She Asks Interesting Questions

(Of course this one follows Chapter 6, Doing it Wrong. Which will be about the times that I flubbed and it had far-reaching consequences.)

My life doesn't exactly have one apex. It has high moments, like a roller coaster, or like scaling a mountain range. Each pinnacle is higher than the one before, but I also see that there's another one coming that's bigger. I can enjoy the view for a bit, but the climb must continue.

The pinnacles represent the times I got it right. These are some of the moments that I set against the darkness, when the times I screwed up threaten to overwhelm me.

One was when I worked as a tour guide at the cave one town away. This was in the late eighties, so the AIDS crisis was terrifying. Now, I was oblivious to the politics of the tour guides – there was a hierarchy, but I was just getting money together to go to college, so I really didn't care who was kissing whose tushie, just leave me alone to do my job and go home. (And stop leaving your condoms in the cave for me to find when I take the first tour the next morning, yeeesh!)

When two tour groups meet in the ballroom, where there are two stations, they both pause and the one leading the exiting tour tells both groups about the side room down the hole and our resident bats. Then they leave, and the incoming tour guide gives the ballroon / aragonite portion. Works well, keeps the tours moving without being too slow or fast.

When the nearby town had a week-long festival, we got swamped. And we kept things moving with half the tour guides... who were making better money at the festival with friends or family who had booths there.

With both sides of the room filled to capacity, I ended up being the person to give the side room speech to both groups. No biggie, I've got the lungs to do it. Give my speech, ask for questions. There was surprising silence, one asks a question, easily and smoothly answered. And then I say it: “Any questions? Any at all?”

Cue the dad joke! “Why is the sky blue?”

We'd just covered this in physics! I aced the test! Without missing a beat: “Rayleigh scattering. Any other questions?”

Silence.

And one young kid's voice: “Awwww, she's right!”

My group followed me in awe up the stairs and outside.

Same place, but in the slow season. Even then we get a handful per hour, and they'd wait to give a tour when they had ten or so. No problem, we were playing cards in the tour guide room.

And I had to put down my winning hand, because I was switched in rotation for a “special tour.” (Politics...)

It made sense as soon as I saw my “group” - two men, one painfully thin, and one supporting him with loving concern.

Both were wearing masks. In the eighties.

I may be from the back of beyond, but I'm not stupid. I knew what this meant.

And my fellow tour guides chickened out, the freaking cowards. We knew at that point that you can't get AIDS from casual contact. I was perfectly safe, but they were not. A gay couple was in danger of descrimination “around these parts” and no one would protest.

They were scared.

All I felt was compassion. This was obviously one last hurrah, a final trip to see the world before one was too sick to continue.

They got an extra-long tour. We talked about the world, the state of it, oh yeah the cave, the best place to get a meal where they wouldn't be treated like crap, where they were going next, stalactites, where they had been, stalagmites, my recommendations, helectites, how they were soon going to be back home in NYC.

This was before AZT. There was no hope, and I wasn't going to be so crass as to ask if the carer was seeing his own future.

But for a time, I could entertain them, distract them, and push the eventually back just a little bit. And I was going to make it count, dammit.

I told them from the beginning they didn't need to wear the masks. I was more a danger to them than they were to me, but I told them as far as I knew I didn't have any cold to pass on. They were so relieved, and I was rewarded by smiles at the end of the tour. I walked them down to their cars, just to make sure no one messed with them.

I never got their names, and I hope their squares on the AIDS quilt shine bright and strong.

***********

On to college, second year.

My then-boyfriend, now husband, had his twenty-first birthday that coincided with us moving back after summer break. We took a breather from unpacking and gathered in the R.A.'s room, since hers was the only one that was fully furnished; she'd gotten back a week before us to settle in the froshes. Boyfriend was a newly minted senior, and we were good friends with the R.A.

Pizza party, lots of liters of soda. College staples. But both boyfriend and I love our brand of “mixed drinks” - mix a few of the flavors together, and we love it! I had something orangey spritey, and boyfriend had his usual mix of Coke and Sprite.

We had forgotten what that combo looked like.

And our friend was a newly minted R.A. With a keen sense of the training sessions she went through. And a dry as Sahara campus.

“Is that... is that... is that champagne?”

He was, and still is, the master of the deadpan, with just a hit of panic in the eyes. “Uhhhh, noooo, of course not!” And takes a huge swallow, as if to hide the evidence. "Besides, I'm legal as of today!"

She snatched his clear plactic cup out of his hands. Glare. Sniff. Glare again. Tentative sip. Face scrunch, double glare. “Ugh, YOU!” Shoved cup back in his hand, stomped off. Boyfriend grinned, sipped again, and refilled from the obvious soda liters and got the same consistent color.

It took a bit of the sting out of the next month. Some bleepwad (look, I can't say what I really feel, I'd certainly be booted for breaking Vocal community rules) decided to put up racist flyers on campus.

Rumors were flying. Fear was rising in the minority communities. POCs were being guarded as we traveled en masse from building to building.

I was in line for dinner, and happened to end up right in front of my R.A. Our schedules were so different, I really hadn't seen her since the party, so we caught up as the line winded us towards the food.

And she was confiding to me that she was really worried about the flyers on campus.

I was confused. “Why would you be concerned about that?”

She stared at me. Then she glared at me. She's got a champion glare, I have to tell you.

And it hit me. “Oh, my God, you're Black!” I had never noticed before.

She stared. And I swear, I saw her thoughts, as clear as if there was a speech bubble above her head: “Do I kiss her, or do I kill her, for that reaction? Hmm, still not sure...”

Yes, I did apologize. Yes, I am that color blind. Still am. And people still don't know whether to kill or kiss me for that reaction.

***********

Fast forward quite a few years, and I'm working for a jeweler and learning the trade. He and some associates put on a gem show at a local event site, and me and my hubby took the entrance fees at a table at the front door.

One of the cool features of this event is that your ticket is good for all three days. Most shows, you have to pay every day to return, but not this one. Nice, eh?

We told them to hold on to their ticket. It's part of the patter, we'd tell each group as we handed them their tickets. “Hold on to your ticket, it's good all three days of the show, just wave it at us and you don't have to stand in line to return.”

You'd think the ones who come back year after year would listen, but no, we'd find gobs of tickets in the trash at the end of the day, and a few who sheepishly shuffle in the next day, shelling out the money again, because they forgot something.

The regulars blur after a while. We have hundreds of people a day, year after year, for fifteen years. I will not remember your face. You'll look vaguely familiar, just like all the others. Year after year after year.

But I will rememebr awesome jewelry, and a lot of people will wear distinct pieces to see who's paying attention. I was guilty as charged, so I can't say anything. I wear my funky bling proudly to see if self-proclaimed experts notice.

I was dealing with my line, so I didn't register the slightly raised voices in hubby's line till he caught my attention. “Hon, do you remember this lady from yesterday? She trashed her ticket, but says you sold it to her.”

I look over. “I know you're one of the regulars, but no, I don't recall. I'm sorry, there are so many people every day.”

She stared at me. Really stared. Looked at my husband (the “is she freaking serious?” look), he smiled and nodded (the “yep, she doesn't see it” look), and she turned back. “You... don't remember me?”

“No, did we talk about anything? I might remember the conversation.”

She stared hard, again. Looked at my husband, he smiled and nodded, she turned back. Made a vague swiping motion. “There's nothing... distinctive... about me?”

“No, I'm sorry – oh!” her vague motions were just enough for her pendant to show around the collar lace. “Ah, yes! Of course I remember a two-carat diamond! Yes, of course, here's a fresh ticket, go on in!” And I handed it to her.

She looked stunned. Reached out, took the ticket, gave me a look. Looked at my husband, he smiled and nodded, she turned back. Gave me the look again, and walked towards the entrance in a daze.

This happened in front of the line, They saw it all. They were all staring at me. I was getting a bit nervous.

Hubby waited till she was out of earshot before laughing in delight and turning to me. “Did you even realize she was a little person?”

“What, really? Is she?”

“Uh hunh. It's kinda obvious.”

“Um, oops? Well, not to me. Awesome pendant, though, I'm jealous. Next in line, please?”

I got strange looks all day when I walked through the show on breaks.

Not just color blind, I guess.

***********

The last story is a two-parter. The first time, I messed up, and the second, with that first experience under my belt, I got the rarest of all rare opportunities: a do-over. Normally, we just have to learn the hard lesson and move on and vow to ourselves not to screw it up with the next person.

Occasionally I got to go to church camp in the summer. It was for a week, and one of those days was reserved for “the great hike” - a day to follow an odd trail up, over, down , down a road, turn off again, an eventually end up in a tourist town. We'd eat lunch there at the river of rocks, then spend what little money we had (and have been hoarding all week, refraining from buying ice cream and postcards at the camp store to reassure our parents that we hadn't been eaten alive – yet) to stock up on cheap items in one store, and one store only....

CANDY!

And we would hike back with clear bags that were approximately the same size and volume of baby elephants, to gorge on our feasts, and try to hide some in the hogans only to have them eaten by Rocky the Raccoon, who was so big it looks like he ate three or four other raccoons and who others SWEAR they saw him come in and raid the stash...

Ah, fond memories. I never saw Rocky, but I did happen to see a daddy longlegger eating away at a dropped jujube in the girl's bathroom. Scraaaape, scraaaaaaape.....

Well, one year, we got to The Steep Part. A short section of the trail that was about a forty-five degree angle, but short. And once you reached the top, you were on the road, and it was smooth sailing from there.

I don't know how I got behind her, and I don't even remember her name, but she got to The Steep Part, and started wheezing and whining. “I can't make it, this is too hard, I wanna go back, I can't do this!”

Well, I can be encouraging! So I kinda helped by pushing from behind, giving her a pep talk: “You can do this, let's go, we can get up, let's go, up we go-”

And I got yelled at by the counselors, to stop yelling at her, she was doing her best!

Hunh?

I shut up. I was embarrassed. I was ashamed.

What just happened?

I'm going to assume my outside voice, with I myself trying to get up the steep part, was more outside than I accounted for, and it sounded as if I was yelling at my camp mate, and definitely not being encouraging and (cough cough) uplifting. The worst part? I probably made her feel like crap, when I thought I was helping.

It was a harsh lesson to learn, that even with the best of intentions, you can be a negative amount of help. Ouch.

Fast forward to college years. Who ends up being a camp counselor at that same camp?

And I usually took sweeper position, the counselor in the very back to make sure no one got left behind or lost. Yes, I had the first aid kit too.

And you can guess what happened.

I swear, the exact words, the exact same puffing and huffing, and the same tone of candyless despair.

At that point, I'd had a decade (give or take) to realize what I should have done, and I did it.

I slid up on the trail, so we were walking side-by-side. I gently put my arm around her, and said, warmly and lovingly (I may have practised in front of a mirror), “Sure we can! I'll help. It's not for long, and then we'll be at the top, and we can do this, together!”

And we did it. Together. I may have had to grab a belt loop a time or two to help steady her, but we made it!

I hope her candy tasted all the sweeter for her accomplishment.

I still have the vest I bought that day, floating around here somewhere. Sure can't wear it anymore! I myself was a bit quiet that day, smiling as the kids climbed over the rocks and bought gobs of candy as a sacrifice to the raccoon gods. I knew, even then, it was incredibly rare to get a redo. And though I forget sometimes, especially when I'm in pain, I try my very best to make sure my voice is modulated to convey the emotion I'm feeling. Otherwise, mistakes can happen, and opportunities to do the right thing are lost in miscommunication.

***********

All right, one little vignette to finish-

I was on a squishie hunt. Squishie? My pet name for my preferred prey, the Great Elongated Souvenir Penny. I must have them ALL.

I was in a tourist location with a bunch of specialty shops, where you're supposed to stay the whole day hopping from store to store. Restaurants, arcade, old timey games, that sort of thing.

They had a carousel.

We were there early to get a parking spot. This place fills up fast in the summer. Nice parking spot, but the squishie location was across the campus, also across a bridge. Past the carousel.

Now, I love carousels. Not to ride, necessarily, but to check out all the amazing animals. I like taking pictures, but that involves being patient, standing to the side, and only taking pics between rides, since people get kinda cranky when you take unsolicied pics of their kids.

We go, locate the machine, get the squishies. On the way back, we decide to stop at the carousel to get pics, which naturally includes being an observer of the joy that is humanity at its most interesting when waiting in lines.

I had just gotten the last pics and we were leaving, and the line stopped as the ride was full. And this little girl, who would be the very first person to choose for the next ride, was cut from THIS ride. All she saw was the bar of NOPE across her access.

Cue meltdown.

No amount of reassurance would let her see that she would be FIRST for the next ride, she just wasn't on THIS one!

We're walking by. We're strangers.

And I got an idea.

I veered right back to the ride, outside the line rails. And, looking at this cutie in full-throated war cry, I say (way too cheerfully), “Hey, that looks like fun! Can I try?” And in front of the whole line, the ride operator, her mom, my hubby, God and all his angels, I proceed to jump up and down, flap my arms, and wail like a fire siren.

Kid stops crying. Kid stares at me like her world has turned upside down.

And I suddenly stop, put my hand to my chest, nod, and say, again way too chirpily, “Wow, that felt good, thank you!” and bounce off, hubby bouncing with me. Everyone in line is smiling, but none of them crack and laugh. Ride starts up with ride operator grinning like a maniac, and the crying doesn't start up again. Even Mom was delighted.

Not all stranger interactions are bad. Some are just plain weird, but fun.