Twins

 They say everyone has a twin. And, while I know this is predictably true on The Young and the Restless, (the current twin is Hillary’s long-lost sister, Amanda), it’s weird when it happens in real life.

            Or is it only my imagination?

            This morning, Christmas Eve Day, I’m walking my usual route, avoiding the barking dogs that I know are lurking behind the high red fence with the lemon tree in front, when I see Evie and Nash. Or I think it’s them. I see them on the dog barking side of the street, and I’m ready to greet them with a hearty, Merry Christmas, when I stop myself. They’re closer now and I can see that it’s not Evie. But her twin. Or from a distance she looks like a twin. But really, it’s the dog that fooled me—that grey Pitbull with his hangdog aspect is a dead ringer for Nash.

            But he’s not Nash.

            And, she’s not Evie.

            We just exchange quiet “Good mornings” before going our separate ways. And I remember how I have had many instances of being a twin myself.

            On my pandemic pacings, a few times, this woman has stopped her Blue Rav-4 and hollered out her window at me, “KENDALL! HEY, Kendall!!!!!”

            This has happened a couple of times, so I must really look like Kendall. I’d like to be Kendall. She was such a great character on All My Children. Did she have a twin on that show? I can’t remember, but she was a force to be reckoned with as Erica Kane’s daughter.

            I have had to tell the Kendall Lady that I’m not Kendall a few times now. She is always so embarrassed and disappointed. “Oh…. I’m so sorry…. you look just like her.”

            I think, how can that be? I think I’m unique looking with my big turquoise hat, red ear muffs, and sticking up blond hair. But evidently, there’s someone else in my neighborhood with the same ensemble.

            Or when I was teaching in China many many many years ago and my students said I looked just like Jennifer Lopez. Okay, sure, I wish I looked like J. Lo, but I’m about as far from her twin as two women could be. With her sexy Latina swagger and dramatic persona, well, a blonde professor from a private university in California is hardly her twin. Yet my students continued to say this the entire time I was there.

            All non-Chinese look the same?

            That could be part of it I suppose.

            Who knows? But I do like the twins I’m mistaken for, Kendall and J. Lo. I mean, who wouldn’t?

            My real ‘twin’ is my younger sister, PJ. When we went on a vacation to Cabo Del San Jose and performed water ballet antics in the pool with the swim-up bar, everyone thought we were twins. And yes, this was a bit closer. We are sisters after all and we did have identical match turquoise blue suits.

            Yet, we’re not really twins. We are our own unique selves.

            Twins. Let’s stick to the ones on the soaps. Hillary and Amanda. Cassie and Mariah. Adam and Stewart.

            Now there’s a classic twin! I miss that AMC.

            As I march down 29^th street wondering what the twins I just passed are doing for their holiday, I have to grin to myself. No one is doing anything for the holiday this year. We’re all just walking the dog.

            Even if we don’t have one.

            Merry Christmas!

Our Everything

I spot her a block up ahead of me. A small red-clad figure coming toward me? Or away from me? It’s hard to tell. My strategy for walking depends on this projected direction. If coming toward me, then I’ll definitely cross the street to avoid contact. If going the same direction as I am, well then it depends on the speed. I could catch up if the person is slow-moving. And then, I’d have to cross the street anyway.

            Ugh. I am so sick of it. All the effort it takes to avoid contact. Not that I’m big on contact in the first place. I am not one to frequent crowded situations: concerts, (unless it’s Trifovov playing Rachmaninoff with the SF symphony); shopping venues (I have to go to Safeway every week, but I’ve always loathed it); elevators (don’t even get me started on being trapped in a jammed elevator!). So, when I have to maintain my distance from people during this pandemic, I mostly am okay with it.

            Still…it’s exhausting. Having to analyze your next move to avoid people.

            Now I see I’m gaining on the red clad figure. It’s small and hunched over with bright orange yellow hair. A dye job gone bad. Is it Mrs. Claus?

            I’m going to just call her that. I’m distracted for a moment by a swooping sparrow, landing in a tidy little bush with pink flowers. It chirps and rustles in the bush, busy with its bird day. I glance back up the street. See Mrs. Claus has disappeared. Where’d she go? Off to make some cookies? Wrap some gifts? Wake up Santa?

            Nope, she’s just in the driveway of one of the nondescript homes of 32^nd street. A dead lawn as the front yard, the trees sad sticks, leafless in the pale December morning light, the house itself a boring grey or beige paint job.

            “C’mere you!” I hear her call out as she squats down to peer under a parked car.

            The Tabby scurries away, its eyes bright with terror. I’d be scared too if Mrs. Claus was calling for me and all I wanted to do was hang out, groom my ears, watch the birds.

            I wave, smile, laugh a little.

            “He’s a Scaredy Cat!” Mrs. Claus announces.

            “Yes, well, he’ll come back,” I assure her, not sure at all that this will be the case as the cat takes off for the house next door.

            Is it her cat? Or the neighbor’s cat? Or actually, as all of us cat owners know, he is his own cat!

            Unlike dogs. They belong to their humans. The other morning, I ran into Evie and Nash, the two I’d announced Biden and Harris’ victory to last month.

            “How ya doin’, Sweetie?” Evie calls out, friendly as ever. She stops for a moment, socially distanced, of course, to chat. I love it that she calls me Sweetie!

            “I’m okay,” I grin, glancing at Nash with his muzzle on. He looks miserable. But he’ll put up with it for her. Dogs. They live to please their owners, right? Or at least this is the general consensus. I smile at the dog, “He’s so cute,” I lie, not telling her how he really looks miserable.

            “Yeah, he is,” she says, bending down to give him a big side rib rub. The dog responds with a weak tail wag. “Our animals are Our Everything!” she proclaims.

            “Oh, yeah,” I agree. “Even when they are little terrors. I have a cat at home who is a menace!”

            She chuckles. “Me too! Nash and I have to get out of the house and take a walk just to get some peace from her!”

            We both laugh, “Yes, well, I understand. Even though pets are our everything, sometimes we need a break!”

            “Ain’t that the truth!” she chuckles, starting to walk on. Nash turns his head to watch me, mournfully eyeing my start in the opposite direction. Or am I just anthropomorphizing? Maybe he just wants me to pet him or talk to him or play with him? Somehow, he doesn’t look up for play time.

            “Have a great day,” I call after her.

            “You too, Sweetie, you too,” she answers, pulling out her phone and beginning to scroll.

            I could write about the phone scrolling phenomenon on walks, but that’s another story. Today it’s all about the animals. And it’s true. Where would we be without them?

            Very lonely. Very bored. And dare I say, very purposeless?

            Yes. It’s true. And while caring for an animal isn’t life’s only purpose. It’s one of the more joyful purposes of life.

            Besides walking.

            And writing.

            And swimming.

            And….?

            You fill in the blank. What gives you joy? Purpose? In this pandemic, it’s often easy to forget the little things that keep us going.

            I press on, turn the corner at McBryde and march up the street, another busy bird swooping in front of me, landing on a branch, and taking up song.      

Child of the Maharajah

“Helloooo! Hellllooooo! Hellllooo!!!!”

At first I think it’s a cat. The sound has a meow quality to it. But then I see a dark curly head popping out of the sunroof of a parked car.

            It’s a kid, not a cat. And a little one at that!

            Weird day. Weird wind blowing furiously, hot and angry. Red Flag Warning. COVID 19 surges overrunning the hospitals. Only a small percentage of ICU beds left in the Bay Area.

            Yet, still I walk. Like I’ve said before, what else can I do?

            The kid continues to call out to me. His little voice floating through the dry winds. I’m across the street. Keeping my distance. Yet he’s undaunted: “Heeellloooo! Hellloooo!”

          

  The car is parked in front of the Maharajah Residence. Of course, the Maharajah Residence of Richmond is a little different than the one in India. The Taj Mahal it ain’t. Yet there is a royal presence to it, Richmond Style. Two-story imposing grey rectangular structure with “Maharajah Residence” written on a plaque over the front door.  A heavy, burgundy front door adorned with bright flowers and wiry sculptures. There is no front yard, only a driveway fronting the 3-car garage. For months, I’ve been walking past it, noting the imposing edifice of this palace, but have never seen anyone there. Not out front taking in trash cans. (Oh, I’m betting the Maharajah of Richmond probably has servants to do this!) Not anyone getting in or getting out of the parked cars, which are a blend of nondescript understated wealth---Nissans, Lexus, Mercedes….

            Till today, with the child.

            No one else is around. The kid is just standing up on the front seat of the white Lexus, poking his head out the sunroof. His hellos don’t ring of distress, but merely of greeting.

            But where are its parents?

            Of course, the car has tinted windows when I slow my pace and try to see if anyone is in the car with the kid. I don’t see anyone.

            The kid continues to greet me.

            “Hellloooo! Helllooo!”

            He’s a stuck record. Finally, I respond, “Hello!”

            He stops his mantra and grins at me. I wave at him, wondering what the hell he’s doing out here by himself. Is his mom inside just gathering her purse, keys, and other stuff before heading off on some errand? Yet with the Surge, today is the first day of the new enforced restrictions. No one is supposed to be out unless it’s essential.

            I’m out. But my walk is essential!

            Should I go over and investigate? See if the child is okay?

            He seems fine. Grinning broadly at me.

            Maybe he’s got COVID and the Maharajah is keeping him quarantined in the Lexus? This doesn’t seem likely, but hell, these are strange times.

            But would the son of royalty be banned to a quarantine in a car on the streets of Richmond? Wouldn’t he have his own private palace to quarantine in, with servants in beautiful masks and plenty of streaming entertainment and video games?

            Who knows? Once again, I encounter a small situation on my walk that I’ll never know the answer to. Yet the child by himself does seem wrong.

            What can I do?

            I could go over and ask the child where his parents are. But he’s a little kid. The only word he may know is ‘Hello’. Or I could knock on the door and see if anyone is home and are they aware that the child is out in the car by himself. Maybe he’s an escapee?

            This seems unlikely too. Like I said, he’s little. And, I’m afraid. Of COVID. What a world we live in now, where we won’t even knock on someone’s front dear for fear of death!

            I’m assuming the keys aren’t in the ignition! A flash of some highly inappropriate car commercial pops into my brain. Two kids are in separate cars, racing and sideways driving. I don’t know how this will sell cars, but it struck me as highly wrong. Kids driving cars. Isn’t that a bit, I dunno, STUPID!!!!????

            I have to think that this kid hasn’t the keys to the vehicle. Or if he did, he’s too little to figure out how to operate the car. That he’s just hanging out waiting for his mom to gather her stuff to take him with her for some essential errand.

            I walk on.

            “Goodbye…goodbye…goodbye!”

            He does know more than one word. Hello. Goodbye. What more do you need?

            Especially during a pandemic. These two words kinda cover it.

            Unless you want to include Apocalypse.

            “GOODBYE!” I wave, tromping on. His voice floats after me, “HElllooooo! Hellooo! Goodbye…Goodbye…..”

            I cross Esmond and it fades away, the wind gusts in my face, and I walk on.

           

 

 

Polo Jacket

 

“Do you know anyone who wants a Polo Jacket?” He thrusts a bright blue puffy jacket up into the air, toward me. His partner is silent, her heavily masked head making no acknowledgment of his offer or my presence.

            I’d seen the pair of them up ahead, meandering down the center of 31^st street, dressed in black. Oh, shit, I’d thought to myself. More interactions with strange people.  Am I biased at this point? You bet I am! All I seem to encounter lately on my pandemic pacings are strange people. And these two, him with the Polo Jacket offering, and her with her detached aspect, swinging an old-fashioned black purse at her side, her bright white socks in her sandals the only lightness, are no exception.

When I spied them, I thought not only were they strange, but there was really no way to avoid them. Sure, I could have turned around and marched back down the street, but frankly, this gets so tiresome. Avoiding people. I mean, I already have to avoid everyone cuz of the pandemic, crossing the street, maintaining that social distance. Do I really want to heighten this avoidance?        

Besides, it’s a story.

Back to the Polo Jacket. What is a Polo Jacket even? Something you wear when playing polo? And who plays polo in Richmond? Isn’t it one of those upper-class British sports where they ride around on horses on lush green lawns with a stick and a ball? Like hockey for rich people?

Or am I, as usual, just being too literal? Maybe it’s just called a polo jacket and it has nothing to do with polo at all.

Or maybe he’s just got the name wrong?

Or who cares what it’s called?

Yet, the name adds to the weirdness of the exchange. He didn’t just show me the jacket and ask if I needed a coat? No, he was very specific. Did I know anyone who needed a Polo Jacket.

Well, I don’t. And I told him so.

He continued to amble toward me with his offering. But he was moving slowly. I quickly marched past the two of them, wishing them a good rest of the day. They continued on down the middle of the street. No following here. And I think to myself, where did the jacket come from? Did he find it on the street? (It had that look to it.) Or was he cleaning out his closet and didn’t want to make a trip to the Goodwill? And, was he giving it away or selling it?

So many questions that I’ll never have the answer to. Yet as I walk on, the morning too bright with sun and heat for December, I think to myself, they have a day ahead of them. Wandering the streets of Richmond trying to pawn off a Polo Jacket.

My life is such a breeze compared to this, right? I have a house with a cat and many jobs and friends and family that even though I’m relegated to seeing them on ZOOM, I’m grateful to have. Not to say that this pair didn’t have all of this, too. I can’t make that assumption that they don’t even though they’re wandering down the street with a polo jacket mission.

I turn the corner at McBryde, admiring the bright yellow Ginkgo tree booming, its leaves still on its branches, its light still intact. 

Thinking about the day ahead, I breathe in the too dry air. Today is another day, another one with the pandemic raging and the pools closed. But at least I’m not wandering the streets of Richmond with a Polo Jacket offering.

Though when I think about it, since I’m always so cold, maybe I do need one.

A neighbor is rolling out his garbage bins; he doesn’t notice me. What a relief, I think as I continue down 32^nd street, the sun on my back and the breeze in my hair.

CREEPY!!!

 

I recognize the beat-up pickup, its back bed filled with junk: plastic tubs, a rake, bags of fertilizer, dead branches from trees gone by. It’s my neighbor, from up my street. The truck has rumbled to a stop in the middle of the intersection, 35^th and Solano. He hangs out the driver’s window, his too tanned gnarly face mostly hidden by a grimy blue mask.

            “Hey! How you doing?” he calls out to me.

            “Fine,” I answer, wanting to continue with my walk. The day is quickly losing its light, dusk heavy and grey now.

            “Vanessa and I had a fight,” he hollers at me. I wonder why he’s telling me this? Vanessa must be his wife or partner. I always hear her yelling at the dogs when I walk by his house, “STOP IT BABY!!! That nice lady walks by here every day!!” But I’ve never met her. From the sound of her voice, I wouldn’t want to get in a fight with her.

            “That’s too bad,” I say now, not really knowing how to respond.

            “Do you have room….” He pauses for a moment. I stare at him for a moment. What the hell is he talking about? “I need somewhere to spend the night. Do you have an extra room I could stay in?”

            What the hell? I don’t know this man. Why would he be asking a single woman who lives alone if he could stay with her? It’s creepy! He’s creepy!

            I lie fast: “My partner is staying with me…… I don’t think he’d like it.”

            “Oh….oh…okay….I understand……”  

            Yet I can tell he doesn’t. He really thought he could stay with me? How weird is that? I mean, I don’t know him. Sure, he came down to my house a few weeks ago to cart away some recycling for me. I’d noticed the truck’s plastic booty and had asked him if he could help. “Sure, for $10 I can haul it away for you.”  But then he didn’t. He came over one morning with some big scissor choppers. “Is your can empty?” Can? What can? I don’t know what he’s talking about. “Your recycling ? Is there room?” he asks.  “Uh, yeah…sure,” I show him where the bin is. Then he’d proceeded to chop up the screen door and stuff it in the big blue bin. Hell, I coulda done that, right? Though I didn’t have the big cutters. Still it was weird. I thought he was gonna haul away the door in his truck and instead he’s out on my front lawn swearing at the door as he stomps and chops it into pieces.

            It was strange. But I had just shrugged it off. Not a big deal, right?

            Yet, today, when he stops me and asks me to stay at my place, I’m creeped out. I mean, besides the recycling situation, I had talked to him on occasion like neighbors walking by do. But I often can’t understand him behind his grimy mask. And he gives off a hyper twitchy vibe, like Kramer on Seinfeld. In fact, he kinda looks like Kramer.

            Now, as he drives off, I shiver. Is it the cold or the interaction? I climb up 36^th street quickly. At the top of Clinton Hill, I wonder if I should pause. I usually sit on the curb and take in the view, Mt. Tam, the clouds, birds on telephone wires. But tonight, I just wonder if he will come after me. More following? What is up with these weird men on my walks lately? My weirdo magnet must be working overtime.

            I keep thinking that as I get older, this weirdo magnet will go away, or at least be less attracting. But this isn’t the case. If anything, it’s worse. Are old ladies targets for weird men? Again, it goes back to what I wrote about earlier. How single women are targets. We have to be constantly vigilant. It’s exhausting and nerve-wracking. And unfair! Why should I always have to be looking over my shoulder when I just want to go on a walk in my neighborhood!

             I decide not to pause at the top of Clinton Hill, but hurry back down 36^th and cut up Roosevelt---I want to get home before dark, but also, I want to get away from any potential weirdos.

            I see the truck rumbling toward me. Shit. He’s back!

            He doesn’t stop this time, but leans out the window and hollers something at me. Sounds like, “I found a place”? Or is this just wishful thinking on my part?

            The truck disappears down Roosevelt. I take a deep breath. March on. The sky is grey pinks now, gentle and ethereal.

            I turn down 33^rd street instead of my own 32^nd street. I don’t want to pass by his house even though he was headed in the opposite direction. I’m creeped out.

            Aren’t you?

For the Birds!

 

I see the two ladies, armed linked, still as can be, blocking our path, before I spy what they’re watching. And they must be watching something. They are rapt. Motionless.

            Dusk is quickly enveloping us here on Thanksgiving Day in the Wildcat Canyon. The air is crisp and still; the light is darkening to greys and oranges, the top of the highest hills have just lost their golden sunshine.

            I’m in a rush to get back. I am tired and achy. Not sure why. Maybe I need new shoes? But when we come upon the Watching Ladies, I stop.  Ian pulls up alongside me.

            They must be watching something, but I sure as hell don’t see anything. Of course, like I mentioned, dusk is on the move, so the path’s murky light dims my vision.

            Then we see it. Oh, so cute! A tiny little grey bird, flicking dirt all over itself, wallowing into a small hole it has created. At first, I think maybe it’s injured. It’s so spastic. I glance over at the ladies, “Is it okay?”

            They giggle in unison. “Oh, yes, it is fine. It is taking a dirt bath. That is all!”

            “Ahh….” I nod, “I haven’t seen that before. It’s really cute!”

            “Yes, it is cute!” one of them agrees, her eye twinkling over her mask. Even in the gathering darkness, I can see she’s delighted. Obviously; otherwise, they wouldn’t have stopped here to gaze in wonder at nature’s tiny bath for the locals.

            We try to step quietly, gingerly,  to sneak by the little guy, but he’s either through with his bath, or we startled him. Off he flies, flitting over the dirt path and into the brush.

            “Ohhh….” I cry, “we chased him away.”

            “It is okay,” one of the ladies says, “it will come back.”

            “Or maybe he’s dirty enough?” I offer, giggling.

            They laugh, “Yes….”

            We march on, pausing every once in a while to listen to the “Whooo whoooo who who whoooo,” echoing through the canyon.

            “Ian!” I exclaim. “Do you hear that?”

            “Yup, that’s the Great Horned Owl.”

            “Isn’t it cool?” The echoing calls continue, mysterious conversations in the twilight.

            “Yes, it is. They are having a conversation.”
            “What do you think they’re saying?”

            “Oh,” Ian chuckles and since I can’t remember what he said,  I’m making this dialogue up: “They are probably talking about their day and the night ahead. You know, ‘Yeah, I had a pretty lazy day. I only caught one small mouse and it was not satisfying at all.’”

            “’Well, then, you better work all night to make up for your slim pickings during the day!’”

            I crack up. Ian is so funny. He goes on to talk about the owls and how they are always flying on a mission. They have a destination.

            “Don’t all birds have a destination?” I ask.

            “Well, you see some birds and they seem to be just flying willy nilly back and forth. But not the Great Horned. They have a definite purpose in mind when they take flight.”

            I nod, okay, thinking of all the cute animals that could fall prey to this definite purpose. Nature is harsh this way. It doesn’t take into consideration the cuteness of the animals. They are the prey or they are the predator. That’s it, right?

            Kinda like people?

            I suppose you could categorize people this way. Either people prey upon others, take advantage of others’ weaknesses, or people are the prey, falling under the heavy hammer of the predator. Like the Great Recession Banking situation where the Evil Posers offered innocent, naïve and desperate folks unbelievably low mortgage rates only to have these ‘balloon’ in a short amount of time, causing the ‘prey’ to lose their homes. Predators: Prey. Business in America.

            

            I see another little bird up ahead, doing his dirt bath thing. I pause in mid-step, grabbing Ian’s arm: “Look, another bather!”

            We stand for a moment, watching in silence as the sweet little thing flails about in the dirt.

            I hear another “WHOOO WHOOO WHOOO…..” and shiver.

            “Let’s go,” I pull Ian away. “I don’t want to witness any nature slaying.”

            “I don’t think you would, but sure we can go…” Ian gets my natural inclination to leap to the worse case scenario. Esp when I’m tired, hungry and bathroom deprived. (They’re closed cuz of the Pandemic---a real hardship for me, but this is off the track of the story…)

            I can’t shake the image of a Great Horned Owl swooping down and scooping up this precious little guy. Yet, I know Ian is right. A Great Horned would wait till we’re gone.

            This makes me even sadder!

            We arrive at the car, Ian beeps the lock, another walker passes us with her dog and wishes us a good night.

            I climb into the car, every muscle aching, and sigh. It’s all for the birds, isn’t it? I hear a final "WHOO WHOO WHOO WHO WHO" as I close the door and Ian starts the engine. 

Danger? Or…Just Paranoia?

 

I feel him behind me. My senses finely tuned during these pandemic pacings. You just never know what may be lurking across the street, behind a bush, inside a car.

            He (or she? It’s hard to tell, but the energy is male) is across the street, maybe 50 yards behind me? I can’t tell. But not very close. Yet, close enough that I worry. Dressed in baggy blue jeans, red sweatshirt, black ski cap, and black mask, I can’t really see his face. Still,  I just want to get away from him.

            Why? Of course, there’s the obvious. He could be a COVID Carrier. But also, there is something ominous about him. Maybe it’s the black mask? Yet, everyone wears black masks, you know if they’re cool. Look at Kamala Harris and Joe Biden. Black masks. Cool! 

            Or, am I just being paranoid? I think I am until he crosses the street to walk directly behind me. Now this is weird, right? Everyone crosses the street to get away from each other cuz of COVID,  not cross the street to be nearer to someone.

            So, I cross the street to get away from him. Quicken my pace.

            He follows me. Crosses the street again to follow behind me. Too close.

            Okay, now I’m feeling a bit panicked. Why is he following me? What could he possibly want? It’s not like I have any money on me. Though he wouldn’t know that. Most people probably carry some money on them, even just walking around the neighborhood.

            I’ve been watching too much Noir. It’s not like I’m Lana Turner’s husband with a $10,000 life insurance policy and a Bier Garten Restaurant in Santa Barbara. There’s a motive for a murder.

            I turn the corner at Barrett, trying to lose him. But no, he turns too and continues following me. I hurry up Barrett and turn up 30^th street, glancing around at all the silent houses. Where is everyone? On Zoom? In bed? At the store?

            Yeah, it’s Thanksgiving week and everyone’s shopping. Like there isn’t a worldwide pandemic going on. We’re all just gonna gather together and chow down on turkey and pumpkin pie. When I went to Safeway on Sunday, it was packed with people obviously shopping for the holiday. In their carts: big frozen turkeys, aluminum throwaway pans for roasting, bottles of wine and beer. It’s Thanksgiving. Eat, drink and get Covid?

            Damn! I sure as hell don’t want Covid for the holidays.

            Which is why I’m trying to get away from The Follower, who seems to be gaining on me.

            Shit. What to do?

            Glancing up the empty driveways, I wonder if I can just run up and knock on someone’s door. “Help, Help!!! I’m being followed by a Masked Man. Call the cops!!!”

            But no. No one would open their door to a stranger, right? Not in the best of times and esp. not now with the Virus Surging through the Bay Area, felling folks in record numbers.

            I glance around and he’s still behind me. I turn another corner, up Roosevelt, and then rush down 31^st. I know some people on this street as I hurry down the sidewalk, my heart pounding.

            Is he still there? I look back. I don’t see him.

          

  Squiggy, the black cat, is out on his shady lawn. I pause, kneeling down behind a parked car, “C’mere Squiggy…” He gazes at me, golden eyes bored and placid, then sits down. Starts to groom his face.  I continue crouching, thinking how The Follower can’t see me now. Maybe I’ve given him the slip?

            Finished with his face, Squiggy comes up to me now, doing a head bump into my knee and nearly knocking me over. I start to giggle. “Squiggy! What are you doing?”

            He repeats his knock down bump. I give him a head pat as I keep an eye peeled for The Follower.

            I still don’t see him. He musta continued down Roosevelt.

            Standing now, I sigh, relief washing over me.

            I wait for a few moments as Squiggy continues to bump my leg, then bend down to give him a final pat. “Bye, Squiggy. Thanks for rescuing me!”

            Coming out of the shadows, into the bright mid-morning November sunshine, I shake my head. Was that guy really following me? He sure seemed like it, but I can’t figure out why. He could be some crazy guy, the Walking Wounded as Owen Hill calls them, just fixated on me for no apparent reason. Or he could be some guy just out on a morning stroll like I was. And he just liked to be behind me….why????

            Oh, it was probably nothing. I’m just being paranoid.

            Yet, I can’t shake the feeling of being pursued. Even though this seems farfetched, I can’t figure out why he followed me for so many blocks. I’m not young, or pretty or rich. But I am a woman alone, a small old one at that, which is always a risk. Yet, in broad daylight? In my neighborhood?

            Marching up my front steps, I unlock the door, trying to shake my fear.

            It feels so stupid now. But yet, next time I go on my walk, I’m not going to take that same route.

            Just in case….

Near Miss!

One of my biggest issues with the Pandemic Pacings is remembering to pay attention! I forget that I’m out walking in the middle of the street and a car could run me over. Or that a particular yard may have a ferocious barking dog in it that is ready to jump out and attack me! Or that a silent speedy masked person on a scooter could mow me down?

            What?

            I will grant you that this time, I was NOT paying attention when I started across the street.

            I was distracted by a Tabby Cat!

            Yeah, it’s stupid, but I spied a big tabby sitting on his perch in the window of a house across the street. He was calling to me. Well, at least it seemed that way with his round emerald eyes following my path across the street.

            “TABBY! You’re a PUDDIN!” I called out to him, starting across the street when out of nowhere…..

            The scooter! It was completely silent. One of those that runs on what? Electricity? Must be. That is silent. And it was going fast! I mean, It musta been going at least as fast as the cars that zoom past me. 25 miles an hour? Do scooters go that fast?

            Fortunately, I stopped in time. Before it mowed me down. “WHOOOOAAAAA!” I cried out.

            Scooter Operator made no response. Just plowed ahead, completely oblivious? Probably. Why would they expect a Distracted Tabby Cat Event to happen on their way to wherever?

            I remember when I worked in The City, these scooters were everywhere. Zooming down the sidewalks, causing much fear in pedestrians. I didn’t really have any near misses like I had this morning, but I had read about these accidents in the SF Chronicle. How there were moves to ban them from the sidewalks. To no avail. That people would stop and yell at them to slow down. Yeah, right!

            I had a student at GGU.  From Russian. He rode one of these scooters into class every week. Hop off and balance it against the wall of the classroom. I thought it was kinda cool. But then again, I thought it was kinda weird too. I mean, who rides a scooter into their Graduate Writing Class?
            So, today, when I was nearly mowed down by this scooter, catching my breath as it whizzed by, I counted my blessings. That would have ruined my day if I’d been hit by a scooter! What kind of injuries might I have incurred? Many for sure. Plus, it’d hurt. And I have a very low pain threshold.

            I have to be more careful. I have to pay attention. I’m not in the indoor pool blissfully swimming laps with no hazards to watch for.

            I’m outside. And I’m at risk.

            “Hello!” Two Peas in a Pod hail me from across the street. “How ya doin’?”

            Should I tell them about my Near Miss with the scooter? Warn them? After all they are seniors. Though I bet they don’t cross the street for Tabby Sightings.

            I don’t tell them. Holler back that I’m fine.

            “You think we’ll beat the rain?” he asks, grinning.

            “I can’t wait for the rain!” I yell back.  “But there are still patches of blue. I think we’ll be fine.”

            They nod behind their masks. I hurry down the street, the wind whipping up the leaves into swirling miniature tornados on dead grass lawns. A stray black plastic bag tumbles down the middle of the street.

            I’m distracted. For sure. But from now on, I will try to be more aware of silent scooter hazards.

            Damn, I miss the pool!

I'll Never Know.....

 

“Your father is getting up every morning and unloading the dirty dishes from the dishwasher with his bad back.” Lanky Frustrated Man complains to Sorta Mean Bird Woman as I march past them up 31^st street.

            I can’t hear her response. But he bellows, “I don’t know what it is. I know he’s sleeping a lot….”

            I walk on, wondering, what is the situation he’s describing for all the neighborhood to hear and what is his relationship to her? If he were her sibling, then he’d say ‘our father’ right? Unless of course, they are half-siblings. Then they could share the same mother but have different fathers. Maybe this is the case? There is a definite intimacy between them, a sibling sort of frustration floating through the crisp post rain air.

            Or I suppose he could be some sort of caretaker? Her father has some sort of dementia and his lack of awareness of dirty v. clean dishes is a symptom of this condition? And Lanky Frustrated Man just is at the end of his rope. Wants her to solve the problem? Or at least be aware of it?

            I’ll never know. It’s not like I know these people. Like so many people I see every day on my walks, I know very few of them. There was Evie last week, whom I finally ‘met’ after telling her about Biden’s win. There’s Two Peas in a Pod, whom I finally introduced myself to and they did likewise. Yet, for most of my walks, I just see the same people since I go on the same route and I never know their names or their stories. Sometimes like this morning, I hear a snippet of a story, but I will never know what the real story is. Maybe Sorta Mean Bird Woman is in denial. She doesn’t want to acknowledge how far gone her father is.

            I get this. Denial works wonders a lot of the time. Esp. now. I can go through my day, walking, grading, teaching, swimming (sometimes) and just pretend like everything is okay. That there isn’t a worldwide pandemic killing thousands of people every day. That we don’t have a narcissistic, misogynistic, mendacious dictator in the White House who refuses to concede that he’s lost the election. That there isn’t a real crisis with the planet and the lack of rain here and the too much rain elsewhere. That there isn’t systemic racism and protests running rampant in our streets.

            Yeah, I can pretend that none of this exists. And, yet, it’s there. Hangin’ over me. I feel its heaviness in an unconscious way. It invades my dreams with tidal waves and unmasked crowds.

            As I head across Clinton Street, a murder of big black crows swoops into someone’s cluttered yard. A bonanza of litter and dead furniture and sickly-looking plants. The crows caw and fight over a piece of trash. One triumphs, picking it up in his hard yellow beak and flying up and over the telephone lines to savor it in solitude.

            I think back to the dishwasher and the dirty dishes and part of me gets why this happens. Sometimes whoever had loaded the dishwasher with the dirty dishes cleans them off so well before they’re loaded that honestly you can’t tell if they’ve been washed or not. So, unloading the dishwasher makes sense. It’s just being a helpful member of the household, right?

            Yet, I know that this probably wasn’t the case that was being discussed. And I feel sorry for all parties involved, even Sorta Mean Bird Woman. (I forget why I call her that. She has a bird-like aspect and she isn’t very nice.)

            Okay, maybe I don’t feel that sorry for her.

            Oh, what does it matter! I walk on, the sun bright, the trees dripping with silver water droplets from the night’s little bit of rain. Another crow caws at his ‘friends’ before jumping in front of me with his treasure of trash in his beak.

            I smile to myself as I head up toward McBryde, waving to a Random Dog Walking Lady who seems to recognize me. Her wave is hopeful and friendly, and I think, I wonder what her story is.

            I’ll never know…..

Kill Her or Killer?

“I’ve been looking at Zillow.  I get their listings in my email all the time. And I saw this houseboat in Alameda for $350,000, 2 bedroom, 2 bath, and I was thinking how great that would be if you lived on a houseboat and you could just jump into the bay….”

            “I don’t want to live on a houseboat.” I am so cranky. The bay is too cold to swim in---56 degrees today---and I’m sick of walking because of the goddamn pandemic and there’s another surge now so the hopes that the indoor pools would open by the time it gets cold for the winter are utterly and completely dashed, drowned, kaput.

            “It’s too cold!” I mutter as we tromp up 31^st street, the crisp morning air should be a delicious wake up for me, but instead, I’m just very very cranky. We usually swim in Keller Cove on Wednesday mornings, but not today. Like I said, the water is too cold.

            “Arrrfff arrrrfffff arrrfffff!” a yap emits from behind a screen door. Disheveled blue robe man, with wild grey hair sticking up on all sides, thick glasses, ratty slippers, appears on the porch, jabbing a huge American flag in our faces.

            “Kill her!” he hollers.

            Kill her? What have I done? I know I’m cranky, but is murder the only solution?

            “Stop barking!” he commands, jousting with the flag, like he’s landed at Iwo Jima and is gonna plant it in our faces.

            I start laughing. What else can I do? The scene is so hilarious. “KILLER!” he commands again and this time I think he’s saying ‘Killer’. Like the dog’s name is Killer?

            Good name for a yapper, esp. one that belongs to a patriotic soldier dressed in blue.

            “Well, I just thought that it’d be a cool thing to have the bay right there,” Ian continues, totally oblivious to the Killer scene?

I turn toward him as we continue our march up the street, leaving Flag Man behind. “Wait a minute,” I interrupt, “we need to analyze that Killer Bathrobe Man situation first.”

Ian’s game for any analysis. “I think the dog’s name is killer and he was just telling it to stop barking.”

            “Okay, but what if he was telling the dog, whose name is inconsequential, to Kill Her, meaning me?”

            “Why would he do that?”

            “I don’t know. He could feel my cranky energy and thought I deserved to die by the teeth of a vicious little beast? Or he was in attack mode in his mind, landing in enemy territory and saw us coming up the street and thought we were the enemy? Or…..”

            Ian shakes his head, mulling over my speculations. And, I admit, it’s all a bit ridiculous. But what was up? Why joust the flag at us? Were we somehow unamerican? Did he know we voted for Biden and not Trump, his hero? Why do I think he was a Trump supporter? The flag? What is it about the American flag that seems so threatening to me?

            I remember when I came back from China. And 911 had just happened. And everywhere I went there were American flags flying---off people’s cars; in people’s house windows; on every street corner. It was scary. I wanted to go back to China. Or at least put the Chinese flag in my window.

            Of course, I didn’t.  Rabid Patriotism is nothing to take lightly. People kill over it.

            And, here I am back to Kill her.

            What is it about the energy today from this cartoonish little man that was so threatening, but at the same time, hilarious?

            We are in very strange times. The election is over, but Trump refuses to concede. The pandemic surges continue to climb and kill (again, the theme of killing comes up), and the racial unrest and protests continue in the streets.

            There is a lot to be worried about.

            And, I can’t swim! I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I feel like killing someone.

            “I know a houseboat may be just a fantasy…..”

            “Where would I put the grand piano?” I demand.

            “That’s a good point…”

            We cross Clinton as a big black car guns its accelerator, speeding toward us way too fast.  

            Kill Her! I think as I scurry across the street, my heart racing. The woman with the two Scottie dogs walks by, completely oblivious to everything. A couple of crows swoop down and pick up trash off the asphalt. I sigh aloud as we march up 31^st street. 

And it's just another day, another walk, another story in the neighborhood. I'm not killed yet. Maybe a houseboat isn't such a bad idea.....I grin to myself, gazing up at the puffy Constable clouds as we cross Esmond and head toward McBryde.