10 x 10
I picked her up at the bar around two in the afternoon, where she was helping some confused drunk guys pick out some music on the jukebox.
“I’ll come down with my air compressor tomorrow,” an older drunk promised as we left. All the tires on her car were flat and she had to have it moved. Along with everything else.
Ana and I helped her load the rest of her earthly possessions into my station wagon. She explained how she had gotten sick and lost her job when the company’s number to call in sick was down. Not a month later, her roommates deserted her, and the landlady kicked her out. “I’ve been here for two years with no problems,” she said. “The guy next door was here three months without paying rent before she made him leave.”
We emptied her neatly organized refrigerator while she explained that the friend who is taking her in for a couple of weeks could use the food. Then the only thing left was a box of men’s shoes. “I take it these aren’t yours?”
“No… but I’m taking them and calling them later to come and get ‘em.” She pauses. “Sometimes I wish I could be as mean as they are, but I just don’t… I can’t.”
We inspected the dingy, empty apartment for anything that could have been forgotten. Her cleaning couldn’t do much about the patched holes in the walls, the spackle on the wooden door, the heavily- trafficked carpet. But it was good enough.
The storage unit was tiny and crammed. A 10 x 10 right by the gate. It brought back memories. I remember having my life reduced to a very similar storage unit, years ago. And years before that, a black duffel bag… not too long before that, just the clothes on my back. The bag and clothes had later been a gift.
I’d asked her where she was moving to. She’d told me just to a friend’s for a couple of weeks, then to Payson. I’d been afraid of that. She was forced to move back in with her mother. She’d struggled for years on her own and just when things had started to look up…
“So, I had court yesterday.”
I asked her how it went.
“It went okay. I took the stand twice. The arresting officer took the stand twice. He was found guilty- he’s got til the 25th to get his things taken care of before he has to turn himself in.”
Ever since she’d been assaulted by her ex, things had gone downhill. But still, she never complains. Just states things as they are. She looks worried but won’t say she is. Her health isn’t great- her skin tone is suffering and her teeth have been deteriorating, though her eyes are just as green and gorgeous as ever. She smiled and thanked me.
I reminded her that she’s helped me out before. It’s no problem. Anytime.
We took the rest of her things to her temporary residence, but the doors were locked, so we put the clothes and food on the back porch. Then she had me drive her back to the bar, her home away from home, where she can’t work anymore because of her record, but still hangs out and helps all the same.
As I’m seeing her off, a frail figure in a puffy coat is walking down the street, her gloved hands out in front of her at an odd angle, her gait stiff. “I feel so sorry for her sometimes,” she says. “She’s so skinny. Frail. And always walking around everywhere- just this tiny, stick figure thing.”
We listen to the cars go by.
“They call her a butterface.”
“A what?” I ask.
“A butterface. Everything on her looks good but her face.”
I mention I’ve never heard that. It’s sad, but I can’t help but laugh at the term.
She thanks me again before I drive home. And I wonder, not for the first time, how she manages. Her head is always up. She’s never one to bitch and moan. And she has a lot less than most people who do nothing BUT bitch.
I know she’s strong, but I still hope she’ll be okay.
January 30 2010 06:36 pm | Uncategorized
January 31st, 2010 at 8:16 pm
Butterface. I’ve laughed over things said, like that, as well. And felt guilty for it later.
February 1st, 2010 at 1:13 pm
An exceptional memory…….very well written.