Supervisor

 

As I turn the corner at Esmond and 30^th street, I can’t help but notice a confab of PG&E trucks up ahead. At least three. With spinning yellow lights atop, ladders raised, and of course, a small mob of workers: men in hard hats, oranges vests and beards.

            Should I take another route today and avoid walking into their domain?

            No. I am not gonna let some PG&E guys keep me from my walking path. After all, they aren’t gonna do anything to me, right?

            As I turn the corner at 31^st street and begin my march through them, I can’t help but engage. “Looks like you guys have a Situation here.”

            They all chuckle. One emerges from the group, scraggly black dreadlocks erupting from under his hardhat. “We are in need of a Supervisor today. You game?”
            I laugh. “Sure.”

            “Someone has to tell these guys to get to work!” he bellows, the men all laughing behind him.

            I slow my pace, turn toward the group, and point at them all authoritatively: “I can do that! Okay, guys, GET TO WORK!!!!”

            Everyone laughs, myself included.

            But no one moves. Evidently my power as the temporary supervisor is ineffectual and moot. And, I have to wonder, what was it about me initially that inspired Dreadlocks Man to joke about my being the supervisor? Do I have a bossy demeanor?
            I do. But how did he know? My bossiness must come across in my walk. Or the fact that I pronounced that they had a ‘situation’ going on when I first came upon them. Obviously, they do. And I had no clue what it was, but it didn’t matter. They just needed a supervisor.

            Of course, I’ve been a supervisor most of my adult life as a college writing instructor. Giving out assignments, controlling classroom behavior, or trying to. I’ll never forget the time I was up in front of my class, going blah blah blah about something I’m sure was beyond boring, but one student would not put away his phone even after I had repeatedly (and nicely) asked him to. Finally, he gave me an exasperated stare and said: “Professor, I can’t put away my phone. I’m on call for a Mission and my commander might notify me at any moment.”

            Shit. What could I say to that? Never mind your commander and your mission to save democracy; you have to listen to your English teacher drone on about the writing process.

            I don’t think so.

            So, today, when my command to “GET TO WORK” was ignored, and obviously it was just a joke and I wasn’t expecting any movement, this wasn’t the first time that my authority as a supervisor had been ignored.

            Though I doubt the PG&E guys were on a mission to save democracy. But a mission to keep the power on?

            Well, what’s more important than that?

Nothing. Except maybe my mission to keep walking. And walking. And walking....

Mustang!

 

The line was a mass of static disgruntlement. Packed into the stuffy waiting room of the Dollar Rent-a-Car at Honolulu airport were at least a hundred travelers, their luggage stuffed, their phones in hand, their children running and jumping underneath the useless line markers, their faces full of resignation and frustration.

            “This can’t be right!” I exclaimed to Ian. “We’re going to be here all afternoon!” I’d had visions of landing at Honolulu airport at 12:05 pm, taking the rental car shuttle and then whisking away 20 minutes later to Kalama Beach where the warm embrace of the Hawaii’s sea awaited me.

            Talk about a fantasy!

            “I think we should try to call Dollar and find out if we’re in the right place,” I said to Ian.

            “I think this is right,” he said, squeezing into the stuffy too-lit room for a place in line.

            “But where are the cars? Shouldn’t there be a garage where the cars are?” I stared at the 2 beleaguered clerks at computers, blocked by the black mass of travelers. No way could I walk up and ask one of them.

            A couple behind us shook their heads, the man muttered, “She thinks were in the wrong place too.” He pointed to a pale, blue slacked older woman on the phone outside the waiting room. “She’s calling now.”

            “I think I should call, too,” I say to Ian, the claustrophobia hitting me hard suddenly. Between the too early wake up at 5 am and the long flight with only a strange sausage sandwich for a snack, I was starting to feel peckish.

            “I need to get out of here,” I said, staggering through the crowd and out into the bright Honolulu sunshine.

            “Hello, Dollar Rent a Car—How may I help today?” I’d waited for 10 minutes to talk to a person after finally finding the 800 number on the website.

            “Hello, yes, a person…. thanks…. I just wondered if you can tell me if I’m in the right place to pick up my rental car?”

            “Yes, Ma’am, of course. Where are you?”

            Here was a question. I knew I was at the Honolulu airport, but where exactly? I had no clue. I told her how we’d taken a shuttle. How it’d dropped us off at this structure. How the line for getting our car was enormous and non-moving.

            “Can you tell me if the structure is facing east?”

            I am so tired and cranky. I can’t tell what direction is east on the best of days when I’m able to orient myself. Now? No way.

            “No, I can’t. Can you just tell me if it’s normal to have 100 people in line to pick up a car?

            “Today is a holiday, Ma’am. There is a higher percentage of travelers.”

            I could tell that this phone call was going to get me nowhere. “Okay, thanks for your help.”

            “Thank you for choosing Dolar Rent a Car. Have a nice day.”

            I head back into the 9^th circle of hell. “Did you get ahold of someone?” Ian asks.

            “Yes, but she was no help.”

            “I think we’re in the right place.”

            “Well, I guess we’ll find out in 2 hours.”

            The man behind us was now crinkling and uncrinkling a plastic snack bag of granola. Then chomping on it with his mouth open. Needless to say, he had no mask on. In fact, no one did except for me and Ian.

            I was near a nervous breakdown. With hours to go before we got our car.

            “MOM! I’m hungry!”

            “Okay, baby, me too. Can you find your daddy and see if he can buy us some snacks?”
            “I have to go to the bathroom too!”

            Mom rolled her eyes, pushed a lank curl out of her eyes. Earlier she’d been near a nervous breakdown too. In the shuttle. Asking if she could borrow a fellow traveler’s cell phone.  “We got separated from my husband. He has my phone and my wallet.”

            Evidently, the husband was still missing as the line inched forward.

            “Ian, I’m going to scream.”

            “Don’t scream.”

            I nod. Of course, I wasn’t going to scream, but I felt like it. It’s hard not to sometimes. But I try to avoid outbursts in public.

            A half hour goes by. We inch forward. An hour goes by. We’re still not at the counters.

The waiting is so boring. Do I tell instead of show? I’ll show a little: Woman behind me in line, her lank dark hair exposing a tender pink part, squats down and sighs deeply. On the verge. Three young Asian Women, huddled together in a triangle, draped with colorful beach towels, chattering for a moment, then dully silent. Two tall Black women, dressed in golden and ruby finery, animating their discussion with waves of silver pointed fingernails and spangly bracelets.

            The waiting continues. And continues. And continues. Will we ever move? Let alone speak to a clerk and get our car?

            But the line does move. Slowly oh so slowly until…. finally, after an hour and a half, we reach the clerk.

            “Wow, I never thought we’d be talking to you,” I exclaim.

            She doesn’t even crack a smile. “Name?”

            I give her the info. She types it into her computer. The rigamarole of renting takes no more than 5 minutes.

            Now what?

            “Go out and turn to the right, down the elevators to the garage to pick up your vehicle.”

            “Great!” I am so relieved. It’s now 2:30, but maybe there’s still time for a swim in the sea.

            As we step off the elevator to the vast empty garage a box of an office is in front of us. We give the young woman our info. “How long before we get a car?” Ian asks.

            “We’ll try to get one for you within an hour.”
            “An HOUR!” I can’t keep the horror out of my voice. “Do you know what we’ve been through upstairs?”

            She nods, shrugs. “Oh, yeah. Take a seat.”

            Resigned, we do. Rolling our bags over to the concrete bench. “At least we can sit down,” Ian says.

            I don’t answer. Sitting down is NOT what I want to do. I should have been in the ocean by now. Floating under the bright blue sky with puffy clouds floating overhead as the warm water embraces me with its Aloha warmth.

            I watch as the couple that had been in line behind us climbs into an oversized brown Jeep Cherokee. “Why did they get a car before us?” I ask Ian.

            “They must have ordered that car and it was available. We’ll just have to wait till our car that we ordered arrives.”

            “Minnie!!! MINNIE CHAN!!!!”  The Man in charge is striding around, waving a paper over his bald head, his wire-rimmed glasses sitting atop his bulbous nose.

            “Ian!” I whisper. “Doesn’t that guy who’s in charge look like that actor who was in that movie about the mean drum teacher?”
            Ian gives me a blank stare.

            “Do you know who I mean?”

            “I’m not sure.”

            “I can’t remember his name.” I have a phone. I have time. I google ‘mean drum teacher film’ and up pops “Whiplash” starring J.K. Simmons.

            “J.K. Simmons!” I announce, pleased to have accomplished something easily.

            “Oh, yeah, you’re right,” Ian nods.

            “Minnie Chan?” JK has found her. She’s 90 pounds in a pale green mini skirt, her frail bare legs ending in pink flip flops. “You can take this vehicle, but you’re responsible for it.”

            He points to an enormous SUV black monstrosity. Minnie nods, but I can sense her fear. Could she really drive such a vehicle?

            Yet, how long has Minnie been waiting? Hours.

            She takes it.

            JK yells for the next customer.

            A plump, exhausted woman motions at our bench. “May I?”

            Ian moves over, “Of course.”

            She plops down. “Wow. It’s a zoo here today.”

            “You can say that again,” I agree.

            “Where you from?” she asks.

            We tell her the SF Bay Area. Turns out she’s from Concord. We trade banalities about geography.

            “LAMBTON!!! IAN! LAMBTON!!!” JK bellows.

            “Here, here!” Ian rises, waving his arm.

            JK approaches. “Listen, I don’t have the economy car you ordered, but I tell you what I’m gonna do.”

            He points to a beautiful white convertible Mustang.

            “You want it?”

            We both break into big grins. “YES!!!” I cry.

            Concord Woman whoops. “Look at you! A Mustang convertible for Paradise!”

            And as we roll our bags over to the Mustang my grin grows wider and wider. Things are certainly looking up now!

            A Mustang convertible!

            We plop our luggage in the trunk and climb into the car. Ian presses a button. The top floats up and down. And we’re off. Out of the reality of Dollar Rent a Car and into the fantasy of Hawaii!

            Alooohaaaa!

           

           

Nothing to Do

 

http://www.lisegagne.com  Lise Gagne.

Marching along Downer Street, I spy two senior women getting into a bright blue sedan. They look the same: curly short gray hair, thick glasses, strange stripped sweaters. Lovers? Friends? Sisters?

            I remember how my Grandma Birdie and her sister, Aunt Tea, lived together for decades after their husbands were no longer in the picture. They, too, looked the same. As a kid, I just saw two old ladies, yelling at the televised baseball games, TV trays filled with Aunt Tea’s delicious cooking. And, I’ll always remember them yelling: “Those Damn Dodgers!”

            So, today, as I approach these two old ladies, I wonder if they’re sisters like Birdie and Tea.

            Their house is across the street from the Barking Dog. Granted there are a LOT of barking dogs on my walks, but this one is especially ferocious and loud. It’s a Shephard mix and a young dog. Whenever I pass, and now I cross the street, it sets off in a tremendous frenzied barking.

            I hate it.

            As I pass the two ladies, I try to joke about it, “That dog has a lot to say.”

            One of them looks straight at me through her thick glasses, shaking her head, the short gray hair not moving an inch from a recent trip to the beauty parlor or a lot of White Rain. “And nothing to do!” she quips. “That’s the problem!”

            I laugh softly, agreeing, as I continue past them. The dog still barking its head off. And I think, yes. This is probably just what the problem is. The dog needs a job. It needs purpose in its life. Without this, it will just release all the working energy with maniacal barking.

            Poor dog.

            I do feel a little sorry for it now. It’s not its fault that it has nothing to do. I remember back to the day when before I reached the Barking Dog’s house, I saw its owner getting into a dilapidated Toyota. Another old lady. She nodded at me as the dog started in on its barking.

            “Your dog has a lot of energy,” I’d commented to her.

            “Yes,” she’d said, “it’s the breed.” And she told me a breed that I’d never heard of so now I forget. Some sort of Shephard mix.

            “What’s its name?” I’d asked, trying to humanize the beast.

            “Tasha.”

            “Oh, Tasha.” I had nodded, called out to the dog. “Hi Tasha!”

            WOOOOOFFFFFF WOOOOFFFF WOOOFFFFF! Tasha had replied.

            I had hurried away.

            Today, I know that the dog is lonely and bored. With no purpose. Like a lot of people. What do we do if we have no purpose?

            Bark a lot?

            Some people do. They just can’t shut up. But others retreat into themselves, holed up in their homes, binge watching Netflix.

            I feel sorry for these people. Yet, what can I do? If a dog needs something to do, then yes, the owner can help provide this. Take it on walks. Throw Frisbees for it to catch. Take it to a farm and let it herd some sheep.

            But people?

            This is harder. Of course, I think everyone’s purpose should just be whatever makes them happy, but this is a hard one to determine.

            Not everyone has swimming and writing and music like I do.

            I’m the lucky one.

            Or maybe luck has nothing to do with it.

            As I turn the corner onto 28^th street, I can still hear Tasha barking. The two old ladies pass me in the blue sedan. I watch as they turn left on Grant Street and head down toward 30^th Street. I wonder what they are doing today? They seem full of purpose and determination. I bet they have a full packed day with plenty to do. ...And very little barking!

She Understands ‘Cookie’

 

She’s bent over a tacky birdbath, painted a hideous green with two fake hummingbirds on its sides, yanking up the overgrowth of weeds. At least 120 years old, gray hair frazzled down the back of her neck, a hippy floral print smock dress on, she rises to see me passing. A missing tooth smile and a wave; I stop.

            Spying a large gray and white tuxedo cat behind her, I grin, pointing at the feline. “You have a cat!” Previously, I’d only seen her with the cancer-ridden 3-legged dog which was nowhere in sight. I could only surmise that it’d met its maker.

            “A what?” she hollers at me now.

            “A CAT!” I motion again at the grooming kitty behind her on the front porch.

            “A CAT?” she seems puzzled, then turns around, sees the cat, and turns back to me, grinning. “Oh, that’s Lily. She follows me everywhere I go. At night, she is on the bed with me, sleeps in my arms, during the day she is always underfoot. And she loves cookies! I ask her, ‘Lily, want a cookie?’ and she jumps around my legs, reaching for it.”

            “Ah, she understands English!” I offer, thinking of how my friend CM had a cat who understood the word ‘avocado.’ Every time CM would say the word ‘avocado’ the cat, Rusty, would come running. Not only was it amazing that Rusty understood the word avocado, but I’d never met a cat who liked avocados!

            “She does!” Lily’s mom beams, proud parent of a linguistically prow child. “And that’s not all! She understands some other words too.”

            “Like what?”

            “Oh, I don’t know. I think she understands cookie best though.” She stands for a moment, staring off into space. I wonder what is going through her mind. Does she remember me from previous conversations about the 3-legged dog? I recall a day when I had marched past her, 3-legged on a leash, balancing precariously, staring at me. “She’s not barking at you!” Old Woman had marveled. “Yes, well, she knows me,” I had said, secretly thrilled that at least one dog in the neighborhood knew me well enough to not bark at me. Or maybe this dog was just too sick and old to be bothered.

Now, she turns around and asks the cat, her voice serious. “What else do you understand, Lily?”

            The cat stops her grooming for a moment, seeming to think on the question, before turning back to a spot on her haunch that she didn’t quite finish.

            Lily’s mom nods. She knows what Lily’s thinking. There is interspecies communication going on here. And I remember how my piano student, M, told me one day how she wished she understood cats. “But one day, Miss Carol, we’ll understand Cat Language, and won’t that be awesome!”

            Indeed, it would, as I wave goodbye to Lily and her mom, who resumes her backbreaking task of weed yanking. The cat still focused on grooming. The crows cawing overhead. Another day in the neighborhood.

           

The Dog

 

“Is everything okay?” I stop my march down Roosevelt when I notice the teenager’s stopped his bike at the corner of 43^rd street. I’d seen him pass me a minute earlier, ubiquitous white ear buds, white hoodie with some indecipherable name on the front, wire rimmed glasses,  young. Maybe 17?18? 

            He turns to me, worry on his unlined face, his dark eyes wide behind his glasses. “That dog….in the car…” He motions to a large SUV parked on 43^rd street, the windows cracked. “I’m worried about it. It’s chained to the steering wheel….”

            His voice trails off. But I can sense the real anxiety he has for this dog. People are so stupid with their pets! Why did someone leave their dog in a parked car chained to the steering wheel?

            “Well,” I venture, “at least it’s not hot out since it’s almost dark. So, the dog won’t suffocate from being locked inside a car.”

            He nods, slowly, “Yeah…. that’s true. But can you see? He is chained to the steering wheel. I wonder who he belongs to?”

            I glance at the house on the corner, dilapidated and scary. There are always weird guys outside working on their cars, drinking beer, shouting. I’ve seen their dogs chained to the banister of the stairs in front of the house or to one of their trucks. The dogs are always big, scared, and aggressive, barking at me as I pass.

            Today, there aren’t any dogs chained outside or any guys hanging around fixing cars. It’s just a quiet, scary looking house.

            I know the dog chained to the steering wheel must belong to someone in this house. It’s just the kind of thing they’d do. Leave a poor dog, unattended, inside a parked car.

            “I imagine,” I tell the worried boy now, “that this dog belongs to someone in that house.” I point toward the scary house. “You could ask.”

            He gulps, knowing intuitively that knocking on that door would be a mistake. I’m sure as hell not gonna knock on the door. Yet what to do about this poor dog now?

            “I’m on my way to Target,” he says, “so if the dog is still here when I ride back, I’ll ask.”

            We both know that he won’t. Or maybe he might. Or I’m sure he’s hoping that when he rides back the dog will be gone, out of the car, safely inside the house.

            Yet would anyone be safe in that house? I imagine it’s full of trash and loud big screen TVs with ugly, worn couches and clothes strewn all over the floor. There’d be discarded pizza boxes on the coffee table and used cigarette butts smashed into dirty saucers. The air would be close and dark.

            I shiver as I imagine. The boy is by the car window now, looking at the poor dog, which I can’t really see. I’m afraid of the dog. Who knows if it’s friendly. And if it belongs to one of the guys in the house, it’s probably untrained or if it is trained, it’s trained to attack lone blonde ladies or teenage boys who get too close.

            Suddenly, the door to the creepy house opens and out steps a scruffy, scrawny middle-aged white guy with a cell phone in his hand. Without thinking, I holler at him, “IS THIS YOUR DOG LOCKED IN THE CAR?”

            He glares at me, pulling on a cigarette. “Yeah, I was just coming out to git it.”

            The boy glances over at me. Is he relieved? Or even more worried?

            But what can we do? I don’t stick around to watch the scary guy come down the steps toward the trapped dog. The boy takes off on his bike.

            And the dog? Hopefully, it’s okay and out of the car at least.

            As I walk quickly down Roosevelt, I take a deep breath. A lone crow caws overhead, then flaps away into the dusky sky. I don’t glance back as I turn up 44^th Street, heading toward Wilson, the night closing in on me.

Dancin in the Streets!

 

Marching up 32^nd street on a cloudy Saturday morning, I cross Roosevelt after looking both ways. As I start up the final block before McBryde, I see them up ahead. In the middle of the street. Two columns of dancers, practicing a routine. Their dance looks like something out of a Jane Austin movie, with turns, stomps and syncronicity. As I get closer, I see that it’s a group of young men, maybe in their late teens or early twenties. They are all dressed nearly the same—black slacks, fancy vests, white shirts. Their dark heads twirl and their hands are folded neatly behind their backs.

            It’s a fancy dance with much ritual and form.

            “Uno…..dos….tres!” the leader calls out and they all fall into the rhythm until one of them doesn’t. Then they break into a gleeful group laugh, patting each other on the back, before lining up again in their parallel columns.

            What could they be practicing for? I wonder. It is a sister’s wedding? A fiesta for a friend arriving from out of town?

            As I come up beside them, I can’t hide my huge grin of delight. One of them gives me the peace sign. Who the hell uses the peace sign anymore? These kids (okay, young men) are from an era way after the Summer of Love. Maybe the peace sign has come back into vogue?

            I give the peace sign back. They all start laughing. One of them shouts, “Good morning!”

  

          “Good morning!” I holler back. “Buenas dias!” I shout for good measure.

            They all chorus “Buenas dias!” at me, their exhuberance ringing out into the street.

            No neighbors are out watching. This is odd with such a show. But maybe everyone is off on their Saturday errands. They’re at Home Depot. They’re scouring garage sales. They need to shop at Safeway. Or, everyone is inside, engrossed in their phones and their enormous TVs, watching Netflix or playing dinosaur games on huge consuls.

            As I pass them, I hear the rhythm being called out again: “Uno!... Dos!... Tres!” They start the routine again. This time it’s in sync. They’re looking good. It’s almost time for the celebration.

            Whatever that may be.

            For me, the celebration has begun my day. It all seems like a dream as I head up the street and turn left onto McBryde. I see Luna, the large white husky, and her owner, the super polite young man up ahead. Do I tell them about the dancing?

            Nah.  I turn down 31^st street before meeting them. I’m humming a tune that is in my head, the melody one that comes to me out of the foggy morning: “Uno…dos…tres….Peace… today….peace!”

            Grinning to myself, I continue down 31^st, searching for the gray plush cat in her overgrown garden of california drought resistant foliage. She’s nowhere to be found, but that’s okay as a brisk breeze hits me in the face and I quicken my step.

Things Are Getting Better!

“She didn’t bark at you!” Her shriveled face beams at me as she points to the 3-legged cancer dog squatting on the dead lawn. And, she’s right. Usually, the decrepit dog barks and barks and barks as I walk up 32^nd Street on my morning walk. But today, she doesn’t. It’s a miracle!

            “Things are getting better!” Shriveled Woman calls out to me as I march past.

            “Yes!” I agree, but actually, I think the dog was just distracted by the cat, Smokey, that I’d  been petting. Smokey is a handsome devil. Gray and sleek with a dazzling purrsonality. I’d been petting him when a car pulled up into the driveway in front of me. I tall, middled aged white guy emerged, “Hey, Smokey! C’mere!”

            “Is he your cat?” I’d asked.

            He shook his head; I could feel the disdain oozing off of him. “No, he’s everyone’s cat!”

            “Ah, he’s his own man!”

            “Yes, exactly…..Smokey, c’mere!” he commanded, acting like Smokey was his cat. Yet, Smoky began a slow saunter toward him, then sat down and started to lick his butt, proving once and for all that he was indeed his own man.  

            As I continue up the street, leaving the neighbors to continue the pet party, I wonder to myself if Shriveled Woman might, in fact, be right. That everything was getting better!

            Such as?

            For one—my sleep! This entire week the heinous insomnia had not attacked. And without this chronic sleep deprivation, I felt so much better! I had energy to go on these morning walks without dragging myself out of the house; I had energy to swim without feeling like my limbs were tree trunks; I had energy to write stories and proof my novel and answer email and work with students and play the piano and read, read read! So, yes, things were much better this week because of being able to sleep.

            What could be better than this?

            The weather! The sun came out today. And the wind has died down. This is better! After all, it is summer! In the past, I always believed that summer was the pinnacle of all the other seasons. Part of me still feels this way. I like being warm! But now, with climate change, the summers are tinged with a darker energy. Wildfires. Drought. And the anxiety that comes with these summertime ills.  I don’t feel as buoyant in the summer as I used to. However, today, since it’s been so foggy, windy, and cold for weeks, the sun’s warm and the mild temperatures do seem better!

            Finally, what could be better than going for a walk without dogs barking at you? I get so tired of jumping out of my skin when a nasty cascade of barking startles me from behind a fence. I know where all these potential bark hazards are on my neighborhood walk, and I give these fences a wide berth. But today as I walk past the usual bark-a-thon at the corner of Downer and 28^th Street, no barking! What? Do I have on an anti-barking cloaking device today? These dogs always snarl and bark at me in a most dastardly way, their big wet black noses and sharp teeth digging under the fence as they voice their intent to eat me. And, while I usually walk across the street, today it was so lovely to just walk by and smell the sweet flowers of the lemon tree blooming outside their fence, without their usual menace.

            I come up to my final turn at 32^nd Street. Here’s the last test. Will these dogs bark?

            “WOOOOFFF WOOOOFFF GGRRRRRROOOOWLLL!” And then a woman’s voice:    “NO! Stop it. That is our neighbor. She’s nice!”

            I can’t help but laugh. The anti-barking cloak isn’t foolproof.         

            As I hurry past this last dog hurdle, stepping down my street, I hear Murry, my effervescent mockingbird singing to me.

            He doesn’t stop as I put the key in the front door, pausing for a moment to gaze up to the telephone pole where he’s perched. Yup, he’s right. Time for a song. Always! Things are getting better!