Three Chairs

Sending Max Home

"The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts."

~ Italo Calvino, The Literature Machine

The Churchview apartment building stands on the corner of Oak and Lake in Evanston, IL.  It is, indeed, in view of a large, stately church. It is an old, pre-war building, with curious details and old-fashioned layouts.  The floor tiles in the foyer have swastikas on them. Those tiles were laid years before Hitler turned an otherwise peaceful symbol into one of death and hate. Until the Nazis took it as their own, the swastika was used by many cultures for thousands of years to represent life, power, strength, and luck.

My then-boyfriend (now-husband), Justin, and I moved into the Churchview building in 1998.  Our apartment was a long, railroad car space that ran the length of one leg of the horseshoe shaped building.  Directly below us were the swastika-tiled foyer and the dark, dank basement and laundry room.  The basement was unfinished and divided into several storage sections. Heavy, creaking doors separated the different spaces and damp, narrow passages led from one area to the next.  It was every child's worst nightmare, an early-1900's world of haunted corners, cobwebbed ceilings, and clanking pipes.  It was freaking scary down there.

At the end of the apartment, off of the kitchen, was a tiny room and bathroom that was once used as a maid's bedroom.  It was a quaint, quiet room designed for a different way of life, for a time when apartments were built with servants' quarters.  It was directly over the heart of the basement, and it was in this room that I first heard someone whisper my name directly into my ear.  The word was said quietly, but clearly.  There was no malice in the whisper, no ill-intent.  It was not a question, nor was it was not a demand.  It was a simple statement.  

Marie.

It occurred to me that we might not be alone in our apartment.  Shortly after the whispering incident, our neighbors Andrew and Julie invited us to a wine-tasting class at a local wine shop.  We didn't know each other well at that time, but both of them were open, intelligent, funny people that I felt comfortable with right away.  I can't remember a single thing that I learned about wine that night, but I remember in vivid detail the conversation that Andrew and I had afterward.  While our significant others shook their heads and rolled their eyes at us, Andrew and I discussed Churchview's ghost.  We had both felt the presence before, and we both felt the same things about that presence.  We were in agreement:

• The ghost was most present in our shared basement and in the back of our side-by-side apartments
• The ghost was an elderly man with grey hair
• The ghost was foreign and had an accent
• The ghost was lonely
• The ghost was wearing something that looked like a plaid flannel shirt and denim overalls
• The ghost's first name started with the letter M

We named him Max, but we wouldn't say his name, just like no one in Harry Potter will say ... you know.  I don't know how long we spent comparing notes and coming up with stories about Max's past, but eventually we knew that something more had to be done about the situation.  While Justin and Julie laughed behind our backs - actually, in our faces - Andrew and I made plans to descend into the basement armed with a camera and camcorder.  We eventually persuaded Julie to work the camcorder; we probably told her we needed her film expertise, but in truth we were scared silly.  Somehow, we suspected, a nonbeliever would protect us; if not from the ghost, then from ourselves.

We wandered through the sprawling basement, peering into empty storage lockers, opening creaky doors, calling for Max to make himself known to us.  Julie and Andrew took camcorder footage and I shot 35mm black and white photographs.  We called to him.  We told him that we just wanted to talk.  We said that we knew he was there and we knew he had been trying to communicate with us, and that we wanted to help him.  Could he tell us what was wrong (other than, you know, being dead)?  Could he tell us how we could help him?

Max didn't come forward. No doors slammed, no lights went out, no one whispered our names from behind us.  Eventually, unsure of what to do next, we told Max that it was OK, that he could go.  Go on, we said, you can go.  It's OK to leave here.  I think we stopped just short of telling him that we had things covered.  I hope we didn't tell him to go toward the light.

Andrew and Julie reviewed the tape.  At one point the recording wavers for a moment, and then a red light flashes briefly.  Julie reassured us that the red bit was the camcorder's power light reflecting in a window.  I developed my film and we studied each print.  No glowing orbs, no shadowy shapes, no plaid flannel shirts.  No Max.

A few months later Justin and I went on vacation and asked Julie and Andrew to take care of the cats and plants while we were away.  When we got back Julie gave us the rundown on life at Churchview while we'd been gone.  "And, oh," she said quietly, "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but once, when I was in the back room feeding the cats, I heard it.  I heard someone whispering behind me.  There was no one there."  It's oddly unsatisfying to say, "I told you so," when the telling so has to do with otherworldly spirits living in your maid's room.

Except for Julie's one encounter, none of us ever felt or heard Max again.  I'm not sure if we sent Max on his way, or if there never was a Max.  But even as I write this I know there was a Max.  I drive by Churchview sometimes and I think about the swastika tiles that stood for power and life and strength, and about the shadowy, haunted basement.  I'd like to think that Max isn't there anymore; I'd like to think that he found in his spirit self the way out to a better place, to some place where there are others like him.  I'd like to think that he's at least out of the basement and on the sunny third floor.  

Maybe some day I'll stop and ring the bell of my old apartment and ask the current tenants if anyone ever whispers their names in the maid's room.  I'll bring Andrew and Julie with me, but I won't go back in the basement.

Second-Hand, Not Second-Rate

"Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends.... Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts."

~Henry David Thoreau

When I was 14 years old my 86-year-old great-grandfather died.  He died in his sleep, as peacefully as he had lived.  He was from Sicily, he was a barber, he wore wool suits and hats in the summer, and he had a habit of falling asleep while sitting up, his head propped up against his hand.  He was a true gentleman.  He left each of his three children $3,000, and my grandmother gave $1,000 of it to each of her two daughters.

My mother was not one to squander money on clothes, jewelry, or unnecessary knickknacks.  Both of my parents were frugal.  We turned off lights when we left a room, drove a gas-efficient car, and shopped at K-Mart and resale clothing stores.  My mother had become an expert at finding resale bargains for me and my two brothers, but was turned off by most of the stores she shopped at.  Racks were overflowing and unorganized, the good stuff was mixed in with the double-knit polyester, and there was little, if any, quality control.  She decided she could do it better, so she used my great-grandfather's $1,000 to open her own store.

Her formula for current, immaculate, name-brand clothes in a clean, well-organized environment was successful, and within five years she had several stores.  She learned by trial-and-error and developed a loyal following of customers, many of whom became good friends over the 16 years she was in business.  She also developed a loyal following of complete quacks and loons who were an endless source of amusement and aggravation to us.  I worked for her on and off through college and in the years before I left for graduate school, and the experience taught me more about people than I've learned anywhere since.

There was Vi, a 70-something year-old woman who came in weekly to look for cowboy boots, rhinestone jewelry, tank tops and mini skirts.  Vi had chronic back pain from a lifetime of wearing high heels, but she refused to wear anything else.  Vi's overly made-up face looked like it was stuck in one of those NASA 20-G centrifuge machines, the skin on her cheekbones taut, her mouth always partially open, her nostrils approaching her earlobes.  We were pretty sure that Vi was either the proud owner of the very first breast implants, or was shoving socks in her bras.  She was petite and feisty, not unlike a wet chihuahua.  Vi was fighting for her lost youth, and she was losing the battle rather ungraciously.

There was Miriam, a mousy, thin woman with deep lines etched in her face and a hangdog look in her eyes.  The first time she came in she started grabbing armloads of clothes and piling them up on the counter.  "Do you want me to start a dressing room?" my mother asked.  "Oh no, dear, I'm going to buy all of this."  My mother stood there disbelieving, ruing the moment she'd have to put it all back.  Miriam didn't try a stitch of it on, but she did put it on lay-away - hundreds of dollars of resale dresses, sweaters, blouses, and skirts.  It would take her months to pay it off, but she did.  Not, however, before starting another lay-away.  She often had three of them going at any given time, and every few weeks she'd come in and put down some random amount of money: $42, $18, $34.  She told us she had converted a room in her house into a closet, but we never saw her wear any of the hundreds of things she bought.  I suspect that Miriam was trying desperately to fill an empty place in her life, and I've always felt sad for her.

I have fond memories of some of these women.  Wilma became a friend of the family over the years.  After her husband died Wilma started drinking.  Wilma started showing up at the shop drunk, and my mother worried about her.  She seemed unbearably lonely, so my mother invited her to our home for Thanksgiving one year.  Wilma brought a homemade cranberry dish that my brothers and I steered clear of, suspicious of cranberries not from a can. We started calling cranberry sauce "the Wilma."  It wasn't meant in a mean way, and to this day we make "the Wilma" for Thanksgiving.

At times my mother's shop seemed like a beacon in the desert for crotchety hagglers and wealthy bargain-hunters.  The worst were the women who could afford to shop anywhere, but would come to my mother's resale shop, browse through the clothing with suspicious expressions on their faces and one bejeweled pinky poised in the air.  After an hour of browsing they would carry one item to the counter.

"Ready?" my mom would ask.

"Mmmm, no.  I was wondering if you could do better on this?"

"Mamn, this is a 100% silk Liz Claiborne blouse with the original store tags on it.  It's $6.99.  I can't do any better."

"Mmmm.  I see.  Well then, no thanks."

There were those who would wave an item in our faces like a flag and say, accusingly, "Why on earth is this $89?!"

"It's a 3-piece Calvin Klein suit.  It retails for over $400.  It's a steal."

"But it's used!"

"Would you rather buy it new?  I believe Dillard's is still carrying it."

"Can you do better?"

"No."

I wonder if those women were looking to balance the excesses in their lives by finding the ultimate deal, if it made their day to find a dime on the sidewalk?

One day an elderly lady came in and picked out four dresses.  She didn't want to try them, she explained, because they were for her daughter.  My mother asked if she wanted us to hold them so that the daughter could come in and try them on.  We had a No Exchanges or Refunds policy, she explained.  Many of our items were on consignment, and at the end of each day the sold items were recorded on the consignor's index card in a filing box we kept on the counter.  It was OK, the woman assured us, her daughter would love them.

Sure enough, the adult daughter came in the next day and wanted to return the dresses.  My mother explained that she could not take them back, and said that she had made that clear when they were purchased.  The daughter complained, "But I don't like these, I'm never going to wear them!" 

"I'm very sorry.  We offered to put them on hold so that you could come in and try them on, but your mother didn't want to."

"But I don't want them."

"I'm really sorry. Maybe you have a friend who would like them?"

"This is ridiculous!  You have to take these back!"

Perhaps it would have been more prudent to take them back, but I don't blame my mom.  Day in and day out she dealt with people who wanted something for nothing, who criticized her pricing, who shoplifted and left garbage in the dressing rooms.  She ran a second-hand store and was often treated like a second-rate person.  She had policies and she had made them clear.  She had practically begged the woman not to buy the dresses for her daughter until she had seen them.

My mother stood her ground.  "I'm sorry, I can't take them back."

The woman glared at my mother, furious, then turned on her heel and stormed to the door.  My mother went back to some paperwork on the counter.  As the woman opened the door she yelled, "Here, just keep the shit!" and hurled the bag in the air.  It sailed across the shop in a perfect arc, its trajectory clear and true, and landed exactly on top of my mother's head, knocking off her glasses.

My mother looked up, shocked; the woman slammed the door; I burst out laughing.  The other customers began to gather around and comfort my mother, but I was of no help whatsoever.  I could barely breathe I was laughing so hard.  It was so ludicrous, so insane.  There was just something about that plastic grocery bag stuffed with clothes, flying 15 feet across the store and hitting my mother on the head.

It took my mother a while, but eventually she was able to laugh about it, too.  My mother doesn't have the stores anymore.  She closed the last one about 11 years ago, deciding she'd had enough of the busloads of cranky senior citizens, the snobs, the hagglers, and the bag-throwers.  She moved from Tucson to the hills of Southwest Oregon nine years ago, and now she spends her time gardening and cooking.  Every once in a while she goes resale shopping and sends me something she thinks I might like.  I am proud to say I have never thrown any of it at her head.

Of Bicycles and Armchairs

While armchair travelers dream of going places, traveling armchairs dream of staying put.

~ Anne Tyler

I'm getting better on my bike.  For the past few weeks I've been dropping the kids off at school and then hopping on my bike and heading north on the Green Bay Trail.

That's my bike you see on the left.  It's an old Raleigh 3-speed, made in England, and I bought it at a bike shop for $100 about 15 years ago.  It's heavy, really, really heavy.  I think it's made of concrete-infused lead.  All those fancy bikes made of Titanium and High-Carbon Steel?  Yeah, not this one.  Lead.

It used to have a charming wicker basket with leather straps on it, but over the course of several decades it rotted and disintegrated.  I'd like to think that the basket used to be filled with egg sandwiches, lemonade and chocolate cake, and that the bike was pedaled by a cheery, young English girl going to meet her American soldier and lover in the hills of Cornwall (for the sake of accuracy I should let you know that I haven't bothered to verify the bike's manufacture date or the likelihood of American soldiers in Cornwall).  Now I have a spiffy new metal mesh basket that slips on and off should I want to carry it somewhere.  I have yet to carry it anywhere; I load it up with a bottle of water, my purse, my camera, a sweatshirt, and a book.  If I put too much stuff in the basket it pulls the bike precariously to the right or left, so I have to be careful.  I am, afterall, a riding "disastro."

On the trail I am frequently passed by Really Serious Cyclists who shout out, "ON YOUR LEFT!" as they whiz by.  They always scare the crap out of me and cause me to go flying into the shrubbery, and I'm tempted to yell after them, "No need to yell, Lycra-ass!"  I'm amused by the paraphernalia and gear that the Really Serious Cyclists have.  Helmets shaped like Pteranodon heads, two ounces of Lycra stretched taut over their lithe bodies, little mirrors that look like dental instruments attached to their temples.  My only accessory is a scratched up pair of over-sized fashion sunglasses from Target ($12.99!).  The only thing I have in common with these Armstrong-lookalikes is that I shave my legs, too.

Make no mistake, I know what these Really Serious Cyclists think of me.  I have no helmet, a bike that weighs 200 pounds, a basket loaded with all manner of unnecessary weight, and an inability to steer in a straight line.  Hell, sometimes I even ride my bike in a skirt.  I'm not intimidated, though.  I suspect they're jealous because they suffer from genital numbing and I don't.

There are a lot of walkers and joggers on the trail, and we all smile and nod or say, "Good morning!" as we pass each other.  Every once in a while I catch a snippet of conversation that makes me chuckle ("She's 42 years old and throwing herself at him like a school girl!"), but every once in a while I see something completely inexplicable, something that makes me stop my bike and stare.  Something like a reclining armchair.

Let's be clear: the Green Bay Trail runs through some of Chicago's toniest North Shore suburbs.  Why, you have to ask yourself, is there a filthy armchair perched in the grass just as you enter Glencoe?  Why is it slightly reclined, and who has been reclining in it?  Surely it doesn't belong to the 6,000 square foot château on the other side of the trail?

The next day the chair was turned over on its side, no doubt the victim of either teenagers or a large pack of renegade chipmunks, I'm not sure which.  It remained like that for about a week, and then one day, it was gone.  I miss the armchair, its quirky presence in the pristine refinement of Glencoe, its sedentary declaration against all the activity around it.  I miss the way it made me smile no matter how many times I saw it.  I'm going to wonder about that chair for a long time.  Maybe it is now, as I type, in the living room of a rather sore Really Serious Cyclist?

I'm Down! I'm Down! I'm Down on the Ground!

Refrain from throwing your bicycle in public. It shows poor upbringing.

~Jacquie Phelan

When I was 21 I graduated from college with my useless Psychology degree and went to Italy to be an au pair.  It was my intention to learn the language of my grandparents, who had not taught it to my parents because they wanted them to be American, but also to avoid the overwhelming responsibility of finding a real job for as long as possible.

I lived in Florence with a wealthy shipping tycoon, his architect wife, and their six-year-old boy, Andrea.  They also had a dog named Stupid, and a Philippine maid/cook.  Their living room coffee table was a gigantic model of a Marlboro cigarette box, and it opened to reveal a fully-stocked bar.  That's really all you need to know about them.  I could write a book about my experiences with that family, but for the purpose of this blog entry I'm going to stick to the set of circumstances that led to what I have come to think of as the "Down on the Ground" episode.

Every summer since Andrea was born his parents had sent him and his current au pair to Forte dei Marmi for a month of sun and sea air.  Andrea and his lucky au pair stayed at the Pensione America, which aristocratic Florentines booked years in advance, and spent their days at the private, exclusive beach across the street.  Everything from ice cream cones to beach towels was signed to a running tab, and at the end of the month Andrea's parents would show up and pay the astronomical bill.  I had endured several months of a less-than-pleasurable experience with this family, and Forte dei Marmi was my reward.  I was going to the beach, goddammit.

Forte dei Marmi is the jewel of of the Tuscan Riviera, and I intended it to be the jewel of my Italian experience.  I could lounge, bathe, stroll, dine, disco and (window) shop with the best of them.  I spent one month's wage on a pair of Georgio Armani sunglasses while I was there, and have mourned their disappearance for the past 19 years (a roommate's ferret stole them).

Forte dei Marmi has a "quiet ordinance," a rule that requests silence from lunchtime through the afternoon siesta.  Silence, of course, is relative, and although the local businesses would shut down and the majority of the tourists went back to their rooms and napped behind those ubiquitous, dark green, Italian shutters, there was still some life to be found.

It had become my habit to put Andrea down for a nap, leave him under the supervision of a Swiss au pair named Irmi, then jump on my bike and pedal from my pensione to the main street a few blocks away.  I would gaze adoringly at the designer goods on display in the shop windows, mail a few postcards, and buy a gelato.

On this particular day I must have been short on time, because I decided it would be prudent to eat my gelato and ride the bike back at the same time.  Let me be clear: I am The Most Uncoordinated Person you will ever meet.  Ever.  Some people can ride a bike with no hands; I cannot.  I can barely ride a bike with two hands.  So, there I was, riding along, ice cream cone in one hand, handle bar in the other.

I would love to know what happened next, but really, I have no idea.  All of a sudden I was in the middle of the road, bicycle on top of me, gelato everywhere.  A woman witnessed this from behind her walled garden and came out to see if I was OK.  She guided me over to the footpath, sat me down, inspected my wounds and asked me what happened.

It has often been noted that one's ability to speak a foreign language is enhanced by alcohol.  The opposite is true when one is shocked, in pain, or smeared with gelato.  Whatever linguistic skills I had at that point quickly vanished, and I found myself babbling like a toddler.  The rough translation goes something like this: "I don't know!  I'm good, I'm on bike, I go, all is well, then BAM!  I'M DOWN! I'M DOWN! I'M DOWN ON THE GROUND!"

The woman patted my hand patronizingly and asked if I could make it back to wherever I was going.  I wiped my hands on my shorts, got to my feet, and pushed the bike back to the pensione.  I dropped the bike on the front lawn and walked inside to the front desk where one of the old women who ran the place was shuffling papers and peering at me from behind her bifocals. 

"Dio mio!" she said, "Che successo?" 

What happened?  And there I was again, dumbstruck, tongue-tied, trying to explain the situation.  What I wanted to say was, "Well, you see, I was trying to enjoy a delicious gelato while riding my bicycle, but being inept at most things athletic, and having no coordination or balance whatsoever, I found myself tumbling from the bike and landing rather unceremoniously on the pavement, which is how I incurred these vicious injuries to my knees and hands."

If I couldn't express the seriousness of the matter through words, I could express them through volume, so I repeated my childish rant rather loudly.  "I am on bike, I go, all is well, then BAM!  I'M DOWN! I'M DOWN! I'M DOWN ON THE GROUND!"

The woman shook her head with disdain and said, "Che casino!" ("What a mess!).  I got the distinct impression that she wasn't referring to the accident, or my injuries, but to me, this dim-witted American buffoon who couldn't manage a bicicletta and a gelato at the same time.

I decided to appeal to Andrea, my six-year-old expert in scabs and bruises.  When he awoke from his nap I dramatically showed him my many bandages and band-aids and explained that I fell off the bike. 

"Were you going fast?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Well, no, not really fast at all."

"Did you hit a pothole, or a rock?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"Um, no.  I didn't hit anything."

"You were... blinded by the sun?" he asked, eyes suspicious.

"No, it was... it wasn't sunny."

"What happened to you?"

"Ice cream, Andrea!  I was eating ice cream, and then... BAM!  I'M DOWN!  I'M DOWN!  I'M DOWN ON THE GROUND!"

Andrea looked away, shook his head, and muttered, "Che disastro." 

Indeed.

 

Andrea, arms up in the sea, Forte dei Marmi, 1989.

Of Bikes and Hills and Gravelly Endings

"Get a bicycle.  You will not regret it if you live."

~Mark Twain, "Taming the Bicycle"

The kids are back at school, and this gives me two hours and 39 minutes (but who's counting) of free time every morning.  I usually spend this time zipping around town running errands; fun things like buying crickets for the lizard, returning very overdue library books ($13.80 this morning), and getting presents for the birthday parties the kids are invited to.

I figure I spend too much time in the car and this morning was beautiful, so after dropping off the kids I parked the car at home, loaded up a tote bag, and got on my bike.  My first trip was right back to school to drop off socks for my 2nd grader's gym class (they call it KW for Kinetic Wellness, but I cannot bring myself to use that term).  I got an iced mocha, ran into a friend, bought a basket for the front of my bike, bought a dozen doomed crickets, and returned the library books.

How freeing to hop on and off my bike at whim, to feel the wind in my hair, to lift my feet from the pedals and glide, faster and faster...

Actually, no.  I have to draw the line at gliding faster and faster.  While on my bike this morning I had two distinct flashbacks of less pleasant bicycle experiences.  These memories keep me from becoming reckless, from multi-tasking while pedaling, and from getting speed-happy.

The first memory is from my 11th or 12th year.  My best friend, Brandie (real name), and I were cycling up and down the hills between our homes.  Think Tucson foothills, think big hills, think hills with valleys at the bottom, valleys for the monsoon rains to run through.  We started at the top of the hill closest to my house, feet on the ground on either side of our bikes, rolling back and forth to the count of three, then pushing off and coasting down.  We flew down the first hill in seconds and let the momentum carry us half way up the next hill.  We got about half way up, then had to get off and push our bikes up the rest of the way.  We reached the top, breathless, turned the bikes around, and started back down.

About three seconds down that second hill my front tire began to wobble and shake.  The pedals were going too fast to keep my feet on them so I could not brake; my skinny, tan legs were sticking out from the bike like sails (sails on the Titanic, if you will: useless and damned).  The bike was shaking violently back and forth, and for at least four long, horrible seconds I knew that it was all over, that it was just a matter of time before I was introduced more personally to the pavement.

The bike and I went down, tumbling, rolling, scraping and skidding.  I stopped almost at the bottom of the hill, thankful that it was over but not yet sure what the damage was.  Quickly parts of me began to sting.  Parts of me began to scream.  My back, my right elbow, my lower lip... blood began to ooze from various gravel-embedded injuries.

At about that time one of my brothers walked by on his way home from a friend's house.  "Bob, Bohhhbbb..go..get..Dad.  I'm dying," I croaked.  I probably reached up one arm from my prone position in the gravel, a dramatic gesture to demonstrate how quickly I was fading.

Bob disappeared up the hill.  Five minutes went by.  Ten.  Twenty.  No one was coming.  Brandie helped me to my feet and the two of us slowly crawled back to my house.  Did I see my mom rushing from the house with a first aid kit?  Did I see my father in the garage hastily assembling a DIY stretcher?  No.

I saw my brother and my father in the driveway playing football.  Like I said, I was only 10 or 11, but if I had had the vocabulary or the wherewithal I would have shouted, "WHAT ... THE ... FUCK?"  Instead I stood with my bloody mouth hanging open and said, accusingly, "Didn't you tell him?  Didn't you tell him I was dying?"

My dad turned around and looked at me.  "Oh," he said, "I didn't think it could be that bad.  Are you OK?"  No need to discuss why my dad didn't just trust that it was that bad, or that he chose not to come.  I've already addressed that with the therapists.

My mom cleaned and bandaged me up and put my arm in a sling, which I believe was a red cowboy bandanna folded into a triangle and tied above my shoulder.  It was classy.  I still have a scar on my forearm below my right elbow.  And I still have a deep-rooted fear of going too fast on my bike, of gravel, and of hills.

(PART TWO: I'M DOWN, I'M DOWN, I'M DOWN ON THE GROUND! COMING SOON!)

Some Kind of Nerve

"A court is only as sound as its jury, and a jury is only as sound as the men who make it up."

Atticus Finch

Perhaps it was flippant of me to post status updates about Jury Duty on Facebook; certainly I wasn't thinking about the bigger picture when I was uploading a photo of my juror's lunch.  At that point in the experience I was thinking about the inconvenience of it all.  Let there be no doubt, Jury Duty is inconvenient, unless perhaps you have nowhere else to be and nothing else to do, and even then I think most people would rather watch back-to-back Jerry Springer episodes than hear two teams of attorneys endlessly nitpick each other.

But let's start at the beginning.  When I received the summons for Jury Duty I was sure I could stamp "SAHM" on it, send it back, and brush my hands of the matter.  Civic Duty be damned, I have kids to raise, laundry to do, peanut butter sandwiches to make!  I didn't send it back, though; I tossed it in a pile on my desk and forgot about it until we got back from vacation two weeks later.  The night before I was scheduled to appear I was supposed to call an automated system to see if my presence truly was required.  Here, too, things might have turned out differently had I been able to find the summons, but it had vanished.  I'll probably find it next year wedged between the instructions for the new fish tank and a very overdue library book.

It took me two hours driving in the pouring rain to get to the Criminal Courthouse at California and 26th, but only five minutes to get a new summons and my panel number.  I settled in for the long wait, book and iPhone in hand, but my panel was the first to be called, and 50 of us were assembled in the courtroom by 10:00 a.m.

If you've ever considered regression therapy you might want to consider Jury Duty instead.  The selection process will leave nothing of your past uncovered.  How old are you?  Where do you live?  What do you do?  What is your highest level of education?  Then, when these innocuous questions have left you fairly relaxed: Do you know any lawyers, judges or police officers?  What are their names?  Have you ever been the victim of a crime?  What about your friends and members of your family?  Have you ever witnessed a crime?  Have you ever been arrested?  Do you have any pending court cases?  Have you ever watched Law & Order?  OK, I'm kidding on that last one.

I sat through 24 jury interviews, my own included.  My fellow jury candidates ranged in age from 18 to 62; two of us had Masters degrees, many had not gone to college.  Some of them had had their cars burgled, their homes broken into, their family members dragged to court, and their relatives sexually offended.  One of them had a brother who was convicted of murder.  Another had a coworker who had been accused of killing someone; he hadn't kept in touch to see if the man was guilty or not.  One woman had lost a nephew to a stray gang bullet.

By 2:00 p.m. a jury of 12 and two alternates had been assembled.  We heard opening statements about the case.  The defendant, Deandre Smith, was accused of residential burglary.  The prosecution told us that by the end of the trial we would have no choice but to decide that Deandre was guilty.  The defense lawyers told us that despite Deandre's confession at the time of his arrest, he was innocent.  I was curious to see how that might play out; I myself had never figured out how to admit to doing something while successfully proving that I had not done it.

The next day we heard from six witnesses, all of whom were called by the prosecution to testify about the burglary.  We heard from the tenants of the burgled apartment, police officers, and a latent print expert.  There were no eyewitnesses, but there were fingerprints, and when those fingerprints led to an arrest, the suspect made a confession, and that confession was put into a police report.  Despite that confession we were in court because Deandre Smith said he was innocent.  He never actually said it to us; he never took the stand.

Toward the end of the first day it was increasingly hard to pay attention.  I wanted to flip my notebook to a clean page and write a message to Deandre in giant, bold letters.  "DID YOU DO IT?"  I kept my brilliant idea to myself and kept taking notes.

The next morning I parked my car in the "Police, Employees, Jurors" garage and listened to the Coldplay while finishing my Dunkin Donuts Bavarian Creme Donut (turns out the court-provided donuts are better).  If the lyrics were any indication, things weren't looking good for Deandre:

"I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own"

Jurors are not supposed to discuss the case with each other until after closing arguments have been made and the deliberation process starts, but I am pretty sure that in the history of juries this has happened exactly zero times.  As we sat in the jury room that morning waiting to be called to the box we talked about what we'd heard so far.  It was easy to tell who thought he was guilty, but much harder to tell who thought he was innocent.  Some of us were outspoken, other remained completely quiet.

On the third day we heard from two more witnesses and were then free to deliberate over our lunch of corn, mashed potatoes, and chicken patty sandwiches.  Before we filed out of the court room I took one last look at Deandre.  He sat silently in his baggy jeans and crisp, striped, polo shirt.  His hair was short and his shoes were bright white.  He hadn't moved much at all the last three days, hadn't made eye contact, hadn't seemed to be paying much attention.  Occasionally one of his lawyers would whisper something to him, and he'd lean his tall, slouched figure in that direction, listen and nod.  I took a last look at Deandre and filed into the jury room.

It took us a little over two hours to convict Deandre Smith of residential burglary.  When we started deliberating eight of us thought he was guilty.  We debated whether Deandre had entered those premises without authority and with the intent to steal.  We kept getting hung up on "entered."  Deandre's fingerprints were found on the outside of the window, but not inside.  Had he entered?  He said he had.  He said he reached into the window and took a bag of coins.  But one very soft-spoken, African-American teacher, and three other jurors weren't buying it.  Our teacher was sure he was taking the fall for someone else that had been there, that we had no proof that he had entered that apartment.  She wanted fingerprints on the inside.  She said that the police could have lied about his confession.

This went on for a long time, and then Charles Barkley came to the rescue.  Actually, I doubt that Charles Barkley was in the jury room with us, but his jury-double was there.  Tall, broad, bald, and imposing, Charles' double stood up and towered over us.  "Look," he said, "You know I don't want to send a brother to jail.  You know I don't.  And he probably is covering for someone, because you know that in our culture we Do Not Rat People Out.  But that's Deandre's choice.  If he wants to take the hit for someone, we're going to let him do it, because he's the only one on trial here.  He did it."

We took another count.  Eleven.  Our teacher-juror resisted.

We all sat back and watched Charles Barkley work on her.  He spoke eloquently and convincingly of the likelihood that Deandre would've climbed the stairs and crossed the precarious catwalk of a three story building, put his hands on two sets of windows, and then walk away without taking something, about the likelihood that when arrested for a crime he didn't commit, he'd say that he took a bag of coins.  "Twelve," he said, raising his hand in the air, "Show me twelve."  We all raised our hands.  We had a verdict.  Twelve people who had never met before had sat down together and decided to convict Deandre Smith of a felony, forever altering his life.  You could say that Deandre had already altered his own life, but I doubt there was anyone sitting in the jury box that day who did not feel an uncomfortable sense of power and unwanted responsibility for Deandre.

The clerk read the verdict and I watched Deandre. We all watched Deandre.  He didn't blink, he didn't look at us, he didn't move.  You would have thought that he didn't care.  I wanted to hold up my notepad with a new note, one that said, "ARE WE RIGHT?"

We filed back into the jury room and a few minutes later the Judge joined us.  She thanked us for our service and gave us certificates that read "Certificate of Jury Service" across the top. She joked that she was sure we would all go home and frame them right away.  She told us that there were things about Deandre that she and his lawyers had decided not to tell us before the trial because she didn't want us to be biased.  It turns out we had just convicted Deandre of his sixth felony. Deandre is 21 years old.

A deputy escorted us out of the courtroom and stopped traffic so we could cross the street.  Gradually the group splintered apart, calling out our goodbyes and "take cares."  I asked Jane, another Juror, if she wanted a ride home.  She said it seemed odd to just walk away like that, that we should be going out for coffee now, debriefing over what had just happened, what we had just done.  I dropped her off and we hugged goodbye.  We did not exchange numbers.

I listened to The Fray and thought about Deandre on the way home:

Early morning, City breaks
I’ve been calling for years and years and years and years
And you never left me no messages
You never send me no letters
You got some kind of nerve, taking all I want

Of Crack Whores and Academy Awards

"In infinite space, even the most unlikely events must take place somewhere. There are infinitely many other inhabited planets, including not just one but infinitely many that have people with the same appearance, name and memories as you, who play out every possible permutation of your life choices."

~Max Tegmark

I am well aware that I am a crack whore in a parallel universe.  I feel it.  My life is comprised of several decades of hairline decisions, choices that could have easily spiraled the rest of my life in completely different directions.  And I'm not just talking about my decisions, but those of my parents, too, and possibly everyone I've ever met.

Somewhere, in a basement studio apartment with roaches and no hot water, I am bouncing a filthy baby on my scrawny hip and wondering if my most recent boyfriend is drinking away his disability check.  I have track marks up and down my arms and between my toes, but I am trying desperately to stay straight.  I sometimes wish I had finished high school.

But that's OK, because in another parallel universe I'm living in a 10,000 square foot home perched high on a cliff above the Pacific Ocean.  Gordon Ramsay is whipping me up a scrumptious dinner, which I will eat with my husband, Colin Firth, before my driver pulls around with one of my many custom-designed cars and drives me to the Academy Awards where I will accept yet another Oscar for Best Actress.  Actually, I might have track marks between my toes in this universe, too.

In yet another I have a uni-brow, 16 cats, and a closet of pastel, polyester pantsuits.  I work for the Motor Vehicle Department in Cuevitas, Texas and am often hit on by old men who want me to "fix" their emissions records and pass their '76 El Dorado's.  Sometimes I consider going out with them, because I love Red Lobster, but I never do because my cats need me.  I eat a lot of Hormel products in this universe.

Maybe most disconcerting is the universe in which I am mostly me, but with a successful photography and freelance writing career, with kids that are extremely well-behaved, my own study, a well-toned body and lots and lots of energy.

This near-me existence scares me the most because I'm pretty sure it would be attainable if I just worked a little harder, tried a little harder.  The others represent my worst nightmares and, in the case of those academy awards, my wildest fantasies (a fantasy being not a dream but something you think about but probably wouldn't act upon). 

Perhaps the more important issue when considering parallel universes is this:  Am I OK where I am now?  And the answer, for the most part, is a resounding YES.  It's better than YES.  It's more along the lines of, "Crap, my life is so good, what if it weren't this good?"  There is however, always room to reach a bit toward that slightly better place; a bit of cosmic real estate waiting to be claimed.

For Whom the Doorbell Rings

Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood.

~Marie Curie

There were many rules in my house growing up, most of them designed to keep me and my brothers on the straight-and-narrow.  Only two cookies at a time, no locked bedroom doors, only one hour of TV per day, homework before TV, no TVs or telephones in bedrooms: these are the rules that come to mind most readily. 

Our parents, of course, had a different set of rules, and there was mutiny when we discovered my mother's secret stash of Pepperidge Farm cookies, tucked up high in a cabinet. Those rule-breaking parents of mine also had a telephone in their room, one of those enormous boxes with a rotary dial, curly phone cord, and hand piece bigger than your head.  You could never stretch those cords far enough.

It was only a matter of time before they broke yet another rule and put a TV in their bedroom.  This was the late 80s, and it was one of those enormous sets that was deeper than it was wide. It sat at an angle, precariously balanced on my parents' dresser.  I wonder now if my dad had somehow jerry-rigged that thing to not fall over.

I don't recall ever being allowed to watch TV in their bedroom, and have only one memory of doing so.  I must have been home from college for the summer ("home from college" isn't nearly so exciting when college is a mere 12 miles from home), and my parents were out to dinner.  It was late and it was dark, and the memory of what I was watching has been completely erased by the events that took place as I was watching.

Let me set the scene: A house sitting on a hill in the Tucson foothills, a few dozen houses nestled in the desert around us, vast expanses of hostile desert everywhere, roaming bands of coyotes, twenty gazillion stars in the blackest of skies.  It might sound romantic, but it could also be sort of spooky.  It became exponentially more spooky when, alone in our house on that dark night, watching my parents' off-limits TV, the doorbell rang.

I sat for a moment and tried to think of who it could be.  No one came to mind, so I walked down the hallway and peered through the plate glass window that ran the length of the front door.  There was no one there.  There was no car parked in the circular gravel driveway.  My shoulders crept up to my ears and I slinked back to my parents' bedroom. Sitting on their bed I wondered how I'd be able to check that all the doors and windows were locked, as that would involve getting out of bed again, and that would involve peeing my pants.

The doorbell rang again.  I knew that there wasn't going to be anyone there, but I checked again.  This time I tiptoed silently down the hallway and across the Mexican tile floor of the foyer and stood behind the front door.  "Who is it?" I squeaked.  Nothing.  I put just enough of one eyeball to the window to see outside.  No one.

Back to the bedroom I went.  If you were born in the 60s or 70s you may remember a time before microwaves, computers, fax machines, and cell phones.  This was right around that time.  Even if I picked up the behemoth rotary dial phone sitting on my mothers night stand, how would I reach my parents?  Perhaps I could use it to bludgeon an intruder?  If it rang again I was calling the police.  Hopefully they would arrive before my mystery guest had hacked me into tiny pieces.

The doorbell rang again, and a moment later I heard the garage door going up.  Either the doorbell assassin had a garage door remote control, or my parents were home. I didn't get out of bed to check. My mom walked into the room a few minutes later.  "Oh my Gawd, oh my GAWD!" I gasped, "someone has been ringing the doorbell but there is NO ONE THERE!  It keeps happening!  Did you see anyone?" 

My mom didn't blink an eye. She waved her hand dismissively and said, "Oh, that?  That's the birds.  They're attracted to the light on the doorbell and keep pecking at it."

I sat there with my suddenly defeated drama and my mouth hanging open.  "BIRDS?  I've been having a coronary over quail?"

"Probably not quail, Marie, probably cactus wren, maybe a woodpecker."

"A woodpecker."

"Mmmm.  What are you watching?"

"I have no idea."

At that point my dad came in and ordered me to get out of his bedroom.

I have told this story many times, and the focus has always been my fear, because truly, I was terrified.  Tonight I told my children this story, and every time I said, "AND NO ONE WAS THERE," my little one's eyes would grow huge and his jaw would drop.  It was with great relief, for all of us, that I got to the end of the story and announced that all that craziness was due to a tiny little bird.

That is the lesson I would like my children, and myself, to take from that night.  That our fear comes from within. That there are always explanations. That sometimes we have to be imaginative to find an answer.

And also, not to get a doorbell that lights up.

95th and WEA

"Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation."

~Kahlil Gibran

It is safe to say that in the three and a half years that I lived in New York I witnessed many, many New York Minutes.  Crazy things happen in New York, hysterical things, absurd, poignant, heartbreaking things.  It's not that these moments don't, or can't, happen anywhere else in the world, but that they happen frequently, and in public, so your chances of witnessing them are much higher.  You simply can't put that many people on the sidewalks together without pushing the boundaries of human dynamics.

Some of these moments have lost their impact and significance over time.  The lady in a fur coat, orange construction vest and wedding hat speeding down Broadway on her bicycle, the senior citizens bashing their grocery carts into strollers at Fairway, the moms yelling at each other over perceived slights in the playgrounds... these things were either amusing or annoying at the time, but their insignificance ensures that I don't think about them often.

Other memories have stood the test of time.  These memories offer themselves up, time and time again, for evaluation and rumination.  These are snapshots of other people's lives, intimate moments that I was either blessed or cursed to stumble upon.

On 95th St between Riverside and West End Avenue there is a youth hostel.  I wouldn't have normally noticed it, but on this particular morning I had taken the kids to the Hippo Playground at 91st in Riverside Park, and instead of walking home the usual way, which involved pushing 100+ pounds of kids and stroller up a painfully steep hill, I decided to walk north through the park and exit at 95th.

As I walked down 95th I passed a motley bunch of backpackers sitting and reclining on the stoop and sidewalk in front of a red brick building.  They seemed so young to me; they seemed so dirty.  The sat on their backpacks consulting their maps and guidebooks, and I envied their freedom and carelessness.  They probably thought they were racing against the deadline of a new semester, but I knew the truth.  They had it all ahead of them, all of it.  No jobs, no kids, no debt, no commitments; they were standing on the precipice of the rest of their lives.

Two of them stood apart from the rest, holding hands.  They walked ahead of me and stopped on the corner of 95th and West End. She had dreadlocks and bad acne, he had long, curly hair.  She wore cut-off camos and Converse sneakers.  He had a backpack half his size, the kind of backpack you can live out of for at least six months.  They stood on the corner and hugged.  She was crying.

I stood there and waited for the light to change.  I stood there and watched.  He had her face tenderly cupped in his hands, and was smiling and talking quietly.  She was losing it fast.  Sobbing, she clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder.  They kissed, passionately.  I don't remember how long it lasted, but all of a sudden he was pulling away and stepping toward the sidewalk, and just like it happens in the movies, a cab pulled over to the curb.

He climbed in, never turning from her, and closed the door.  She held on to the open window frame and leaned in, kissing him again.  The car pulled away and she stood there, her face scrunched up and wet, snot and tears flowing.  She was aware of nothing.

For one second I thought I'd walk over and tell her that it would be alright; that she would live through this, that she would be OK.  I could pass on to her the lessons of my own goodbyes, I could find some good use for my own similar experiences.  I couldn't do it, though.  It wasn't OK, it wasn't alright.  And who was I to intrude?  What would her memory be like, twenty years later, if it included a woman pushing two kids in a stroller telling her she would get over it?  I left her on the corner, her hands buried in her face.  I think of her often.

Hovering Over the Past

The act of writing requires a constant plunging back into the shadow of the past where time hovers ghostlike.

~ Ralph Ellison

I like to use Google Maps to revisit the places on earth that hold special meaning to me. Who says technology can't be warm and fuzzy? It can certainly feed my nostalgia.

I can see the house my dad built in Tucson, the one I grew up in, the backyard mostly unchanged, the stairs leading into the pool, the Spanish tiled porch, the circular drive where I parked my little Mazda and then later my little Hyundai. I think I can see the prickly pear cactus that took a beating when I tried to teach my brother David how to drive, the one he replanted at dawn so my dad wouldn't see it and get mad. I can see the curved walls that announced the name of our subdivision, the place I'd wait for the school bus at 6:35 a.m., and now I remember that the bus always smelled of marijuana.  I cannot see, but I can imagine, the lizards scurrying in the heat, the Palo Verde tree I planted from a seed, and a young woman walking to the mailbox, checking for the au pair application that might carry her overseas.

I go to Italy.  I can see the impossibly narrow, winding road I'd walk up to get to my au pair house in Florence, and I can feel the cool stone wall pressed against my back as a car inches past.  I can look at that house and see the big tree in the yard where the dad would sit and read the Corriere della Sera, and the enormous Rosemary bush outside the kitchen door and I can imagine that I see the rose bush that was outside my bedroom window, even though it doesn't seem to be there. I can almost see Andrea, six and a half years old, playing "Quanti passi?" in the garden.  I can see the gardens at the Boboli Gardens, high above the city, where I used to eat cheese sandwiches and apricots, and Santa Maria Novella station that took me to so many other places, and Il Duomo, and the San Lorenzo Market where I bought t-shirts for my friends and a black leather jacket for my little brother. 

I can wander up the hills north of Florence to Fiesole, then follow the country road out of Fiesole and see the 600-year-old converted convent of my other au pair family, the one with curly-headed Georgio and a baby whose name I can't remember. We revisited Italy last year, and I can see the pool at the hotel we stayed at last year, in Fiesole, and the Etruscan ruins, and the restaurant where we saw a young man dressed up for a night on the town and we all, including the young man, had a good laugh because Declan thought he was a pirate. I can see the hotel terrace where we ate the breakfast we still pine over.  I can taste a cappuccino.

I can see my inlaws' house in Dundrum, the lovely little back garden that my father-in-law has spent countless hours tenderly cultivating. I can follow the road from their house into the main street and see the top of the little worker's cottage that now houses the internet cafe I sometimes use when we visit. I can see the working farm we take the kids to, and the spinster sisters' house that now houses a sunny cafe and serves hot chocolate with pink and white marshmallows on top. I can see the primary school my husband and his brothers went to.  Are those ducks floating in the pond at St. Stephen's Green?

Back over the Atlantic I hover over New York City, zooming in on our old apartment buildings, playgrounds, favorite places in Central Park. I see the little pier that juts out over Turtle Pond, just south of the Great Lawn. There's Belvedere Castle, and the Bethesda Fountain where we'd see all the Asian brides getting their wedding photos taken, and the Boat House, where Justin and I once sipped cocktails without the kids. The Reservoir looks enormous. I can't make out the details of outdoor tables and awnings, but I imagine I can see Georgia's Bake Shop on the southeast corner of 89th and Broadway, and then I wander down to French Roast. New York is hard to revisit, all concrete, no detail.

Now I come home, to Winnetka, but there's no need to look at my house or my yard or my driveway, the school, the shops, the playground. Five-year-old Declan is wearing red slippers and a blue plaid shirt, always in long-sleeves, even in the summer, and seven-year-old Aidan is in PJs, his face still puffy from sleep. It looks like a gorgeous day out there, and we're going to go make some memories. Maybe the satellites will take a picture and I'll look at it a few years from now.