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?