A Strange Thing...

A strange thing happened. I came home from work and it looked as though a folk band had exploded in my living room. A banjo and a slide guitar rested on the couch, another guitar leaned against the TV, a snare drum was propped up next to the coffee table and I had to step over a stand-up bass to get into my room. However, this in itself isn’t so strange. I live in a fairly bohemian household and I love the fact that various artists and musicians regularly stay with us. After I changed, the guys and I walked across the street to the field to toss the Frisbee around. As we were walking an old Asian woman approached us. Her white hair was haphazardly cut and she wore a thin-fabric top and slacks. A large square of gauze covered what I assumed was an injury on the front of her throat. Initially, I thought she just might be nuts. She swiveled her head looking not exactly at us but peering like a bird in our general direction. I’ll be honest… she was uncomfortable to look at. She was a walking reminder of my own fragility and the inconvenient fact that time is slowly stalking all of us. In our society rather than venerating our elders, it’s easier to act as if they aren’t there. Right or wrong, we value virility over experience and I’m as guilty as anybody.

At first it looked like we were going to walk by her without incident, but then she suddenly reached out and clutched Chris’ arm. Chris, the drummer of the band, was clearly uneasy with this woman touching him. As he squirmed like a toddler getting a haircut, the woman lifted one hand to her throat and said, “Will you help me? I’m blind.” Her monotone voice made me realize that the gauze on her throat wasn’t covering an injury, but rather a breathing hole and she was holding a talking valve in her hand. “Will you take me home?” she asked, still grasping Chris’ arm. “Um, well…” Chris said, trying to slip out of her reach, “I don’t really…” What a blind person with no voice box was doing in the middle of a field, I still don’t know, but she clearly needed help and it was just as clear that Chris wasn’t going to be the person to do it and the other guys were already starting to throw the disc around. Shit, I thought, taking a deep breath. “Where do you live?” I asked her. She transferred her talon-like grip from Chris’ arm to my own, as Chris gratefully slipped free.

She put her hand to her throat and said, “23rd and Massachusetts.”

“Okay,” I replied, “that’s not too far, only about a block from here.” It was hard to understand her as she talked through her valve, but I eventually learned that her name was Debbie. We walked very slowly along the path on the field through the shadow of the large brick building that houses the Northwest African American Museum. As we walked out the driveway toward the sidewalk on Massachusetts, I glanced back ruefully at my friends who were tossing the Frisbee back and forth without a care. ‘Sons of bitches’, I said under my breath.


As long as I can remember, I’ve had an unquenchable thirst to see the world. I always wanted to see what was around the next corner, to live in the next country and experience the next continent. I’ve never understood people who want to live in the same place all their lives. I’ve been fond of saying that every square foot on this planet I left unseen and every hand I left unshook in my lifetime were opportunities wasted. However over the past several months, a strange feeling has come over me. My wanderlust has started to feel strangely... quenched. This isn’t to say that I have no desire to travel anymore. There are still lots of places I want to see and people I want to meet. Once you start travelling, you can never really stop, but other desires have crept into my consciousness; weird things like wanting to sleep in my own bed and be near my friends and family. I know most people regard these feelings as part of growing up and really this should’ve happened back in the late 90s, but I never thought it’d happen to me and I’m not sure where it’s coming from. It could be that some of my good friends are getting married, having kids and seem content in their lives, but I feel like it started even before that.

“Where are you taking me?” Debbie asked, as we slowly stepped onto the sidewalk.

“You said 23rd and Massachusetts, right?” I replied, pointing (a useless gesture) to the intersection a half a block down the hill “that’s where you said you live.”

She nodded and seemed content as we made our way down the hill. I noticed as we walked she started to transfer more and more of her frail weight onto my arm. “Do you want to rest?” I asked about halfway down the hill. She nodded. I looked around, but there was nothing for her to sit on, so we just stood there. As she leaned against me, the bones in her ribcage pressed against my forearm felt like they could snap at any moment. After a couple of minutes, we started again and eventually we made it down to the intersection.

“All right,” I said, thinking our adventure was almost over, “which side of the street do you live on?” I was eying a likely building kitty-corner from where we were. An older gentleman was sitting on its stoop. He glanced over in our direction and gestured towards Debbie with my head, while trying to telepathically ask him, “Hey! Does she belong to you?” He just turned away. I sighed. “Where do you live, Debbie?”

“Where are you taking me?” she asked me again. ‘Crap,’ I thought. She’s addled. She doesn’t know what’s going on and we’re never going to find her house.

“I’m taking you home Debbie,” I replied as patiently as possible. “Where do you live?”

“On top of the museum.”

I began to spit and swear to myself. It had taken about ten minutes to get all the way down the block and it turned out that she lived on the top of the museum, which meant we’d have to go all the way back up the block.

Resigned, I turned us around and we started the slow trudge back.

I think the day I turned thirty I started to change. It definitely wasn’t immediate considering the night of my birthday I went out with a handful of aggressively drinking Irishmen from my tour group who shoveled so much alcohol down my throat that I had to sneak out of the bar shortly after midnight. But then the next day I quit smoking (more or less) and over the next few months I started to say things like, “The music is way too loud in here!” and “I’m kind of in the mood for a nice night in and a movie.” ‘What the hell is happening to me?’, I wondered. These days when I have a big night out, it seems like I go as much to prove to myself that I can still do it than just for the fun of it. A weekend in Vegas a couple of months ago almost killed me.


All of a sudden a ringing came from Debbie’s pocket. “Um… can I answer that?” I asked her. She pulled out the phone and handed it to me.

“Hello?”

“Who’s this?” The man’s voice was gruff.

I explained that I had found Debbie wandering around in the field and I was trying to get her home. “Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m her boyfriend,” was his reply.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but that wasn’t it. A perverted thought of Debbie and her boyfriend going to prom flashed through my head. “Well, where are you?”

“I’m about three blocks south.”

“Can you come get her?”

“No,” he said. “Just take her home. She’ll be fine.”

“Awesome. Thanks for the call,” I replied, snapping the phone shut. “All right Debbie, let’s keep going.”

“Do you have a cigarette?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”


So here’s the thing. I’m not sure if my condition is permanent. Maybe I’m just tired from the stupid program manager job that I’ve been doing that’s required a ton of travel all over the US. I could very well wake up in a couple of months and decide that I absolutely have to go live in Mongolia. Who knows? But for the last couple of months I’ve worked in the office of my company and though I hated the job, I actually liked the routine. It’s been fun being around when somebody has a birthday. I’ve enjoyed hating Mondays and loving Fridays. I bought a bike that I ride to work. I helped my friend build a fence the other day in his yard… and I kind of liked it. What the hell is happening to me? I don’t know. Maybe as I get older I’m getting a better perspective on time. Maybe I want to build something of my own before it’s too late.

We finally made it back up the hill and into the parking lot of the museum. My friends were still playing Frisbee in the field and gave me a weird look as we shuffled by again. I just shrugged. We made it to her building and she gave me her key to open the door.

“So are you good from here,” I asked, holding the door for her.

“No,” she replied. “I need you to take me to 116.”

‘If you can’t get around in your own building, how do you end up in the middle of a field?’ I wanted to ask, but instead I just pushed the button on the elevator. The door opened on her floor and we shuffled down the long dingy hall. When we finally made it to her door, I opened it for her. A stench of long-hair cats and cigarettes drifted out into the hall.

“Have a nice day!” I said.

She shut the door behind her.