An Unexpected Ally

A door slams shut aways left… neighbor exiting house.

Across the street, a thin, stray-lookin' dog makes its' rounds. Child-laughter lingers in the air fair, fresh n' hopeful.

Budding trees burst of brilliant green. Each day some new flower appears, marking the seasonal arc.

The bustling city of millions seems but a faint echo as it swirls 'round the modest Market where small, busy shops and cafes mix with homes and parkettes, musicians and dancers at play.

With a precious day off from work, I stroll at leisure: slow-taking in the momentary flow by lowing breath, ahhhh's if it might never end.

A small bird whistles past like a missile oh, but two then ten feet above. A voice calls out, turning to a conversation going 'that-a-way.' A particularly ripe rendition of fish-waste and mango paste flares nostrils as I side-step a clue or two, smiling at the shopkeeper with wily broom, (seems to know what I'm thinking).

In one rustic dive… fresh-roasted coffee - aromas as alive as the taste - then some choice dried-fruit in another.

At a quiet end of the street a sudden swirl of merciful/sweet air greets my lungs and feet as I step up to the glass door of the little laundromat. With a massive knapsack on my back - full of my own special kind of filth - I step inside.

As usual, it's quiet. There's an attendant behind her booth. Someone's playing pinball; and as I walk past… a solitary soul in the back.

Finding a space somewhere in between, I attend to business: loading two machines, add soap, coins, and 'ka-ching,' I turn to the book I'd started reading a few days before.

It concerns a writer who travels to the deserts of New Mexico to meet a 'medicine man' of sorts, a wise, rather startling character who challenges the author, (and me) with the need "to believe."

The writing is crisp, descriptive, punctuated with dialogue which quickly teleports me to another place where EVERYTHING is alive with spirit: a moth, trees, the wind.

Here, everything has meaning, purpose - for those who pay attention - and yet, the author struggles to comprehend. The wise old man makes fun of his "scribbling," yet encourages him because he can see the young man needs it to proceed.

Then a loud bang brings me back to the laundry, and I look up to see a youngish man banging and swearing at the pinball machine. Staring intently at the glass beneath him, he lets another ball fly; and our peaceful shack returns to its mechanical moorings, it's hypnotic hum-drum.

Page 36, 3rd paragraph.

The two men are walking through the desert, it's almost dusk. "A most auspicious time," says the older man.

BANG!

Back at laundry, youngin' has smacked the machine again. Now he's steaming, a-turned to attendant… loudly demanding she refund his quarter.

She stands her ground, telling him he shouldn't be so rough. He turns back around, but continues cursing, swearing.

I open the book but before I can read a word more… he's shouting again; and, as my ears tingle onto the temper of their 'conversation,' I hear something amiss which foretells someone getting REALLY pissed off.

The attendant is Asian, older, and doesn't speak English very well. She keeps repeating something she clearly doesn't know the meaning of… "f___ your mother."

"Ooooohhhh…"

You can hear it right down into his balls… triggerin', figurin' to swell bigger.

She keeps saying... as if it's just, "don't bother me," increasingly surprised that it's not having a dismissive effect on a young man with frail ego and strong body.

I take a closer look.

He's BIG!!

Maybe 17 or 18, in his piss-n-vinegar prime.

Me? I'm 24, in good shape but modest, thin build.

Jaysus, this guy's a MACHINE!

As his voice volume increases and his fist tightens in the air, I hear fear creeping into her voice.

But she can't stop saying the offensive line.

Suddenly, images of the beating (and concussion) I'd received but two months before - from just such a hothead with his gang of thugs - screams back into mind, now colliding with another moment from a few years earlier: working in a shelter for abused women… providing daycare for the helpless, gentle victims of patriarchal privilege and rage.

There's no way I'm going to let him hurt her.

Hmmm. Now, I GUESS I could go up and… offer him a couple quarters? Yeah, but he's already in such a rage. He might just turn a page and lay into me.

Okay, so I have to go in… offering my 'two cents,' prepared to punch my way out.

"Got it."

But then I recall something from the book I'm reading, how our world is full of "allies": helpful benevolent spirits; and how we need to acknowledge them - to LOOK! - before they can 'appear' and do their thing.'

I pull out my cell phone and quick-scroll, but they're all too far away. Then I remembered this guy I'd just met, Steven, who lives a block up the street. ("He's big"). I'd written his number down in my little black book that I always carry around with me… a-journalling my journey.

Rifling open the pocket of my knapsack, then my journal, I look for the name and number in the margin.

I call.

No answer.

The brash young pinball-buck is now shouting at the top of his lungs, slamming his fist on the side of her wooden booth.

(Shite).

A voice inside me says, "Look around."

I stop, the surrounding noise echoes and dissipates-to-distance as a still, quiet calm turns me to see the other, older gentleman about ten paces behind me… staring blankly off into space.

Hmmm...

I quietly move over, lean on the washer next to him, and nonchalantly say, "You see what's going on over there?"

He looks up, irritated, "What?"

I look calmly and directly in his eyes, "Do you see what's going on over there?" (nodding my head to the scene).

"Yeah," he replies, annoyed, "I see what's going on."

I gaze a phrase of my intent into his eyes, searching, inviting… finding nothing in return.

Leaving him to enjoy his extensive brain-fart, I quietly turn and walk back to my washer, preparing to take care of this on my own.

The shouting and threats are too much to bear.

I still myself, fomenting a force of rage from within when, all of a sudden, I hear a loud bang, (or slap, or something) and look up to see the older man shouting at the kid!!

"What's the matter with you? Can't you do anything right?!? Get over there!!

And this monster-kid is saying, "Sorry dad, sorry…" his head bowed with tail between his frail legs… walking back to their washer.

The old guy… is the kids father!?!

I turn back to my clothes with nervous hands - stunned, still in a haze of dissipating, furious heat… the tension spilling over mental embankments, washing away like cool comfort.

The laundry is breathtakingly... pin-drop-quiet.

For the next ten, then twenty/thirty minutes the son says not a word. Daddy breaks in a few times to insult and berate his boy; and slowly, I start

feeling compassion for the youngling: I can see where he gets his rage from.

They leave quietly shortly thereafter, as do I.

I stop at the attendant's counter.

"Are you alright?" I ask.

"Yes.. thank you," she says, still quite shaken.

"I didn't know what to do," I continue, "but I wasn't going to let him hurt you."

She stares at me, curious.

"I had no idea that guy was the kids father. When I went over and talked with him I got n… "

"Y… y-y-you talk to him?"

"Yeah, I looked around and he was only one else here and… but he didn't… and…"

A little warmth returns to her face as she smiles, "You good man."

I'm startled, then smile back, nodding my head as a sign of respect.

"But if I may," I say, "please let me try to explain why that phrase you use… not so good."

Later that day, there's still a golden glow inside… reflected by a friendly sun halfway down the western sky as I pass by the laundry on my way to catch the streetcar.

The trip to my parents' house in the suburban wasteland is a long one: twenty minutes to the subway, then 30 more to catch the light-rail car before catching the bus.

Sigh.

Aye, it's early rush-hour as I enter the lighter train; so there's nowhere to sit, yet still space enough to circumvent the smell 'n tell… sardine-city sensual.

(Oooohh… my very own bar to hang onto).

As the train pulls away I notice a loud, slow steady banging noise, and look through the half-crowded car to see a young woman, seated, holding a long thick metal bar in her hand, raising it but an inch then letting it drop on the metal floor.

With each new drop, it becomes EXTREMELY annoying… piercingly-high to the ears, jarring to the bones; yet everyone's pretending not to notice.

Ah yes, the roomy gloom of humanity herded... unable to speak the word for the weight of too many hours, absurd... waiting in limbo.

Then I notice one guy noticing her. His eyes are piercing with a quiet burning rage, as if he wants to say something but can't break out from the sardine shell-shock. Oppressed by the noise, oppressed by the herd-speak which makes warm human contact so… inconvenient, his frustration has no positive outlet.

Then I look at her: probably 15-16, adorably cute with her whole life ahead of her yet bored by it all and not quite knowing how to say.

Staring off into space, oblivious to her actions (and everyone else) she's lifting the heavy bar then letting it drop in a calculated, exploratory 5-second cycle: leaning it briefly forward then back and lifting/dropping again in one smooth, constant flow - as if she were tapping out a tune or performing theatre. Her expression… certainly not mean; rather, with a certain soft edge: playful, with a bit of defiance mixed in.

Still, it's LOUD, and I can see another confrontation building.

I look on as if not looking-on, and I sense many others… doing the same.

Finally the man says something abrasive to her, like, "Why are you making all that racket? Don't you have any consideration for…"

And her reply is simply to look at him, pause, then stare back into space and raise the bar a little higher, bang a little louder.

The man backs off and turns away, seriously pissed but dissipating...

I smile in silent admiration for her slightly rude but righteous way of having her say.

I move closer.

"That's quite a bar ya got there," I say, smiling.

"Mmm," she replies, "I picked it up in the field and… I don't what I'm going to do with it…"

(BANG!…).

"You've got an interesting rhythm going there."

"Mm-hmm…" (BANG!…)

In a quieter voice I add, "I can understand why you didn't appreciate what he said to you."

She looks up at me, (ceases her pounding): "Yeah," she scowls, her face showing real pain, "that was rude!! Why'd he have to

SAY that?!?"

"Yeah, I agree he could have said it better (POUND) and…" (pause) "I think I understand what he was trying to say."

Looking ahead again, (pound) she says, "What do you mean?"

"Well, (POUND…) what you're doing there is… REALLY… (really) loud."

She stops… looks at me.

With smiling eyes I quietly acknowledge, "Yeah, it's a curious thing about musical instruments… I play guitar, drums… and when I'm playing it doesn't seem nearly as loud as when I'm listening to somebody else… Then it's, 'WHAATTT?!?"

"Really?"

"Oh yeah, and that's some serious iron you got there… looks really heavy... got real impact."

She looks down, (a hint of pride creeping in).

"And you know how it is… at the end of the day most people are too tired to say and… I can see you're a nice person… you're not intending to be rude yourself but… do you think you could tap your instrument just a little bit softer?" (making an inch-impression with my thumb and index finger).

She looks away, a little disappointed but shrugs, "Okay."

"Thanks," I say, stepping back.

I look over at the other guy and he's still trapped in his rage, looking away.

She tries lifting the bar to a lesser height, but it's so bloody heavy it's impossible without a lot of 'oomph!'

Soon she stops playing altogether.

A few minutes later we're all disembarking at the Town Square and another young lady comes up to me and says, "That was AMAZING what you just did. I saw the WHOLE thing."

"Oh," I reply, "so YOU were my ally in there. Thank you, for your eyes and… your willingness to share," as we proceed down the stair.

Over the spring and summer I continue using the Market laundry, and whenever Mrs. Song was there we'd smile warmly. Her English… still not so good; but she try, and I help when I can. (I'm pretty sure she stop using that phrase).

Then one day, she calls me over with her hands (and an unusually generous smile) to say, "Very good news. Good fortune… but you tell no body!"

"Okay," I say.

"My husband and I win big lottery."

"Oh, fantastic."

"And we talk it over. I say, 'you help me… you good man… so we decide… we give you this."

She hands me a slip of paper.

It's a check. It reads… $20,000, with a signature.

"You put your name there… now," she says, handing me a pen.

My jaw hangs loose for a few.

"Wow," I stutter. "That's so nice."

"Write your name," she insists, pleased with herself but containing it.

I do.

I want to express my gratitude, but it's clear she's more embarrassed than I by any expression of emotion. She's making like she's busy with something else.

"Please tell your husband," I finally say, "I am honored… by his confidence in his wife's good opinion. And… I will use this money well."

She nods, satisfied.

"Us allies have to stick together," I add.

She nods again, pretending to understand, (or understanding way more than I).

I've no interest in doing laundry now. I leave the little building and sit down on the simple bench in the warmth of the sun, stunned.

After a few moments of pure bliss… where the wind and the birds and the scent of flowers seem like one long, gentle kiss, I pull out my little black book... to write something.

Speechless.

Then I think, "Who can I help?"

Down the list that comes to mind I find… (except for my friend Dale) I'm probably worse off than just about anyone I know.

I need things.

A bed for starters. Ever since my air-mattress died (two months ago?) sleeping on the floor on a stack of sheets has really given my back a whole new perspective on pain: stiffness, bone-moaning, joint-grinding, shoulder-piercing pain.

Then there's my teeth, and the festering phone bill, and the money I owe my brother.

"Ohhh… and I can eat like a real human again… not having to count every quarter so I can buy a reduced bag of apples."

I can get a case of that primo "Tamari" and "Miso" that so subtly makes life worth living again… renew my supplies from the local herbalist.

Actually being healthy: what a concept!!

A little breathing room in which to strut n' groom and possibly bloom again.

Come to think of it, a number of those on my list may SEEM to be doing much better than I, but they're still a few paychecks away from the 'BIG-B' (bankruptcy). They just don't want to say it. I couldn't give them all enough to make a major dent; but I could afford to take them out for a really nice dinner… treat them for all the birthdays and holidays we missed, and otherwise use it as an excuse to say "hello."

I could also become a member of that online writing-community, (where I can get paid for views); and, I'd make more time to write.

Hmmm, I could even make a significant donation to that woman's shelter and… there, it's coming back to me. Yes, that musical project I've worked on for so long… on hold now for YEARS. Can it be? I now have the opportunity to 'change the world' with a song?

Like a stream then a torrent it all starts flooding back into me: the chords, the words, the website; the feeling of singing again like it's my embodied life, breathing, paying attention to everything I eat, say and do. Oh my word, it's all still there. All that gestation and there's still time to breathe new life into it!

Fumbling with my phone, I call my recording-engineer friend, Brad, (we haven't talked in a year). He's thrilled with my great news and that I'm wanting to work on the project he helped me with, so long ago.

(Life needs purpose, even if it's to find and follow…)

"I just got the latest camera," he blurts out, "and all the software. Would you be interested in filming your performance? That's the way to go nowadays, if you want to be noticed."

"Wow," I think as I put the phone away. "That's a whole new dimension I could never even afford to imagine."

Better get my teeth fixed.

And Dale. I should call him. He'd understand about "allies."