#92, Lorraine

You always used to come shuffling along the sidewalk. We could see you when you appeared at the corner, and then always knew to do other things for five minutes or so because it took you such a looooong time to reach us. But as soon as i knew you were in earshot, i would put down my roses (or sunflowers), smile and say 'Hi, Lorraine!' A whole world of young, gleaming adults zoomed and bustled by on either side of you but it was is if you didn't even notice. You would carefully navigate your walker over to one of the crumbling concrete tables in our ersatz seating area and then sit down with the speed of a sleepy snail. Our boss had known you for years. Every so often we would put a broken daisy (or iris, or whatever) into a water tube and rubberband it to your walker to brighten your day. You wore men's clothes, and had such awful personal hygiene that it was sometimes quite off-putting, but we knew you were very old and when you get to that age 'whaddya gonna do' (your words). You lived on the next block over and had someone coming to look after you but we never met that person so it was very hard to imagine. One day my coworker told me a story you'd related to her about being young a long time ago in San Diego: When swimsuit lengths were to be no higher than the bottom of the knees (seriously– there were men who measured to be sure), you used to wait until they left and then roll yours up as far as you could get them. It drove the guys wild.

Lorraine, you stopped coming by one day quite unexpectedly. We waited for you all that week but you never came. After a month or more we found out that you'd been put into an assisted living facility. i still check the obituaries. Yours was a life.

#91, Diane Morse

Diane, you were so maney.

i had never heard anyone use that word before and, quite frankly, had never met anyone as bursting with life as you. You called weed nuggets 'Percivals' and it was impossible not to laugh in your presence. A smirky grin, mohawked mop of bleached curls, dimples and tight jeans with a studded belt, we worked together at the flower shop while rocking out to such '80s greats as Duran Duran, Pet Shop Boys and New Order. It was always a rollickin' good time when you were on the schedule the same day as me, and i looked forward to it. You smoked a lot of pot and fell in love with someone else's boyfriend, who fell back. You two caused more than a bit of a commotion, and then moved to New Orleans together, where you and i quickly fell out of touch. Except once, a few years later, when i heard through the grapevine (maybe you'd called the flower shop?) that he had died, of a stroke, at the young age of twenty-something. You had never left his side at the end and said it was beautiful and pain-full, the hardest thing you had ever had to (and would ever have to) do. A couple of phone calls after that, and you were gone. i don't know where you are or if you're happy, but i hope life has evened out and opened up for you.

#90, Nile.

We met on AOL when i was fifteen. Can't remember which chat room it was, but it may have been 'Nirvana', where i met so many of my friends. You lived in San Francisco, and had a car, which was so dangerous and exciting to me. i knew who Psychic TV was, which floored you. (Little did you know that i had not heard more than two songs by them.) i can't remember how we decided to meet but i remember we used to talk on the phone late at night and you had such a soft, quiet voice and sweet laugh. When you picked me up i took you to the Berkeley Amoeba store... we browsed the aisles, together but separate, for almost an hour, then walked back through the bright sunshine to your car. i remember it smelled like Nag Champa inside and you kissed me nervously. We both laughed and got really quiet. Can't remember the drive home. i remember you were tall and smiled a lot, had long hair and wore corduroys and were probably quite a bit older than me. i never saw you again, and i can't recall the last words we spoke to one another. Where are you now?

#89, Joshypants.

Oh you. You walked by my work one day and loudly declared your love for me to all who would hear it. i flushed a deep shade of red and all of my co-workers just laughed, and laughed... you yelled as you continued by: i don't normally do this sort of thing! i'm drunk! he made me drink whiskey! Your friend grinned and pulled you along. i thought that was the end of it.

 Weeks passed and eventually i came to realize that you worked for Greenpeace, often standing in front of the grocery store near where i worked. i had to walk past you every time i went inside, which was multiple times a day. Your partners in crime all knew who i was ("the red-headed woman of my dreams!") and it killed me.

Then one hot summer day, i brought special glasses to work because i found out that Venus would be transiting the sun. My co-worker and i stood on the sidewalk in front of the flower shop, staring up at the tiny black dot in wonder, trying to entice passers-by to enjoy the celestial sight as well. You came sauntering up while i was helping a customer; i watched as April gave you the shades and heard you when you asked where she got them from (she pointed at me), sighing and saying of course you got them from her. i couldn't understand how you could possibly like me so much, someone you'd never even spoken to.

But that very next minute, you were there talking to me, with your co-worker asking me all kinds of personal questions, being a very abrupt wing-woman. i began to blush so fiercely i had to turn around, and she exclaimed that my very ears were turning crimson... i have never felt so on display in my life. It was terrible! But i blamed her, not you.

Later when April went inside for her lunch, you asked her how to get my attention. i had told her the day before that i was particularly fond of the oddly-shaped (mutant) bell peppers in front of the store; she told you this and when she came back to work she had 4 in a bag for me, purchased by you. Your number was written on a piece of paper inside and it just said: call me! -Joshypants. This had literally never happened to me before in my entire life, and i was 32 years old.

i went home in a state and put the peppers in my crisper. i never really ate bell peppers at home. i didn't know what to do with them. So i stared at them for a few days before realizing that i would feel awful if i just let them rot, symbolically allowing a chance at love to go bad before even giving it a try. So i made fajitas with them, diced them up into omelettes, dipped them in hummus. They were new, and delicious.

Finally one day (how much later i could not possibly tell you, but it was after other attempts you made to ask me out: for a walk, or to read a book or play chess in the park) i texted you. i had only just bought my first-ever cell phone a few weeks prior and had never texted a boy before. i explained that i was so flattered by your attentions, but that i had just broken up with my boyfriend of twelve years not two months before. (This was true.) That i was certainly not even remotely close to dating, and that i hoped you'd understand and that we could still talk as friends when you walked by the shop.

You were sweet, but persistent. You said you weren't asking me to marry you, just go out for a walk. Which, honestly, looking back: i should have taken you up on. But my heart was broken– i was broken. It was hard enough just to pick up my own body parts, gather them cohesively and walk them by myself to where i needed to go each day. The thought of having to give a single ounce of energy or attention to someone else was simply beyond comprehension.

But i will say this: you gave me hope. For the first time in a long time. You helped me to free myself from a long sentence of solitary confinement in a prison that i hadn't even realized i was in. You were like a little bird, calling to me from a garden wall. Hey you! Come over this way! Let's see what's over here!

Eventually, you moved on and got a job somewhere else. We still saw you riding your bike by the shop from time to time, sometimes stopping to give me a sweaty hug and tell me how pretty my eyes were. i actually still miss you to this very day, and was sad that i never got to say goodbye to you when i left San Diego. Hope all is well, dude. You truly do deserve someone special.
i hope you found her.

#88, Stephen.

Nat and i met you at the Tin Can Ale House. We were there to see a promising young punk band, you were there because you'd just moved to the area (a promising young engineer at a brand-new company branch) and had "wandered in". We sat at your table, all swiveling on stools and watching the movies playing behind the bar (Snatch, Total Recall (the original, of course)) and buying each other drinks. It was nice to meet a random stranger and have an instant friend, even though it turned out to be just for one night.

Within five minutes of meeting us you asked, "so how long have you guys been together?" and we looked at each other and smiled. "Awww" you remarked. But then we told you the whole sordid story: together, happily, for twelve years, broke up 7 months ago; still absolutely Best Friends Forever. Like family. You were so impressed that we had pulled it off. Gave you hope, you said, and told us of your own recently lost love. i thought you should give it one last chance. Nat disagreed. Finally he and i went up front to dance but you wouldn't leave the table; at one point i looked back (for the umpteenth time) to entreat you to come up and jump around with us, but you were putting on your jacket. Oh no! i realized that you were leaving. You smiled and waved, and i waved back, knowing we would likely never see you again. It was bittersweet! Like  so many things.

The next morning i went in my bag to get a tissue and instead discovered a random napkin; what's this doing in here...? As i pulled it out, i noticed it had writing on it.

You guys are perfect together. Enjoy real happiness while you can. -Stephen

#87, Val

A slight, fashionably silver-haired elderly woman with an always-there smile at her lips. Little bit of a hunch, and usually clutching something-a bag, a jacket, a newspaper-to her chest. We met her at the Starbucks when Nat was trying to study there. She was English, and always talked about England, and flying to and from. She was perpetually writing a book. Sometimes it would get awkward, when she talked about politics, but we ignored the conservative commentary and tried to change the subject. She would always end the conversations with "well, i suppose i'd better get home and feed the dog, and make some supper of my own.." i never did see the dog. Now that Nat and i are broken up, and i never really go to that Starbucks anymore, i will miss you, Val! Hope you get the book done.

#86, Fictitious Name Girl.

We met at a party (a small variety show night among friends), and you came on to me. In fact, you came on to me and my boyfriend. And, just for crystal-clarity, you gave us your business card and said, "In case it isn't obvious, i'm totally picking you guys up right now."
It was awkward, and even a little aggressive. At one point you got down on your knees for what seemed like several minutes and demanded that i kiss you; no one in the room noticed, which made it seem very much like an episode of The Twilight Zone. You'd sung a Nico song and i later found out that the (admittedly strange) name you'd given everyone was not in fact your real name. Bizarre! After you'd passed out from The Drunkenness, i helped your boyfriend carry drumset pieces to his car. "i'm so sorry..." he said, repeatedly. it was alright.

#85, Rollerskates.

You came flying down the street.
i was at work, buried under a mound of boxes, all filled with vases (FRAGILE: GLASS). It was loud, and chaotic that day. i never saw you. i laughed at something a co-worker said, and stepped out from behind the tall stack of boxes, onto the sidewalk.
With a whoosh and a suddenness, both exclaiming, we collided– only neither of us really spoke, as we grabbed each other and your velocity carried us, one, two, three, and four graceful steps down the sidewalk; a whirling ballet. i kept ahold of my Sharpie and you never lost your footing. We were both surprised when, as you let go and continued on with that unstoppable force of forward motion, nothing was broken. No one fell, or hurt one another. Everything was in its right place, just lightly adjusted. No one saw a thing, and you smiled and waved at my shocked face. i think i waved back, motionless.

#84, Dick.

He walks by my work twice every day: on the way to the beach and then back again about 2 hours later. A short, hunched, sprightly man with a belly, he always wears a pair of jeans, a baseball cap, and a Hawaiian shirt. He walks duck-footed and has a gruff but cheerful speaking voice.

One day i got in the elevator with a mountain of groceries and there he was! in the elevator in my building! We were both shocked, until we realized that we both lived here– one of those obvious, but surprising, things. From then on i got a 'hey, neighbor.' every time he walked by.

When my bike was stolen about 2 months ago, he was so angry. i put up a sign with a reward offered, and waited hopefully. Then one day, about a week ago, he told me he had an old bike i could look at if i was so inclined. Realizing that Pierre (my trusty mint-green Motobecane road bike) was truly gone, i accepted his offer, even though he had no idea if it was a mountain bike, a beach cruiser, or what. He was so insistent that i look at it, and i was so convinced it was going to be a 10,000-lb. rusty dinosaur, that the whole interaction found me feeling more than a little apprehensive; how could i say "no, thank you" to this sweet man who obviously only wanted to help but didn't understand my specific needs (something i could lift easily which had several gears)?

Finally the day came, and i followed him out to where he kept this old bike. He whisked away the dusty cover and, lo and behold: it was a silver Motobecane Mirage! It looked almost exactly like Pierre! i was stunned into silence. At first i thought he had actually gone out and procured a bike similar to mine just to be nice, but as we talked more and i looked closely at it, the truth became known. It had belonged to his stepdaughter, who passed away due to drug use some years back. It had been sitting there collecting dust for about 6 years; there were some rust spots and the rubber tires were well into crumbling away to dust.

i expressed my condolences and offered to pay him for it, but he refused! Then i offered to bake him something in exchange, which he also refused. Thanking him profusely, i wheeled it upstairs gingerly and waited for my boyfriend to get home so i could watch his jaw drop in astonishment.

After taking it to the shop for some new tires and basic maintenance, it has become clear that this probably cannot be my replacement bike– mainly, it was built for someone a good 8 inches taller than me. (i could tell that it was a bit bigger than Pierre, but forgot that Pierre himself was a tad too large for me to begin with, just not noticeably so– this one was noticeable.)

So, i'll put some money into it and see what happens. i'll probably ride it around for awhile until it starts to get uncomfortable, then see if i can sell it or trade it for a smaller one. The point is that Dick swooped in, like a knight in shining armor, and saved me from what i didn't really realize i was avoiding: the process of shopping for a new (used) bike. The running around to different bike shops (difficult in sprawling San Diego), the meetings with sketchy people on Craigslist, the chance-taking of eBay, and the stress and inevitable disappointments of it all...

He made me remember the line, "i have always depended on the kindness of strangers." What a truly kind and generous individual.

i ended up giving him a thank-you card and a loaf of banana bread; i can only hope he's not diabetic or gluten-intolerant. (Man, thanking people with baked goods used to be so much easier!)

Thank you, Dick!

#83, Paul Anderson.

Our elderly next-door neighbor: a slender, slightly curved, sprightly gent with a balding pate and a face like an inquisitive turtle, though still handsome. Always walking about in the hallway, and always telling us the same jokes. Not one to laugh at his own, you can still tell he takes some pride in them, like the one he always told Nat about how he heard about this great course for me (the woman in the relationship) to take: Nagging 101. Yuk, yuk! But we always countered with the fact that i am so accomplished at nagging, i should be the one teaching the course.

i met Paul when i accidentally left my keys hanging in the front door one afternoon. He removed them, and instead of knocking, took them to his apartment where he wrote me a nice note that he then came back and stuck on my front door. Nat came home and found the note and we went over together to retrieve them. He had lovely cursive handwriting and left his phone number and everything... i kept the note.

Paul left us a few months ago to live at an assisted living facility with his ailing wife Carol. i saw him near the elevator on his last day here, accompanied by his middle-aged daughter (also named Heather!). She was pushing a cart with the last of his things from their apartment. He was so glad to see me, he said, because he'd brought the fan he'd been wanting to give us! His daughter gave me a weary look as he handed it over bashfully; he seemed like a completely different person to me, less animated, and i wondered if he was on some sort of new medication. It was a very bittersweet goodbye. i would have liked very much for him to stay and keep telling us those jokes. But i like to think that he's out there somewhere brightening up someone else's day, every single one.

#82, Tara.

She was the waitress at our Thai restaurant, the one behind our building. It was so close by, and so amazingly good! We'd really lucked out. And there she was, such a sweetie, only here a year from Thailand and with a perpetual smile on her face. Her husband was young, like her, and in the military. They had a fat son, who was 8 months old or so when we first met them. She was small, and slight, and taught us how to say 'young coconut juice' (Nat can't get enough of the stuff) in Thai, which we were told was pronounced na ma prow. That Thai place became our go-to restaurant, mainly because everything else in our neighborhood is total shite, but also because it was just consistently delicious, and seeing Tara was an added bonus. After about a year, when my birthday rolled around, she actually bought me a present: a $15 Visa gift card. i could not get over how sweet and generous and thoughtful that was. One day the place was closed (money problems), and it reopened months later under new ownership. We never saw her again, but i think of her often every time i walk by.

#81, Teddy.

Ted. Teddy. The Tedster. You worked inside of the grocery store that i work outside of. Always a smile, always a scheme. Always using our microwave to heat up the frozen lunches that you'd hidden in the waistband of your jeans. Always sitting on our stool, checking out the myriad female specimens that sashayed by on their way to the beach, the bar, the tanning salon. You were crushed when your girlfriend admitted to (drunkenly) kissing another boy, even as you were sleeping with another girl. And yet, there was something charming about you. Something, we felt, that could be lifted out of the mire to be shined, something that could be saved. But we may have been wrong. You were a nurse who got hooked on (stolen) prescription painkillers. Your own boss thought so highly of you that he got you into a pricey rehab program. Once completed, you jumped headfirst off of that rigid wagon. Career gone, bridges burned. Worked at the grocery store until they fired you too, and last i heard you were cleaning carpets around town, that girl you loved long gone. But the thing about you, Teddy, was that you were smart. You had a glint in your eye. On your sober days we had deep, interesting conversations and i felt like i could sense the regret, see the redemption creeping in. But you always managed to kick them to the curb because something better, something funner, something more right now came along. Then you'd show up weeks later with unwashed hair and dirty teeth and an aura of precarious confusion, a box of stolen Mochi under your shirt so that we would still like you.

We still like you, Ted. Quit living in the right now and try to visualize your future. Those blue eyes will only take you to the edge, not necessarily back.

#80, Lorraine.

Lorraine is a Little Old Lady who comes and sits at our shop every afternoon, weather permitting. She has some problems with ambulation, but at around 3 or 4 every afternoon she comes slowly shuffling up with a shopping cart (i believe this is her way of never having to purchase a walker. Good for her.) and a smile on her face. She sits at one of the tables in the deli area next to the shop drinking a cup of coffee (from the 7-11 on the corner) and reading the day's paper. If i am working the closing shift– or, more likely, staying late from the morning shift– she will meticulously rip out the New York Times crossword for me and hand it over on her way down to the beach. Sometimes she will save them up for a week or more and give me a giant envelope full of them. i don't have the heart to remind her that i only do the Sunday crossword, so i try and be gracious. She wears the same dark blue windbreaker and jeans almost every day, and although she lives with her adult daughter, she has rather poor hygiene and i always wish there was someone to take better care of her. She doesn't seem to mind, though– it sort of fits in with her strong personality. She told us once that when she was young, she would scandalize the town by rolling up the legs on her bathing suit. Yes, you read what i said. Rolling up the legs. To mid-thigh. SHOCKING! She loves spider mums, and carries around her own water tube so that we don't send her home with one after another, thereby being wasteful. Love ya, Lorraine. Don't ever change.

#79, Johnny P.

Johnny lives across the street from my dad in Montana, with his wife Linda. He says "crick" instead of "creek" and has a softly booming, mumbling voice. Wears flannels, vests, jeans and boots and trucker caps. He used to send over homemade salami and sausage for us during the summers, back when we kids were young. He was an avid hunter, you see, and still is, despite losing a couple of fingers at the steel mill where he works. He has a white horse named Dooley who has been around forever. (Our dog Chewy, rest his little soul, was overly fond of stealing across the road to eat Dooley's steaming piles of excrement. This is completely true.)
Johnny saved my dad's life. After lying on the landing for two days because of suffering a bad stroke, my dad finally managed to crawl to the phone and call... Johnny. not '9-1-1', but Johnny. He ran right over and took dad to the hospital. When my brother and i went up by train a couple weeks later, Johnny drove us around to buy air mattresses and groceries. Even though he uses derogatory words a lot, i just can't hate him. (i wish he wouldn't say things like that, obviously, but unfortunately i don't think the man will change any time soon.) Thank you for being there, Johnny.

#78, Ms. Donohue.

My 7th grade French teacher. i was new at this school, and late to start, so i had a helluva time. French was the only language class with any space left, otherwise i would have been in Spanish and who knows how my life would have turned out? i certainly wouldn't have been able to enter that shop and ask for a parapluie that time i was walking around the streets of Paris and it suddenly began to rain cats and dogs. (Chats et chiens.)
Where were we? Right, Ms. Donohue- lots of big, horsey teeth and a short crop of dark silver hair. A winning smile and a sweet, pretty face. For some reason i always thought that she didn't have very many friends among the other teachers at my school. My name in class was "Françine", which i absolutely loathed, but there was no translation of "Heather" and all the cool feminine names were already taken. i used to sit at the back of the class and tie rubber bands around my fingertips just to watch them change colors and become cold, bloodless. (Did you know that each finger on your hand turns a different color? It's true.) i remember once winning an art contest in class, and always thought it was because she felt sorry for me. On special days we would watch movies (La Boum!), and once a week or so we'd watch Téléfrançais, when i swear Ms. Donohue would stand in the back and smile and sing along with the opening song. Adorable. i think she worried about me being so strange, and tried to befriend me by talking to me about rock music, although her references were usually a tad old; we once had a halting conversation about Golden Earring's "Radar Love". And when she found out i drank coffee (no idea how that happened, by the way), she became quite concerned and cited a study that linked caffeine consumption in women with higher breast cancer rates. So mothering. i hope she's still there, still teaching, and still caring about the next crop of troubled kids.

#77, Brian from H's.

An adorable young chappie who used to work at the market where my flower shop is located. With a mop of curly hair, skin-tight jeans, and pea coats on colder days, Brian was amazed that i had Muslim Gauze on my iPod, and got me hooked on the song "Blind" by Hercules and Love Affair. We were constantly talking about music; old and new, live and recorded. B was still figuring out his sexual identity and was almost always hung over when i would see him walking to work in the early afternoons. He finally moved to a cooler area of the city, and i never realized how much i would miss him spending his break at the flower shop: changing the music we were listening to without asking and using our microwave to heat up his food, always bitching about his managers and sitting on our (only) stool. Brian! You cad. Where are you these days? It's lonely here without you.

#76, "John Poet".

He comes in every week, usually on Tuesdays. Quiet, slim, soft-spoken, greying hair and jeans with boots. Always a satchel. Buys one stem of alstroemeria, one piece of fern, and a pinch of bear grass (for the cat, he explains). Likes to have long chats with a certain co-worker of mine, which used to make me weirdly jealous, because i had never spoken a single word to him. One day he brought in a miniature crystal blue rose in a vase, because the week before she had convinced him to finally read The Glass Menagerie. He'd asked me if i'd read it, and because i said no he brought me a copy of the play today. He was transporting it in the bubble mailer, still, and the name on the label? John Poet.
And we've discussed this. We don't think it's his real name, but all the same– it really should be.

#75, Jeanelle.

We worked together at the stained glass store. You were tall and boyish, with a mischievous grin and short black hair. When we "helped out" with the night classes, we'd sit in the front of the store watching Sifl and Olly videos while everyone diligently worked on their lamps. We drove around in your Impala blasting "Slim Shady" when Eminem first appeared on the scene. Often we would end up walking along the train tracks, drinking Heinekens, ogling graffiti in complete silence. Once, we clambered atop a defunct locomotive car and threw our empty bottles through the nearby (also defunct) warehouse windows. Filled with thrill, we clambered back down to the car, laughing as we screeched away because our clothes were covered with soot.

#74, Suzy.

You were Z's best friend (such unlikely companions!). Tall and full of snark, you painted your nails and constantly sported new kicks. You smoked way too much and loved owls intensely. Your cat's name was Tortuga, and you had comfort in Busta Rhymes and Missy Elliott. Anxiety was your middle name, before anyone even knew what Prozac was. i often felt we were kindred spirits, even though you were so judgmental it was, at times, profoundly caustic. The last time i saw you was at the Fire Festival, where you told me that you'd gotten married. That was years ago... my sis and i really miss you, too.

#73, Zebra.

Zed. Gregory. You helped Nat spin fire for the first time (in your backyard), with some rags, a can of gasoline, and a couple of lengths of chain. You painted the walls of your living room blood red, and for a short while seemed to subsist entirely on chocolate-covered orange jellies... You taped down the tumor in your chest with duct tape, and even when angry you always wore a Cheshire grin. You stomped around in boots, competed in the Puke Olympics, and traded Siouxsie videos with me. One day you moved away. Me and my sis miss you so.