recognize that we all live long, very detailed lives with great lessons in them.  We just have to stop and notice what’s going on around us.  The difference is, only a few of us realize this and even fewer of us are able to put it into words as succinct and poetic as yours.

Very real and familiar story.  I think it’s because I’ve been there before, and my reactions were likely very similar to yours.  Feeling like a ghoul is probably natural.