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I walked by this trashcan-diving homeless woman yesterday.
She looked up at me and demanded to know the time.
I replied, "It's around 4."
As I was walking away she barked at me in a nasty tone,
"I didn't fucking ask you around what time it was. I want the actual time."
Wondering what she could possibly be in a hurry to go do I responded,
"You know what time it is? It's time for you to get a damn watch."
I went for a hike the other day where a lot of people take their dogs.
On this particular day I left mine at home.
At the beginning of the trail this gal was handed out doggy treats.
Not just any old treats - but organic doggy treats.
She eagerly gave me three.
When I got home I opened one of the packages and my dog got excited.
Usually when I give her a treat she runs to devour it privately.
Well, not this time.
She hosted it her mouth for all of 3 seconds before spitting it out.
She looked at me like a 5 year-old trying peas for the first time.
I left it there for a few of hours to see if she'd go back to it - but not uh.
In the 3 years we've been together I have NEVER seen her reject a treat.
Organic. Pfft.
As my little sister Nancy began actively dying the family descended upon her home. Most of us were there for the final two weeks of her life. It's a big family so there were two gathering places - either in Nancy's room at her bedside or in the living room/kitchen area - for a breather.
Nancy had already been bedridden for about three months and one day toward the end she had an idea, "Can you wheel me into the kitchen? I'd like to see everyone in a different setting."
I replied, "Of course, sweetie." (I had taken to calling her sweetie. She liked that a lot.)
It was a bit of a struggle to get her into the wheelchair but we managed and then we began the trip from her bedroom down a short hall and to the right into the kitchen.
Everyone turned to look at her and she was suddenly the center of attention. Nancy looked up at me and through sentimental tears she said, "It's been months since I've seen my kitchen."
The very thought shook me. It was literally 15 feet from her room.
As she looked around the room her body started to tremble and then she began yelling, "Take me back. Take me back."
I had no idea what had happened but I granted her wish and quickly took her back to bed.
Nancy sobbed uncontrollably. Finally she calmed down enough to explain, "Everything is gone. He took everything of mine out of the kitchen. It's all gone."
She was right. In a bizarre act of meanness her husband had been spending days boxing up her belongs. All the magnets on the fridge, the knick-knacks that pocked the counters and the family photos that were scattered about the living room. All of it - he boxed and stored away (maybe even threw away).
She continued through her sobbing, "It's like I'm already gone. Like I never excisted. He couldn't even wait until I'm dead."
I had been punching her drip line to get her to zone out and eventually she was under the influence of her merciful drugs. While I watched her sleep I couldn't help but ache for her sorrow. I also hoped that when it's my time to go that I will not know such unbelievable cruelty - only love and compassion.
That was the last time Nancy ever saw her kitchen. She passed a few days later knowing that all but in the bedroom she'd already been boxed up and evicted from her home.
And he took care of the bedroom the next day.
***
About the photo: Nancy died on Valentine's Day 2004. We bought her a bunch of $1 heart necklaces. The one strand is all I took from her home.
Ricky is a West Hollywood fixture.
Perez Hilton featured him on his blog a couple years ago so...
He's a bit of a celeb. People come up and ask him for photos all the time.
Like he's a happy hour Santa or something.
A few months ago I befriended him. And he's a super sweet guy.
Yesterday he asked, "Why do you talk to me?
I replied, "Why shouldn't I talk to you?"
Ricky shrugged, "Cuz I'm different."
I said, "Oh honey, we're all different. Take a look around."
He continued, "People usually just want pictures. Never conversation."
I said, "Yea, about those pics. You should be charging these people a dollar."
He asked, "For being myself? I don't need the money. I have a good job."
I explained, "Yea, but they want the pics so they can send them to friends...
TO LAUGH AT YOU."
I confessed that I am guilty of this as well.
Ricky looked at me and said, "Wow, I never thought about it that way."
He fell silent for a few moments. Then, "Nah, I don't want their money."
We chatted for another few minutes before I bid my farewell.
As I was leaving I heard someone make fun of him to which I snapped,
"Do not hate him because his beauty is so strong."
Now if this doesn't get me disowned from some family members...
Once upon a great long time ago I was saddled with a significant other who was - crazy. A couple years after we parted he was diagnosed as bi-polar but while we were together he was just plain ol' fashion crazy. Nut-bag crazy. Lohan crazy.
All of his friends (not to mention mine) would all ask me why I stayed with him to which I'd just shrug and say, "I love him." And I did, blindly. And painfully. Yea, his manic episodes were that bad. And I martyred the brunt proudly. Which probably made me a bit of a co-crazy.
On one successfully bar-hopped San Francisco night Crazy and I were getting an after-hours meal at a crappy little greasy spoon in the Castro called Without Reservation. Sadly it's no longer there anymore having gone the way of a swanky sushi palace or perhaps it's a cupcake emporium. Can't remember - I just know that it doesn't serve steak fries.
Anyhow, we sat at the counter and just as our food arrived an older intoxicated gentleman came in and sat next to me. He was very loud and speaking in a strange flow of consciousness punctuating each of his proclamations with the fact that it was 'fab-u-lous.'
"I just came from a fun night at the bars and it was fab-u-lous." "I love living in San Francisco cuz it's so fab-u-lous." "I'm gonna have the Apple Brown Betty cuz it's fab-u-lous." Some of his fa-u-lous-ness hued a little bluer even, but considering the locale and the early morning-ness of the hour it was fine. Maybe expected.
Eventually I couldn't resist and turned to smile at him and he bellowed, "Look at your eyes! I am a great reader of eyes and your eyes are fab-u-lous. Just fab-u-lous. I can tell that as a person you're fab-u-lous." (Well d'uh.)
I thanked him and he went back to his string of fab-u-lous things and he got choked-up when he came to this one: "I'm HIV positive and... I'm..."
I reached over and warmly squeezed his forearm as I offered my voice as empowerment and sang out with him in chorus, "Fab-u-lous." His lips quivered as he granted me a generous smile. Remember, this was back in the time when the futures of a lot of HIV+ people seemed desperately bleak. I thought that would make him feel good. It did.
It did not however please Crazy, "Ugh, don't encourage him."
Crazy then leaned around me to give Fab-u-lous a toxic dose of his well-polished stink eye. Fab-u-lous stopped everything instantly and his manner completely turned into that of the soothsayer who had famously foreshadowed the certain doom Oedipus was come to face. He pointed to and shook his fingers at Crazy's two eyes and moaned in a low slow eerie tone, "You. You're busy."
And after he called Crazy crazy he got up and fled - like the ceiling (or check) was about to drop. And as I reflect upon this little Greek tragedy-esque moment I'm left to ponder that just like Oedipus I too should have given greater heed of my seer's sound warning.
***
About the photo: While walking my dog yesterday I came across this stencil of Harvey Milk - who was also known as the Mayor of Castro. It is really quite a coincidence that I happened to write about a Castro memory on the same day.
A couple of weeks ago I went to the Hollywood Forever Cemetery.
At one point I walked by a headstone marked Graves.
My brain went all together 5th grade as I thought to myself, "No d'uh."
I met a friend at Millions of Milkshakes this afternoon.
It's 3 blocks from me. You may have seen it on the snarky gossip shows.
They've named their shakes after the silliest tabloid stars of the day.
The shake man asked what I wanted.
Not familiar with the menu I said, "Oh, something with peanut butter."
He suggested with far too much perk for a sleepy Tuesday afternoon,
"Oh, you want the Miley Cyrus!"
The Miley Cyrus. Really? I gave him a pained look as I shrugged, "Sure."
When he handed it to me I took a taste-testers sip and he asked, "Well?"
Suddenly infused with 'shake' perk myself I screamed,
"Damn! Who knew the bitch tasted so good?"
He pursed his lips and in an oh please voice barked, "Her father."
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