#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.