Arrival
I find the parking lot easily enough, right where they said it was. I pull in and take the ticket. Five bucks a day isn’t too bad. I guess I’m lucky it’s not more. I grab my travel bag and leave my two suitcases for later.
I knock on the door. I’m a little nervous. I don’t know this woman, not really. We’ve talked a dozen times online. Now I’m moving in, even if it’s only for a couple of weeks… till I can find a more permanent place.
The door opens. She’s younger than me. She certainly looks it. I’m guessing mid-thirties. Pretty. She’s smiling.
“Lexa?” she asks.
“Hi,” I say, feeling even more awkward. I’m twenty years this woman’s senior. I should have my shit together by now. I should NOT be driving all the way across the country on a week’s notice. I should NOT be abandoning my apartment and most of my stuff.
In my defense I did have my shit together… till someone else took a huge dump on my life. God damn Ron DeSantis, may he burn in hell. I’d still be in Fort Myers if it weren’t for him and his Nazi-loving fans and fuck-wits.
But I need my Estradiol. I’d rather die than go back to that life.
So I packed my bags. Everything I could carry. Phone, laptop, favorite clothes, a few photos, most are digital now. Shoulda scanned them long ago, maybe one day.
I was lucky. Someone in my support group knew someone in San Fran. They were taking in people. Refugees. Never thought I’d be a refugee in my own country. For a minute I’m reminded of the Tom Petty song.
Shit, I’m still standing at the door. She’s still looking at me.
“Is that all you have?” she asks.
“I’ve got two big suitcases in my car. I parked in the lot you told me about.”
“OK, we’ll get them later. For now, come on in. I’ll show you the bedroom. How long were you driving?” Her voice is musical.
“Like three, four days. I’m not sure now. Is it Tuesday? If it’s Tuesday it’s been four days.” I say as I step inside.
She shows me to a bedroom. Nice. Small, but I’ll only be here for a few weeks… I hope. I already have a job lined up. One good thing at least.
Story Time
“Dinner’s ready,” I hear her call.
I’ve had a shower and feel ten times better. First one since I left. I’ve been on the road the whole time, sleeping at rest stops when I needed to, fast food. I’m too old for this shit, I tell myself.
I go downstairs and this woman feeds me. I’m so grateful. I feel OK. I feel safe here. She’s asking questions. This is the price… not money, but re-telling my life story. How I ended up giving up everything and moving three thousand miles with a week’s notice.
She’s a collector. She knows other people’s stories. The people who came before me. I’m sure I’m not gonna be the last. At least she’s kind. No expectations. No judgment. She listens, I talk… and talk and talk.
It seems like it’s been all night, but finally, I’m in bed. Tomorrow I go to the doctor’s office to interview. I’m sure I’ll get the job, this is just a formality. There’s a shortage of electrologists. I don’t have enough to open my own practice, but I could get a job in most places.
But there’s no sense in going somewhere that’ll just go to shit next year. Florida is one of the first… but the writing’s on the wall in so many other states. How many more of us are doing what I’m doing? It was easy for me. No spouse, no kids, no house, transportable skills. I’m practically the poster child for “ready to be dispossessed”.
So many people have roots. They’ll bleed so bad when they have to cut them away. But they’ll be worse off if they can’t. Death is their final solution. Shit, that got dark. I’ve gotta remember to be grateful for what I’ve got. Who I’ve got.
I’m staring at the ceiling as I fall asleep. Tomorrow it starts getting better. No doubt.
First Day
I’m standing in front of the doctor’s office… or at least what’s supposed to be the doctor’s office. There’s supposed to be an office building here, but there isn’t.
I got off the BART at the right stop. I’m standing on the right street. But instead of a shiny new office tower, there’s a little two-story building. The bottom has a second-hand clothing store in it. It’s just one in the line marching down the street.
I double-check the building’s address. I know it’s right.
I recheck my phone. Yup, this is supposed to be the place. I’m gonna call the office. They’re expecting me. This is so weird.
The phone is just ringing. Fuck. What the hell?
I’m debating going back to the house when this guy walks up to me.
Ugh, nope. I’m too old to get hit on. But that’s not it; he’s lost, wants directions. He’s trying to find an orphanage. I can’t imagine he’s in the right neighborhood for that either. This is clearly a business district.
I try to find the address for him on my phone, but I can’t find the place he’s named at all. He’s looking pretty upset. Tells me it’s for a friend. He’s parked just down the street. Would I mind walking back to his car? Maybe his friend has more information about the place… something that will help me find it with my phone.
I’m thinking sure. He’s pointing down the street. It’s only a few hundred feet. Same block.
Damn, his car is a wreck. It’s the same as mine, except a bit older maybe? Totoya Corolla. Red. I can’t believe this thing still runs, but it got here somehow. It looks like he rolled it.
The right door’s gone. Just gone. The windshield is a web of cracks. Both back doors look like they’ll never open again. The rear window’s missing and the trunk is definitely not closing anymore.
There’s a guy in the back seat who leans forward past the space where the front passenger seat would be, if it was still there, and asks “Did you find it?”
“No” my chaperone says, looking apologetic. “But this woman may be able to help.” He’s indicating me. The man in the car can’t be twenty. He’s still got the baby fat in his face. He looks at me with some hope, some desperation.
“Please,” he says, “I’ve got to find my baby girl.”
“His girlfriend ran away,” my escort explains, “she’s pregnant. We think she’s giving up the baby.” I have a sour taste in my mouth. If the woman ran away, she probably had a good reason. I’m not interested in helping this guy strong-arm a pregnant woman. Fuck that shit.
But he’s looking at me with such an expression. He must know what I’m thinking.
“Please,” he says, “I just need to talk to her.”
Orphanage
Somehow, I’m in the rickety old Corolla and we’re driving. I have to say, the breeze from the missing door is kinda nice as we limp down the highway with the flashers on. We’re in the slow lane since this bucket’s barely got any life left in it. I expect it to give up the ghost at any moment and leave us stranded.
I’ve figured it out… this is a dream. I must still be asleep at the house. This is my anxiety or something. But it’s clearly a dream, ’cause I’d never get into a car with two strange men and go looking for anything, let alone the orphanage where one of them thinks he’ll find his missing girlfriend.
I don’t even know how we got out of the city. We were driving down the street, and suddenly we were on the highway. Is this what they call a lucid dream? I’ve heard about this. If you “wake up” in a dream, you’re supposed to be able to control it, right? I know I’m dreaming, so I can make the dream anything I want, right?
Let’s try it… I want to hear Purple Haze on the radio… OK. I’m thinking about it. I’m really concentrating. Ugh, nothing’s happening. It’s not working. It’s still playing some sort of Mexican folk like you’d hear in the background at a restaurant.
I’m looking at my two traveling companions, and I feel like I’ve known them forever. I don’t even know their names. But this is a dream, right? So whatever… I’m just going with the flow. Along for the ride, as it were.
I turn back to look at the road, and I find we’re on some little country lane. It’s windy and we’re kinda in the woods. The trees filtering the sun as we move is mesmerizing. The way the light and shadow dance around the inside of the car. I see we’re leaving the trees and we’re out into rolling green fields.
Over the next rise, I see a huge lone house. It looks like one of those farmhouses where they just kept adding on for each new generation. We’re turning into the long circular drive that runs past the wrap-around porch. We pull to a stop in front of the door and I move to let the other passenger out. He runs up to the door before our driver even gets out of the car.
He’s disappeared inside when I hear the sound of laughing children. I’m walking around the house. Our driver is following. Clearly, the sounds are coming from the backyard, where we find a huge playground area and about a dozen children running and laughing, chasing each other, climbing on a tree, and swinging on a small swing set. There’s an older woman on the back porch watching over them.
I’m guessing she’s a nun from her black and white outfit. She has to be because why else would you wear all those clothes on a day as hot as this one unless you had to? Our friend is talking to a woman by the swings. She’s really pregnant. She’s so far along, I think she may need a hospital at any moment. I wonder where the nearest one is.
They’re not arguing. They’re talking. Nodding. I see him feel her belly. They look happy. A little girl is clinging to his leg. OK. He’s coming back. He just walked past us. What’s going on? I expected more. Fireworks, shouting, something. He just walks back to the car. We’re following.
He climbs in the back and sits down. Our companion asks how it went. He clearly knows the back story I’m missing. I have no idea what’s going on. We came all this way. Are we just leaving now? He just smiles and says “We’re good.”
I turn to look at our driver and he nods, heading around to the other side of the car. I turn back to ask, but our friend is gone. I don’t know where he went. There’s nowhere for him to go… he’s just not here anymore.
Riding Home
I’m climbing in the back alone. I want to know what’s going on.
“I don’t understand,” I say to my remaining companion.
“He never knew why she left, what happened to her or their little baby.” He tells me.
“She explained what happened?” I ask.
“I guess he finally made peace with it.” He replies.
I’m sitting in silence. We’re driving back to the city maybe, I’m not sure. So much is running through my mind. I’m thinking about all those years I had to lie about who I was. Hide from the world. Even the people I loved and said they loved me. I found out not all of them did. I guess I knew that, deep down. That’s why I hid.
But when I came out, I found others. People like me. Wounded by the world. So many hidden and forgotten and pushed away. All types of people. Yet despite our shared circumstance, there were lots of differences too. So many were better off. So many had advantages I never did. And I was better off compared to some. I felt sorry for the people less fortunate, and jealous of the ones better off that didn’t seem to acknowledge their privilege.
It didn’t bother me that they had things I couldn’t… That’s the story of the world. But I hated the fact that they could talk about “their struggle” without acknowledging others had it worse. Those of us who came before could never reach the place they got to start from.
That’s only natural I suppose. I’m glad they got to start where they did. It’s proof that we did something right… something to help. Somehow the world is just a tiny bit better today than it was yesterday.
Oh, we’re back in the forest now. I love the feeling of the sun and shade alternatively hitting my face.
I’m so tired. I think I’ll close my eyes just for a bit.
Departure
I open my eyes… I must be awake.
I’m looking at the sky. It’s so blue, with big white fluffy clouds. They’re drifting by gently, lazily, as if they have nowhere to go.
I must be on my back. Am I in a field? Do I smell grass? It’s faint. There are too many stronger, worse smells covering it up. Still, I smell the grass.
Then there’s shouting.
“Over there” someone yells.
I turn to look, what’s going on? But I can’t look. I can’t turn my head.
Something is wrong.
“Medic” someone yells. It’s a deep voice, maybe a man? He’s close.
Then I see him. He’s blocking out the sky. I feel him take my hand.
What’s wrong? I want to ask, but I can’t.
He squeezes and I squeeze back.
“It’s gonna be OK.” He says. He has a kind face, dark hair, beard. He looks young. Twenties? Early thirties, maybe.
He turns away and there’s more shouting. I’m looking at the sky.
Suddenly a song pops into my head. One I haven’t heard in years. I used to listen to it all the time when I was in school. I can’t hear the music, but I hear the melody and the singer’s voice. It’s about not wasting your life searching for something and appreciating what you’ve already got.
Funny how things come back to you at the oddest times. That song always made me cry. I think I feel a tear slip down the side of my face.
There’s more shouting. The man is back.
“Don’t worry, you’re gonna make it.” He says.
Another squeeze.
The sky is so blue…
“We’re losing…” I hear him shout.
We’ll be alright, I want to tell him, Just don’t give up hope.
Never give up hope.
