I woke up on the morning of April 18th after having had a
whirlwind trip to Los Angeles from the Bay Area, flying into and out of Burbank
in one day. Was I nuts? I’m struggling with a heart condition, borderline
diabetes and the last thing I should be doing is stressing myself out with the annoyance
of airports, rental cars and grumpy people on an 80 degree afternoon in April.
But I’m a Leo so loyalty is all. And my good friend and colleague was having
one of her fine playwriting pieces performed at the Stella Adler Theatre on
Hollywood Boulevard. I promised I would go. The show was terrific, filled with
pain and humor. In short, real. And I got
to hang with new and old friends, applaud my buddy’s funny, incisive piece and witness the passion
of an African American theatre company exploring why Black lives really do
matter. All good.
Except the trip had taken its toll and the next day, I was a
wreck. I had tightness in my chest, kept popping baby aspirins to make sure I
didn’t have a stroke and then ended up with indigestion and weakness. At 2 PM I
remembered suddenly I had a 3 PM appointment with an endocrinologist to get the
results of important blood tests. I was still in my PJ’s, old make up caked on
my face, hair matted, with no time for a much needed shower if I hoped to make
it by 3 PM.
I scrubbed my face with a facecloth, grabbed my little black backpack that
was surprisingly light, jumped in my red Prius, and speeded like a lunatic down
the street as city workers digging a trench cursed me for nearly hitting them. Did
I mention that the endocrinologist charges 500 dollars for a missed
appointment? Confident I could make it
in time, I managed to get lost once I turned on Ashby Avenue because my mind
was back in my home office messing around on Facebook. It was about 2:45 so I
decided to regroup, trying desperately to remember where the hell Colby Street
was in Berkeley. And then it hit me: it was the one going in the other
direction, a mile back. I did a U Turn (illegally? who knows?) and finally reached
Colby, turned right and ended up staring at the only parking lot in the complex
and a big red and white sign: FULL.
It was now 3:10. I was so screwed, I could have been a cork in
a bottle of Chardonnay. As I’m running to the right building, it suddenly
occurred to me that my backpack was light because it had NOTHING in it! Dear
god I had forgot to switch the contents from my traveling on airplanes backpack
to my going to the doctor’s backpack. I had no money, no license, no health
care card, no proof of identity, no PHONE and I was pretty certain my Chase
account was now 500 bucks lighter. But worst of all I had no way to pay for parking
and no way to call anyone. This moment of realization that I was now a bag
person on the streets of Berkeley with a lot of other bag people was a huge
wake up call. Would I have to beg? Would I have to say, “I have no bus fare?
Can you help me out?” What I thought
was: I will deal with this later. In that moment of recognition that the universe is not arranged
according to the needs of me, panic left
me. I told myself it would be okay. I
waited for my appointment. Thirty five minutes passed. I told myself that the
doctor could not possibly charge me five hundred dollars now and that the
receptionist would only charge me an extra fifteen bucks because I could not
pay my co payment in cash or credit card. I could live with all that. And I was pretty certain that someone in the
waiting room would lend me a couple of bucks to get my car out of
parking , right? So I swallowed my pride and asked. “Sorry, that’s just
inappropriate.” “Not much I can do.” “Oh that’s funny.” “Poor you. Better be
more careful next time.” Shit.
After the very unsatisfactory and inconclusive results of the
blood tests, I left the smarmy Dr. "Wish I could help but all I have is American
Express” office vowing to switch over once and for all to Kaiser where they had
compassionate doctors and a more efficient system and walked back to the
parking garage one hour and fifteen minutes later. Which meant I would need at
least 5 bucks and some change to get my car and drive home. Hmmm. What exactly
was I going to do? Walk 12 miles home in the heat and call Lyft? I stood at the entrance of the parking
garage, frozen in indecision.
And then I heard it. Jingling.. coming from …wait…was
the sound coming from my backpack? Yes! I reached inside and found a little red
velvet bag of quarters. The bag of quarters I was supposed to bring with me to
Los Angeles but had accidentally left home (okay, I’m a senior…I forget a lot
of stuff) in my “going to the doctor’s” backpack. Salvation! Relief! But how
much exactly was in this little red bag? Was there enough? I sat on the curb
and counted, like a greedy addict hoping to score a cheap bottle of gin. Fifty
cents, a dollar, a dollar fifty. I was
short by about three bucks. Would the tears and heart condition excuse work again?
I approached the woman
at the booth. She slid open the window and said, in her beautiful Haitian lilt,
“What do you want, crazy lady?” And I proceeded to tell her my story. Her
reaction was nonplussed. She looked at me and I could hear her thoughts. “You
Americans. All spoiled irresponsible children. You know what a revolution is
like? No water, no food. Living in a dirty hut?” At least that’s what my guilty
liberal East Bay mind was imagining as I stared at the pavement. But given I
had no other choice, I offered the red velvet bag to her. She looked at me and
laughed. “Give me your ticket. Go get your car”.
I drove up to her window 10 minutes later, waiting as she
helped another driver and then it was my turn. She said to me with a smirk,
shaking her head, “Go. Oh and here. You have change,” and handed me back the
red velvet bag. Change? Had I counted wrong? I thanked her profusely and
proceeded to drive home very carefully, looking out for police cars until I had
made my way back to safety and my credit cards, thinking how easily we all
could be slipping into destitution with only equally destitute friends, family
and neighbors to rely on. Who had said: I have always relied on the kindness of
strangers? Another crazy middle aged white lady named Blanche.
When I was inside the safety and security of my cozy cottage,
I opened the red velvet bag to count my change. I didn’t see anything at all.
At least not at first and then I spotted it. At the very bottom was a shiny new
penny that I’m pretty certain had not been there before. And it hit me that
maybe having enough money in my backpack, enough money in my bank account and
enough money in a 401 K was really not as important as they tell us. Maybe
knowing there were folks out there like the parking garage lady who’d seen a
lot more hardship than I ever will and were willing to lend a hand to anyone in
trouble was the real security in America. And maybe you have to lose everything
and be reduced to begging before you can see the kindness of strangers so you
can find it in yourself. I’m pretty sure
the next time someone approaches me on the street asking for bus fare, I won’t
turn away. With that realization I was
completely at peace, knowing that there are still generous and kind souls in
this world and now just maybe I had become one of them. We’ll see.
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