by Kari Lizer
He shuffles more than walks, and every slide looks painful. He stops in front of the door to the salon and seems to be studying the business hours posted there. After several minutes, he opens the door and, leaving his bike and belongings alone on the sidewalk, enters the salon. There are only four customers inside with about six employees, and everyone stops talking and looks at the man. The owner, Rick, a young, thin, soft-spoken, and sweet Vietnamese man, moves quickly from the back of the room to the front. The homeless man speaks in an inappropriately loud, scratchy voice to no one in particular. “Can I have some money?”
Rick is now about five feet away from him, and that’s where he stops, not looking confident that he can handle this situation up close. Rick tells him, in a slightly shaky voice, “You can’t do that here, man.”
But the homeless guy walks farther into the salon, not even looking at Rick, and asks the hairless Chihuahua, “Can you give me some money?”
The girl drops her eyes to her magazine, ignoring the request. The man turns to the rest of us and asks us as a group, “I need money. Can you give me some money?”
The other two customers are private school mom types in their forties—the kind who don’t look like they exercise but wear nothing but yoga pants and who had been talking about what they were going to eat for lunch for thirty solid minutes, pretending they were going to be “good” on their diets, but every time they mentioned Mexican food, gasped and giggled, “That would be so bad!” They were clearly each other’s enablers, and there was not a chance these two weren’t going to be eating nachos with the works as soon as their nails were dry enough to get them to Poquito Mas. They both shake their heads and also avert their eyes from the homeless man. The women working on our feet watch the man but show no opinion about him—not fear or anger. And he doesn’t address them; I guess he knows they already have it hard enough, scrubbing white women’s feet for a living.
The man turns to me and says again, “I need money.” And his eyes stay on mine. I don’t look away.
I say, “I’m sorry. I don’t have any cash.” It’s not true, but I’d already played out my best move in my head. If I was going to give him cash, that would entail me taking my feet out of the suds in the foot tub, sliding out of the giant chair, fetching my purse from the floor next to the chair, and locating an appropriate amount of cash without letting him see exactly how much I had access to. It seemed labor intensive and fraught with opportunities for an escalation of the already uncomfortable situation.
He doesn’t move on; he just keeps staring at me, I guess, because I’m his last hope. So I say again, “I don’t have any cash.” Then I try to say with my eyes, “But I’m a very good person who cares about the homeless.” And I give him a little smile.
He takes a step closer and, with so much anger the whole salon registers an extra heartbeat, says, “You stupid rich bitch, don’t laugh at me.” Then he shuffles out of the salon, retrieves his bicycle, and continues down the street.
Everyone in the salon lets out a breath. The private school moms laugh. Rick apologizes. The Chihuahua says with a sneer, “I hate that they can just walk in anywhere they want to.” The fake yoga ladies nod their heads in agreement.
“They?” I say. “By they, do you mean human beings?” Okay. I don’t say that. But I think it. Hard. Hairless Chihuahua goes back to her magazine article about Nicole Kidman’s private heartbreak. The moms go back to chatting about what they’re going to eat, deciding that after that little scare, they definitely deserve a cheat day. Kim-Li goes back to declawing my feet, but I’m shaky. I am not a rich bitch. I’m a good person. I’m a single mom! I’m probably the nicest person in this place. How could he not see that? I had been misjudged in the most horrible way possible.
Why do I care what that unstable man thought of me? Why do I care if the lady at my feet thinks I’m gross or spoiled or a racist? I know what I am. Who are they to judge me? Why does it bother me? I sit with that a minute, then realize, oh, I know. Because that’s what I do. I judge everyone. All the time. I’m constantly assessing people and determining who and what they are based on the smallest amount of information. And I really don’t like it when someone does it to me. I wanted to tell the homeless man about my volunteer work and compost bin. Of course the homeless man would probably really think I’m an asshole then.
I decided the poor girl next to me must be shallow and fake and without a brain in her head because she likes to wax all her hair off. So what?
Maybe she has a problem with excessive hair growth. I don’t know. And the private school moms. I have no idea if their kids go to private school. They might not even have kids. For all I know, they’re infertile, so they talk about food all the time to fill the hole. By the way? My kids go to private school, so fuck me. And so what if they wear yoga clothes—they probably go to yoga. Or they probably mean to go to yoga. I wear running shoes, and I don’t run anywhere. And Rick—I don’t even know if he’s Vietnamese. I assigned him a nationality. And why do I think he’s nice just because he’s Asian? Maybe he’s an asshole. Maybe he beats his wife. And maybe Kim-Li likes her job. Maybe she’s proud of her ability to transform ugly feet and hands into ugly but well-groomed feet and hands. Why am I feeling sorry for her? Because I think her job sucks. Because I’m the misjudger. Me. Miss Judgy. I think everyone from the South is a racist and every guy in a fraternity is a rapist. I think all Republicans are homophobes and anyone who doesn’t like dogs is untrustworthy. I think pretty girls can’t be funny. And handsome guys can’t be faithful. That’s terrible. What’s wrong with me? Could it be that I’m not the best person ever?
Kim-Li is done with my toes. She thanks me and scoots her rolling stool to the next chair. Maybe in a hurry to get away from me. But maybe not. I don’t know her. I don’t even know where I got the idea that her name was Kim-Li. Did she ever actually tell me that?
I have to get out of there. I delicately walk over to Rick, trying not to dislodge the toilet paper that’s keeping my toes separated, pay my check, with a regular-sized tip—what’s-her-name doesn’t need my 40 percent pity tip—then walk out of Soothe Me Spa and onto Ventura Boulevard, hating myself.
I look down the sidewalk in the direction that the homeless guy went to see whether he is still in sight. I don’t see him. I unlock my Prius, which I drive because I think people will have the right impression of me, and pull away from the salon. I see him about two blocks down. The homeless man has leaned his bike and belongings against a storefront for lease and laid himself down on the sidewalk to sleep. His back is turned to me, and I can see that his shirt has split all the way up, exposing his skin. It’s cold outside, one of those days where everyone in Los Angeles talks about how cold it is because we always forget that happens here. The guy must be freezing. I pull into the next metered space that I see and get out of my car. I open the hatchback and pull out the down coat I keep back there for emergencies. An old crew jacket from Weird Science. I could probably get decent money for that on eBay (not something the best person ever would think). I also grab the pair of soccer socks one of the kids has left behind and a bottle of Gatorade. I take a twenty from my purse.
I walk to the man and stand a few feet away. I say, “Excuse me, sir.” He doesn’t move. I step a bit closer and say more loudly, “Hello?” Nothing. I put the twenty into the pocket of the coat and step even closer. I bend down, laying the coat over the man’s exposed back. I set the Gatorade bottle next to him, and the socks near his feet, hoping he isn’t going to spring awake and stab me repeatedly.
I’m a good person. Well, I’m a flawed person, but I’m always engaged in a struggle in my head and heart to be a better person, and that’s got to count for something. I stand up and look down the street. About a block away, there are four guys in suits coming out of the Starbucks, heading toward me.
I have a thought. Am I still the best person ever if nobody sees me being the best person ever? I mean, even the homeless guy slept through my generos
ity.
I know I won’t look back at this moment proudly, but I crouch back down next to the homeless guy and pull the coat off his back. As soon as the guys are close enough to notice me, I return the coat to the homeless man’s exposed back, patting him gently. I adjust the Gatorade bottle and socks. By now, the guys are right there, and they’ve stopped to watch. I look up, as if I’m surprised by their presence, and say, “He looked cold.”
One of the guys says, “That’s really cool, man. You’re a nice lady.” I shrug modestly and walk back to my car.
It’s not a perfect act of kindness, but I think I get points for being aware of how imperfect it is. I mean, most people don’t even question their behavior because most people are jerks, I say to my rearview mirror as I pull away. “You’re fine. You’re fine,” I say, soothing myself. But I know what will be going in the notebook next to my bed in the middle of the night: “Give anonymously.”
The Art of Self-Defense
My story starts in Amsterdam. My daughter and I met up there for a three-day holiday while she was going to school in Scotland. On the second morning of our trip, we decided to take a cruise through the canals. Our guide was Eddie, a retired sea captain in the Dutch Royal Navy, but now, in his midseventies, Captain Eddie spent his time piloting a restored 150-year-old barge around the canals of Amsterdam, sharing the city’s rich history with his eight or so passengers. Annabel and I were on the first tour of the morning. Captain Eddie helped us into the boat by offering his hand, warning us not to hit our heads on the low ceiling. He was tan and fit, with sparkling blue eyes and that indeterminate Dutch accent. We chatted with Captain Eddie while waiting to be joined by the other passengers: two older couples—one from America, one from Ireland—and a mother, father, and fourteen-year-old daughter from Singapore. After our safety briefing, we pulled away from the dock, and the tour commenced.
Our captain began describing his city with colorful stories of Nazis and immigrants and plague, and as he was talking, I became increasingly aware that the only person Captain Eddie seemed to be speaking to was me. It was like I was the only one on the boat. I would look away for a minute, only to turn back and have him staring directly into my eyes.
The Irish lady held her hand up for a full five minutes with a question, but Captain Eddie never called on her—he was too busy with my personal tour, only looking away from my face to make sure the barge was still on course, then turning back to me, just me, with a nod and a cap-toothed smile. When he’d reveal something slightly scandalous about the city, he’d wink, like we had an inside joke. He asked me if I wanted to drive the boat or climb onto the bow to take better pictures. He didn’t make that offer to anyone else, even though the Singapore teenager was stuck taking pictures from inside, where there was nothing to photograph but the glare from the windows. Annabel noticed my special treatment, too, and began to call him “Captain New Daddy.” Captain New Daddy mentioned at least twelve times that Amsterdam was a liberal city. And when he said it, it was always directed at me with special emphasis on the word liberal that made it seem like he was saying, “I’ll get you down on all fours and fuck you right here.” When we went past the barge where the city collected stray cats, he referred to it as the pussy boat and licked his lips at me in a way that made my neck sweat. The young girl from Singapore looked at me like I must be one of those Amsterdam whores she’d heard so much about. A few minutes later, I looked up and she was taking my picture. This went on for two hours and ten minutes until finally I’d perspired through my bra and the tour was over. Captain New Daddy handed me his personal card, saying he’d love to see me again. I thanked him and hurried off the boat, hitting my head on the low ceiling on my way out, wondering what would happen if I did call him. It had been so long since I’d engaged in anything that casual, I actually considered it. Maybe when Annabel gets on the plane back to Scotland, I should give Captain New Daddy a call and just see what he’s got in mind for me. Of course I wouldn’t.
One of the problems with being morbidly addicted to crime dramas was that all roads in the imagination lead to violent death. It’s why I’ll never online date or carpool or eat the samples at Costco.
When I got back home, I told Gene the shrink about the unusual number of romantic opportunities I had in Europe. When I petted the Frenchman’s dog and he asked if I would do the same to him. The waiter who gave me free wine and offered Spanish lessons in his apartment. And finally, Captain New Daddy. Europe Me was so much more popular than American Me. But of course I didn’t act on any of my offers, I assured him.
My therapist asked, “What if you did? Not the one-night stands, but something more promising. Can you imagine love at this point in your life?”
“No. I don’t even know what love is.”
“Oh, come on. You have lots of love in your life.”
“Sure,” I said, “lots of unrequited love.”
“That’s not true,” he said, practically scolding me, which is something he does when I get determined to be hopeless and heartless. “What about your children?”
“That’s worse than unrequited. That’s mercy-fuck love.”
Gene clutched his pearls. He likes to pretend he’s more delicate than he is when I pretend to be more jaded than I am.
I continued anyway. “I want to eat them alive, know their every thought, be part of every moment of their lives, and they stay just connected enough to me to keep their bank accounts open.”
He kept his eyes steady on me, waiting for me to be less dramatic or at least tell the truth.
“Okay,” I admitted, “they love me. But they aren’t desperately in love with me like I am with them. Of course. Thank God. That wouldn’t be normal. Nobody wants that. Except me.”
“Okay. So try to imagine grown-up love now. Romantic love. What would that look like? Try to remember that warm, fuzzy feeling and how that might be for you.”
Why? Why does everyone think that if you aren’t in a relationship you’re walking around with a hole in your heart? I closed my eyes, trying hard to think how it might go. I would meet this man, and we would hit it off. Things would progress. We would become a we. We’d start spending all of our time together. Then what? Would we move in together? Whose house would we live in? Well, I’m not leaving my house. Okay. So he moves into my house. What if he didn’t like my dogs? Or my cats? Or my chickens? Would we take vacations? What if he hated traveling? What if I love him more than he loves me, or worse, he loves me more than I love him? No. I can’t do this! I broke up with my imaginary new boyfriend and declared it impossible. My therapist is staring at me and quiet. What?
“Do you think it’s possible that you’ve become too self-protective to allow anybody in and that’s why you’re alone?”
“No. That’s stupid. I just told you, I got propositioned all over Europe.”
He continued to watch me. And annoy me.
Because anyone who is involved in a partnership believes that everyone wants to be involved in a partnership. Even if their own partnership is a misery, which I’m assuming Gene’s is because at this point, he’s bugging the shit out of me and I’m not even his wife.
They really truly believe that when someone says, “I like being alone,” it only means, “I haven’t found the right person yet,” or “I’m afraid of getting hurt,” when sometimes it just means, “I like being alone.” And I find my best place to be alone is Vermont. So I told Gene we were taking a break while I went to Vermont to be alone. I promised him I’d think about why I was alone, while I was alone, enjoying being alone.
When I get to Vermont this time, Tom, the seventy-year-old native Vermonter who takes care of my place, tells me he has a surprise for me. A little early birthday present. He bought me a gun. Shit. I hate guns. I sign petitions against guns. I write Facebook posts complaining about guns and the people who own them. Tom tells me he’d feel better about me living all alone up in the woods if I had a gun. He did it because he loves me. And I couldn’t say any
thing because I love Tom, and also he just finished a course of chemo for colon cancer, and I was so happy to see him up and about, if he told me he bought me a mink stole, I’d probably just suck it up and wear it into town. So I said, “Thank you.” And he said he was going to teach me how to use it.
We took my four-wheel-drive Gator into the woods to find a suitable place for my shooting lesson. Tom brought along a paper target attached to a wooden stick. He pulled my brand-new .38 Smith & Wesson Special out of its box. It was shiny and pretty in a way, I guess. He took out a box of bullets and explained he got me hollow points because “they make a hole in your target like an extra-large pizza.”
“Why do I want that?” I asked.
He told me I’d be happy to have them if a bear was coming at me.
“I’m not going to shoot a bear, Tom! I love bears. If I shoot anything, I’m shooting a person.” He ignored me and dumped my giant, deadly bullets out of the box. His hands were shaky, and the bullets kept getting away from him, dropping on the ground and rolling away.
“What’s happening there?” I asked him.
“The chemo makes my darn fingers numb. Can’t get a grip on the bullets,” he told me.
“Maybe this isn’t the best day for a shooting lesson.”