Lunch yesterday was supposed to be a quick salad at Quiznos before a Target run and an afternoon matinee; nice, light, filling, and fast. Lunch didn't turn out the way i expected.
It was hot outside - tipping 100 - and the only table inside the shop was between a couple of older ladies, and an another older lady who, i supposed was a bag lady. Though she had a small cell phone on the table, she had a shopping cart full of items carefully wrapped in plastic bags, a very bad wig, and cuts on her face. I hesitated for a moment, but wanting to eat and not wanting to go back out in the heat right away, i sat down and pulled out the new Wired, hoping for a quick and peaceful meal.
Of course, that didn't happen.
The Lady - to my left - asked what i was eating, because it looked better than her soup. I thought it was odd she was eating soup on such a hot day, then realized it was the cheapest thing on the menu and she probably didn't have any more money. She kept speaking, and i couldn't not answer. Our conversation started slowly, i was dragging my feet, i felt uncomfortable humoring this woman, who i figured would hit me up for money or a ride, neither of which i wanted to give.
This was the first time that lunch i felt like a jackass. It wouldn't be the last. If she doesn't have money for food and i can spare some, how dare i not help her?
She commented on a woman who passed, sure she was pregnant, and as i humored her, listening to her speak, she became more animated. She spoke of being treated badly by various men, church leaders who just wanted to say they had helped an old woman for political reasons. She spoke of being captured and indentured and kept on a leash by the man who gave her the cell phone to always find her; who gave her the money for the soup, just enough that she would still need him. She spoke of how should wouldn't give him her blessing for helping her, she would give it to me. She said i needed a tender, loving husband, who would be my partner; how i would have three children, a girl and two boys, how i was special and nice - an angel. She said that she was an artist. She said that she was a scientist. She said that David Murdoch would help her, that she held the copyright to the house of the future, and that was why people were trying to kill her; she was positive that was why she had been hit by a truck a year ago, a truck that had broken her knees and made her stay in a hospital that shackeled her to her bed. She feared everything, but loved buying toys for children who needed her. She said she needed to write a book - The Bloody Coffin - about a girl at church, a nice, quiet girl, who had been killed having rough sex with a man from the church, and how the girl disappeared. She said people would give her food, but not money for a motel that had a tub where should could soak her swollen legs. She told me her cart held her books which she didn't want anyone to find; she had to protect them from the coming storm, and from the invading Indians and Chineese people who were taking over the area in a staged and quiet takeover of the country.
As she spoke, i offered her my copy of The Devil Wears Prada to read; she said no, thank you. I offered her my salad that she had been interested in (i hadn't taken more than two bites and had lost my appetite); she declined, saying i always needed to take my food so i could stay strong. I had money in my pokets; at first i was only going to offer her the change from my salad - $4 - then i realized how unhelpful that would be. I had $40 in my back pocket. I had wanted that money to last me through today at least, but as she spoke, i couldn't imagine keeping the money. I finally offered it to her; and she clutched at it, thanked me, and called me an angel again.
I felt horrible.
Though i desperately wanted to go, i stayed for almost an hour. Because, more than anything, she just wanted someone to talk to. Someone to tell her - jumbled - story to. Someone who would listen and not try to use her. Someone who could help her write her story, spread her message, without the man she was scared of knowing.
"He calls me Caspar," she said, "like the ghost. Because i don't exist. I'm dead."
She spoke of sitting inside a starbucks watching the children play and feeling dehydrated, and thinking she was going to die she went outside so she wouldn't upset them.
I stayed because i imagined that if either of my Grandmother's were - Heaven forbid - ever in that situation, i'd want someone to sit there and listen to their stories. This thought did not cheer me, though, i only felt - feel - horribly guilty. Because my Grandparents are alive and i don't talk to them nearly enough. I don't listen to their stories. And i should.
So i gave this lady everything i had that she would take - including my brand new, just opened and still very much unread Wired magazine, and my money, and i said i was so sorry, i had to go. She didn't want me to leave, but understood - she asked if i was going to see my parents, and i said it was my father's birthday (truth) and i didn't want to be late (lie). She asked for my name and phone number, asked me to write them down so she could call me on the phone the man gave her as a leash, that she was there to charge. She thought it was providence we met. She pulled a pen out of her little purse, and napkins, and i wrote down a fake name and a fake number, with the suggestion that she write down her story. She said she would call me on Tuesday so we could talk again.
When i left, i took my salad with me, as she asked.
And i felt horrible. Guilty i couldn't help more, guilty i had lied, guilty that i don't want to go back to Quiznos for a long time so i don't run in to her again. While i didn't know what else to do while it was happening, and while i know i did helped a bit in a small way... nothing i did feels like enough; because, one way or the other, i ran away as soon and as fast as i could. I could have done more. She had asked me how she could escape her servitude and i didn't have an answer for her. She asked how people could treat her so badly, and again, there was nothing i could say.
People told me they would have lied too. People were amazed i listened to her at all. People were appaled i gave her my money.
I still don't know what else i would have done. That doesn't help this feeling in the pit of my stomach, though.
...I need to call my Grandmothers....
