Miss No Name

 

“Is that your kitty?”

I’d paused for a moment on the sidewalk after watching the driver of a white Toyota painfully try to park in the driveway, grinding the gears, inching forwards and backwards, trying to get as close to the low cement wall as possible. Maybe to make room for another vehicle?

The compact man in a navy hoodie who now emerged from the Toyota grinned at me.  I pointed to a brown tabby cat that had appeared at just the same moment as he had left his car.

Shaking his head, his smile broadened, “No, she’s not mine. She belong across the street. She has two brothers, a black and white one and a black one. I feed them, put the food out,” he pointed toward his porch where several empty cat dishes were scattered.

A nasty cold wind with a smattering of moisture blew at us. Not rain exactly. But cold and wet. We both held on to our hoodies till the gust passed.

“What’s her name?” I asked, as the kitty wound around under the car, rubbing her lips on the tires, the edge of the concrete wall.

“She has no name,” he shrugged. “She’s a cat. She doesn’t need a name.”

“Or she has her own name that we don’t know because she is a cat!” I exclaim.

He laughed. “Yeah…. if she were a dog, she’d have a name.”

I bent down to try to get the tabby to come to me, extending my hand, fingers pointed in her direction for sniff. But she was coy. Coming forward a bit, then retreating as soon as I tried to pet her.

“She’s shy!” I laughed.

“She’s a cat,” he shrugged. “If she were a dog, she’d be….” Suddenly at a loss for words, he bent down slightly, crouching like a dog, sniffing the air, hands waving excitedly. “She’s be all over us!”

“Yes!” I agreed, thinking of the dogs I knew. How they had no qualms about jumping all over complete strangers. Earlier I had run into my piano student and his mom, pushing a blue baby stroller with their little fluffy white dog in it, I had bent down to pet the dog and she was so excited, turning around and around in frantic circles in her baby carriage, jumping at me, licking me. I was her best friend and she’d never met me before.

Whereas Miss No Name wasn’t anyone’s best friend upon first meeting. I was going to have to court her.

Trying again, I squatted on the sidewalk, trying to move toward her without falling over. Another gust of frigid water wind hit me in the face, making my balance even more perilous. “C’mere, Kitty,” I coaxed.

Compact Man just watched, grinning.

After about 30 seconds, she came up to me. Allowed a small pat on the top of her head, before scurrying away.

Laughing, I glanced up at Compact Man before standing, only a little wobbly. “I think she’s hungry. She knows it’s time for dinner now that you’re home.”

He nods, “Yes, I will feed her soon.”

Miss No Name rubbed against his legs. She knew how to get what she wants. Bending down, he scratched her under the chin, “You ready for some dinner?”

She didn’t meow. There was no need to voice her answer. Communication happened without sound between herself and her man.

Rain started to pelt me in cold hard drops. “I better get going!” I said, turning to go.

But the two of them were already gone, up the walkway, onto the porch, Miss No Name leading the way.

Entirely My Fault

 

“If I make a mistake, it’s entirely my fault.”

I’m standing on the corner of Barrett and 30^th street, pausing for a chat during my morning walk. It’s unseasonably warm for the last day of February. I left the house with only a sweatshirt on, but have it tied around my waist at this point, nearing the end of my jaunt.

            Sharon is kneeling on the bottom step of her massive outside entryway. She’s painstakingly applying some sort of gooey grey stuff to the fancy tiles, rubbing it into the crevices with her fingers, pushing and smoothing it down.

            How can she sit there and do this? Doesn’t her back hurt? She must be my age. In her 60s or 50s. I can’t tell. She’s a slim, red haired woman in jeans and long sleeves and no hat, her big eyes framed by gold wire rimmed glasses.

            I’ve spoken to her a few times before. Once when she told me about a police chase that threw a man onto her yard, landing injured and later dying. Then several other times to comment on her steps. How she has to finish by the time it rains. How if she doesn’t, she’ll have to cover the work with huge blue tarps to keep the rain off.

            It’s a big project. And from the looks of it, a never ending one. She’s always out here, crouching on the steps, working to create an entryway that would rival any in Architectural Digest.

            Now, when I mention the warmth and then we both comment on how it’s supposed to rain by Sunday, I ask her if she likes doing this work.

            “I do,” she nods, smiles a little, brushes a wisp of a red lock from her face.

            “That’s cool,” I say, thinking how no one could pay me to do this kind of work.

            Then the line about how if she makes a mistake it’s her fault. I don’t know what to say to this other than to laugh softly, wondering why she would say this. Did she hire someone else to do this job and they messed it up? Then she had to redo it herself? Now, she regrets this decision. But is secure in the knowledge that she’s ultimately responsible. That she has no one to blame but herself for the end result?

            Frankly, I’d want to have someone else to blame for any mistakes. I get so tired of always being responsible for everything I do. If a student complains about how a date is wrong on my syllabus, I can only apologize and fix it myself. No one else to blame. If the plants die cuz I don’t water them, I can only blame myself for hating hoses. If I don’t finish a book cuz I think it’s too much work, I only have myself to blame for not having the attention span to carry on.

            Yeah, it’d be better to have someone else to blame, wouldn’t it?

            Who would I blame?

            Right now, that’s easy. EVERYTHING that is wrong is Donald Trump’s fault. Globally and locally and yes, me too!

            I know he got into my syllabus interface (Or sent Elon Musk there!) and changed the dates so they’re all wrong.

            I know that he purposely kept me from getting out of bed from my afternoon nap and not picking up the hose.

            And, mostly, I know he’s to blame for my anxiety, depression, and stress in my life generally! Who knows what’s going to happen? Will I lose my social security? My job? My house?

            I know if these things happen, I wouldn’t have myself to blame. I didn’t vote for him. He’s not my president.

            All of these musings are nothing new, I know. But when it comes to mistakes, the biggest one that has happened in my life is the election of Donald Trump to the presidency.

            I don’t have myself to blame! And, I don’t know who to blame. And perhaps, blame isn’t helpful. Yet, it’s a human reaction to mistakes and wrongs, isn’t it?

            I wave goodbye to Sharon who’s gone back to mushing grout. “Bye,” she calls softly, engrossed in her task.

            Turning up 30^th Street, I sigh deeply, drinking in the warm spring air as a crow lights on the telephone wire and starts to caw caw caw at no one in particular.

           

Police Chase

 

Tiny fragments of shattered green glass sprinkle the asphalt. I don’t think much of it as I march up Barrett for my morning walk. Then I see the Bike Lane sign, its metal pole completely smashed, lying on the sidewalk. What happened? Looks like a car, or even a truck, mowed it down.

            Coming down the steps of the big white house on the corner here at Barrett and 30^th street, is a slight woman, big straw hat on, bending for a moment to fuss with some gardening bags on the stairs.

            She glances down at me. I see an opening. “Hi, what happened here? Was there an accident?”

            Shaking her head, I can tell that there was. “Yes,” she says, sighing softly as she comes down the steps to stand with me on the sidewalk. “It was a police chase. The city of San Pablo police. Richmond police too.” She nods toward the spot of broken glass.

            “When was this?” I ask.

            “Sunday. They closed Barrett. You probably heard the sirens. Chased the guy until he crashed, throwing him into my yard.”

            “Oh my god! That’s terrible.”

            “Yes, it was. I went out and talked to the Richmond Police to ask what was going on and they told me it was the San Pablo police. That the Richmond police didn’t engage in chases.”

            “Well, that’s good to know,” I say, thinking how I’d read some article recently in the SF Chron about how there was a huge percentage of deaths attributable to police chases. Now here was one in my own neighborhood.

            “Yes,” she stares at the spot in her front yard. “I was going to do some revamping of the garden. Add some new succulents, some other things, but now….”

            Her voice trails off. Then she resumes. “I don’t think I’ll bother.”

            I can tell she’s been traumatized. And who wouldn’t be. I can’t imagine having a body thrown into my front yard from a police chase.

            “They did take him to the hospital,” she continues. “But he didn’t survive….”

            Again, her voice trails off. I think about all the death and destruction going on right now, here in my neighborhood and on a much larger scale with the fires in LA where dozens of people have died and 1000s of structures have burned. I read in the NYT today that the area burned so far is bigger than the city of San Francisco. And these fires are not even close to being contained. Plus, more high winds on their way later this week.

            What will become of our world with climate change, presidential felons, and police chases?

            I glance over at the orange chalked outlines on the asphalt. Where the body landed? Where the cars crashed? I shiver. Not just from the cold Diablo wind blowing, but from the horror of death right under my feet.

            “That sounds just horrible. You must be traumatized by this,” I say.

            “Yes…” She looks at the ground, then at me, her eyes brown and small beneath her straw hat.

            I don’t know what else to say now. It’s time to leave her in peace, if she can find any after such an event. “Well….” I try to smile, “take care…” I offer the cliché, knowing its ineffectiveness.

            “Thank you,” she says, turning to head back up the stairs to finish her task that I interrupted.

            Turning up 30^th street, I breathe deeply. The air is cold and the winds are fierce. I want to be inside my house, away from the violence of the world outside.

            Yet, when the grey tabby comes bouncing out to greet me, I stop and pick him up. “Hello, Whispo! Aren’t you the cutest!”

            He purrs and nuzzles. For a moment I’m in another place that only a cat can provide. After a few minutes, I put him down. He jumps up on my leg, meowing. I turn away and hurry down the street, the little cat following me for a moment before being distracted by a leaf.