Short Shots

If you had been me this last week, here are some things you would've seen:

[—My dad, the world traveler, looking at the ocean as if he'd never seen it before; it makes itself new to him everytime he visits it.
—]An extra-slow-moving school bus with the words "NEVER TARDY" stenciled on the side.
[—An old lady dressed up as Michael Jackson on Halloween (she had everything right except that she had on a Jewish costume hat on (a fedora/top hat with two large brown curls coming out at the temples of the hat on each side, separated out to look like Michael's.
—]This guy position his skateboard on the sidewalk just so, then push off to ride it sitting down all the way down this huge hill by Rose Canyon.
[—A small section of my morning commute where there's not a palm in sight and a few of the trees are turning. When it's cloudy, it could be Nebraska.
—]You would've felt first then seen a little boy walking with his mom at the mall, and stick out his arm just in time to brush your calve as you passed one another, look down, then back at him as he looks back at you too grinning and waving.
[—My coworker coming into my cubicle to feel her baby doing flips in her tummy, my face and hand on her belly.
—]The scottie dog, Angus, I'm going to dog sit for the rest of the month who has a haircut that leaves his tail fluffy, his face hair long, and his back buzzed with a fringe of hair like a bed's dust ruffle that swings and swishes when he walks (not sure there are even feet under there.
[—A little kid ordering chocolate at See's Candy at the mall.
Kid: I need one chocolate cream.
See's Lady: Just the one?
Kid: It's not for me, it's for my Mom (as he counts out change from his pocket)
See's Lady: Do you like milk or dark chocolate?
Kid: I like mil...I mean, my Mom likes milk chocolate.
See's Lady: Got it! Here you go.
(She sets down the milk chocolate on the counter and slides the change into her palm and starts the arduous task of counting it. The kid spins the chocolate in its wrapper on the counter, rustling the wrapper paper and squeezing the chocolate through it as the lady slowly counts the change. She watches him.)
See's Lady: You know what? A girl can never have enough chocolate, why don't you give her this one too.
(The kid just looks at her.)
See's Lady: It's free.
(Kid smiles broadly at her and uses a cupped hand to slide the new chocolate next to the one he's been fussing with and stares at his wealth of chocolate.)
See's Lady: Ah, ah, ah...don't mix them up. I made sure to get one with nuts for your Mom. She'll want to know which is which when you give them to her.
(Kid nods sagely and puts one in each hand and thanks the lady and leaves.)
See's Lady: Welcome to See's Candy, what can I do for you?
Meg: I need a quarter pound of key lime truffles, and they're for my mother too.
(And they were, but I did got a delightful sample for me (dark chocolate shell around pineapple truffle.))

Chillin' with the Crazies

No five great things Friday, I plum forgot. Whoops! But I've got something better: I've got some of Cali's prime crazies at the coffee shop with me right now.

First pair of crazies a guy and a gal at the coffee shop:
MexiBarista: We roast our own beans.
Sport Sandals with Skirt: You know? That is SO great because in this world where nothing is organic or real or lasting, at least you can come to The Blue Mug and get a real cup of coffee.
MexiBarista: I hear ya (nodding vigorously). I mean I heard the other day...
Sport Sandals with Skirt: Think about it, we're all done in 2012. The ice caps won't melt because they won't be around anymore, the magnetic forces will be enough that it will melt everything down, but we're killing ourselves anyway so whatever.
MexiBarista: Right? I mean, did you see Wall-E? It's like the I Ching. You know how everyone floats around on hover crafts b/c we're all too fat and lazy to even move? That's gonna be us in, like...I wanna say...two years? Maybe.
Sport Sandals with Skirt: I never saw it.
MexiBarista: It's my favorite movie, it's not as good as anime, but for Pixar, it's really good. Funny.
Sport Sandals with Skirt: But you're missing the point. We're not going to hover (using hands to demonstrate complex concept of hovering) because we'll all be DEAD in two years! Did you know a woman dies in childbirth every. Single. Minute. (Pause for reaction).
MexiBarista: (Eyes raised to ceiling as if counting) You know, I don't really think that's possible. Wait. Wait, no, you know what, that's true. I heard that on the History channel. (Both nod.)

Meanwhile, "My Hips Don't Lie" comes on while Sport Sandals with Skirt tears open sugar packets three at a time and pours them into her coffee.
Sport Sandals with Skirt: I love this song (the velcro making little ripping noises as she flexes her feet, dancing).
MexiBarista: Mmmmmmnow see, I have to disagree. She's a little cocky when it comes to shaking her hips.

They look at each other for a minute, Sports Sandals with Skirt sips her coffee gingerly while she uses the other hand to wave good bye. Without a word, MexiBarista waves back and Sport Sandals with Skirt slowly walks through the coffee shop and out the door never taking her lips of of the to-stay coffee cup. Gets in her car, and drives off.

P.S. I posted this totally lame picture b/c it turned out so bad I thought it was appropriate to the crazies theme. I look positively headless.

Sand in My Shoes Due to No Self Control

My pointy-toed leather flats are full of sand. My favorite jeans smell like low tide, and pieces of sea glass clinked together in the pocket as I wriggled out of them at the front door. I stepped out of the jeans and glanced back, it looks as though an invisible man followed me into the house and proceeded to obscenely drop trou. Three hours later they're still there. I ate some pizza and I haven't gotten around to washing the dish yet, two hours later. The contents of my suitcase are strewn all over and I'm not really sure what article of clothing my cell phone is under so sorry if I missed your call. But I'm home. I'm home in Cali though I just returned from home in Lincoln. I didn't know a person could have two homes, I thought you only got one at a time. Wrong.

Today I went to my library by the sea after work. After agreeing to a beading-and-pizza date (because pizza is popular with the young folks, as my adorable librarian Connie said) this Thursday, I left with some books on how to write, much to my blog audience's rapture. But once outside, I could smell it. Though I had made an extensive to-do list in my journal to which I knew I should adhere, I bypassed the way home in order to turn down a familiar street and saw it rise up like a wall before me. I parked, rolled up my jeans (little good it does me, I always go in nearly waist deep) and slid down the worn cliff path to the ocean. I always promise myself I'll return to the car somewhat dry; never happens. The water seduced me into immersing my feet then my calves then my knees until my whole body begged for the sun-warmed waves to take all of me.

I collected sand-worn glass bits. I have no idea what makes such innocuous objects so fascinating. I can tell you that as a kid I was clumsy and, as a result, broke a lot of glass. "Mary Margaret, don't EVER touch broken glass!" I resented my mother for not allowing me to pick up the glass with my fingers; if performed slowly, the process of collecting glass shards is a fairly simple and harmless one. I liked how glass looked when broken with no consideration for shape or line. It was beautiful and dangerous. My mother was right, of course, in protecting me, but someday I intend to bring my daughter to the ocean and teach her that there actually is a perfectly acceptable time to pick up broken glass; once the ocean has had its way with it.

When I stood on the shore tonight, when all the surfers were making their way back to their cars, I fixated on the empty expanse of water and felt, for a moment, as if I'd reached the edge of the world and I was the only one in it. It was so peaceful and I felt more aware of my senses than I had in a while. The broken shells and coral bit into my feet, the water glided around my ankles, and the wind lifted my hair effortlessly off my shoulders. I thought at that moment that I was happy to be the last person on earth left only with the ocean but then a small voice said, "Does it feel good?" For a second I thought, "God?" then processed, registered the voice as that of a child, and looked to my left to see a skinny black girl staring at me. She wore a purple bikini, had pig tails, and huge curious eyes. I rifled around in my mind in order to employ some articulate explanation of just how good it felt but produced only a "Yes." She laughed and said "I like the water too but why am I so scared of it?" and kicked some sand at the offending element. I didn't have any idea what to say, I wish I'd said something sage about respecting the ocean without fearing it and shared a very sesame street moment with her but instead, I just took a few steps deeper, put my hands into the air, palms facing her as if to say "See? Not so bad." She laughed and stepped in further too. There was no more interaction and I loved her for her outrageously overenthusiastic cries at each and every found treasure (read broken seashell and algae bit) just like I used to.

I miss Nebraska already, but I'm here in San Diego with my first and greatest love; the ocean.

Ooh La La!

It's Sunday morning and I'm at Wired Le Bistro, a très chic little cafe in La Jolla whose name belies its fabulousness. It really is one of my favorite spots in all of San Diego. The inside is cozy enough to make you want to stay all day but trendy enough to be in keeping with its cuisine's Parisian edge. The ceiling undulates with old burlap coffee bags that have been tacked up above, seating options include hard wooden high backs, black wrought iron chairs, or cozy eggplant-hued benches that outline the perimeter of the room. I enjoy the old-fashioned patisserie glass case, and that they imported the female servers.
If I were a gentleman, I'd be tempted to haunt this cafe for nothing more than the beautiful women who drift past the tables. The first time I was here, I knew they were French before they opened their mouths to speak with their quick, sharp little consonants and longer sweeter vowels that charactarize their accents; petite graceful bodies, hair slicked back to expose their fine bone structure and wearing black. You can also tell a french woman by her Mona Lisa smile curling slightly and inexplicably on her rosy lips. Somehow, it makes me feel more beautiful to be around them.
Today, at the urging of the server who recognized me, I ordered crepes nutella (as in that sinful hazelnut/chocolate spread Europeans have the good sense to put on everything) and a cup of coffee, and cream. Her recommendation reminded me of an important fact I wish all to know: the key to ordering a breakfast that won't leave you with a bellyache. It's simple; order a plain coffee if you're going to have a sweet dish, order a sweet coffee if you're going to have a savory dish. That's it, don't be seduced by an indulgent mocha to accompany your crepes, or you'll be sorry.
I think now would be a good time to mention that I'm being watched by a handsome young gentleman. He is with a woman who isn't offended by her date's inattention to his and blatant window-knocking at me as I sit on the other side of that window on the patio. His feet dangle two feet from he ground, his plate, bearing a large sweet roll, is poised perfectly at mouth-level. His mother watches fondly as he takes advantage of his position. He reaches forward with both hands cupping the back of the roll, scoops it toward his face and sinks his teeth in. He then flings his arms apart that conveys some sort of achievement and turns to look out the window, directly at me with full mouth and messy face as if to say, "check it out!" I assume a serious face and nod approvingly. He grins with flaky bits and cinnamon frosting all over his small teeth and turns back around.

In unrelated news, a bee has alighted on and made a home of my book which is in my purse. My book that I would very much like to be reading as soon as I've posted this. However, he's been there 45 minutes so far and seems to have decided that my tome makes for a good napping spot. I have a straw I could use to prod him away from my belongings but in a zen moment, I decided that this would be an unkindness as I wouldn't like to be awoken in such a manner. So he stays.
What I love even more than the sun-drenched patio with its wood-framed umbrellas, and strong European coffee is that every time I'm here I am privy to a variety of languages. French on left, South-American Spanish on right, Castillian Spanish behind, some language I can't identify at the table in front of me, old women two tables away slipping in and out of their old Italian in croaky tones complete with hand gestures. By sitting on the patio I miss the great music inside, but I gain the musicality of these different dialects as they float around me.

Someone(s) to Watch over Me

Last week, I did my laundry at the on-premises facility in my apartment complex, I'd neglected to switch out my clothes from the dryer and remembered only long after they were done. I returned to the machines to find my clothes in a neatly stacked, folded pile in my basket.

Yesterday, I stood in line behind a man with more groceries than reasonably fit into a single cart, also in tow was his son in a carrier. The toddler eyed me suspiciously, so I decided to prove I wasn't a threat by helping him take off his socks and find his piggies. The dad watched, amused at the farce of "lost toe-kies" and the three of us shared a chuckle.

I collapsed, exhausted on some grass by Mission Bay after a long walk/jog and had begun to snooze under the sun when a woman—also apparently worn out from a jog—hovered over me to inform me that I was "looking a little pink," and to head indoors before I got a sunburn. I really was looking quite rosy and I don't think I would've been very content with what would've been the outcome of that nap; a lobsteresque exterior.

My fruit-stand guys are endlessly patient with my comical Spanish. I haven't practiced conversation for some time and I find that the flow is good, but the terms are off. "¿Cuantos libres?," I ask "How many freedoms?" instead of "How many pounds" of fruit I'm looking to purchase. I had to ask about four times before I remembered how to say "plums," (ciruelas, if anyone's interested), and hilarity ensues as I answer "Yes." to either/or questions I thought were yes/no. The guys promise me fresh produce and Spanish lessons whenever I stop by and that they don't mind my practicing with them as it always results in a good laugh.
My library lady insists I come over for lunch sometime to chat, share a cup of tea, and look at her scrapbooks. Though I had some more youthful activities in mind for my social calendar, my 60-something friend is too sweet to resist.
.

Flustered after being the cause of a not-so-smallish snafu at work, I ran to put some gas in my car, distractedly grabbed the pump and prepared to fill up when a man comes running up to me. Being in lone-woman-in-the-city-fending-for-herself mode, I prepared to key or claw in case the man intended to accost me in some manner. He puts his hand over mine on the pump and swiftly pulls it out of my tank. "What are you doing?," I asked, not so kindly. "Well," he responded, "unless your car takes diesel, I'd highly discourage using the green pump." I shudder to think what would have become of my darling little Honda if it weren't for this man, I told him he was a stud and thanked him profusely.

Loving a Library

Though a home church still eludes me, I've found a library I'm coconuts about! The La Jolla Public Library is the sweetest of its kind. Just off of Draper Avenue, the outside is painted a buttery color with terracotta roof shingles framed by bright purple-pink flowering trees.

Verdigris benches graced with seashell designs stand guard, one on either side of the library's doors, and offer respite to homeless men and women. To see these bedraggled individuals at the doors of such a knowledge-saturated institution strikes me as ironic and sobering. These ghosts of their former selves haunt the La Jolla Library; a place set in one of the most privileged areas of the United States, a place that offers free knowledge. It occurs to me that if we, its more fortunate patrons, were somehow clever enough, wouldn't we be able to arrive at some solution for the helpless at the doorstep? I imagine what it must be like to be them each time I walk past. A week ago, I observed a woman reclined on the bench with her bags of who-knows-what acting as cushions with a half-drunk soda which, I suspect, was from a trash can given that its cap was no where in sight. She wore a flower absurdly tucked in her matted hair and was perusing a book, whose title I missed. She stroked her skin on the arm that led to the hand that held the book while she hummed to herself as she read. While I was looking at her, I squinted my eyes in order to blur her image, as I would've done when I was a little girl to make lit street lamps look like fuzzy points of light. Thus distorted, the woman was just a shape with color, and I imagined her as some artist's abstraction of one of those paintings of an elite woman, finely attired, reclined on her chaise taking in a novel. I didn't feel pity for her at that moment, I was happy for her, as she sat contentedly in that sun-drenched spot where one can smell the ocean.

Yesterday I returned to the library to return some DVDs and CDs I'd borrowed. I was in sort of a hurry as it was one of several errands I needed to run, so I felt a twinge of impatience when I saw three females surrounding the outdoor drop-off box. I'm not a patient person. I took a deep breath and told myself to not be a jerk, which meant smiling kindly at them and standing an extra foot away so as not to disturb them. I picked out the little girl out of the three first. She wore only a lavender bathing suit with yellow polka dots and a ruffle around the waist, not even sandals, and her fine brown curls rested on her head like a little cloud, so light and wispy they were. Her process was thorough and deliberate: slide one book at a time off of the stack her mother held for her, reach up on her tiptoes and open the mouth of the metal receptor, drop the book in, let the spring-loaded mouth shut and swallow the book, repeat. The stack of children's books was at least 10 high. Her mother smiled at me with a look of appreciation, sans apology which I liked because there was nothing to apologize for and I understood from her smile that she recognized my exercise of patience. The child's grandmother held a canvas bag which, I supposed was the book carrier, and watched the child with fondness. Though I'd be lying to say that all impatience had evaporated, I'm glad I got to watch the collaborative effort of these three generations.

I finally returned my items, went inside, and found the CDs and DVDs I'd been looking for quickly. I heard a couple teens talking and laughing loudly down the corridor and watched a librarian speed walk past me leaving a wake of strong perfume, puffing air, headed directly for them. She stopped and, standing an uncomfortably close distance from them, rebuked them in whispers saying, "High noise levels are jarring to our patrons!" I resumed my perusing when a minute later I was greatly startled by a snorting, guttural sound to my left. I glanced over to see a library guard in a chair against the wall from where he was presumably charged to keep watch. Yet there he was, slumped in the chair and emitting what this patron would refer to as a most "jarring" snore. His head was supported by his second, third, and fourth chins and his hands were folded over his plump middle. He let out another sonorous snore which the librarian, who had returned to her post, conveniently ignored. But when I started to laugh and was joined by a guy next to me who was now snickering too, she, naturally, leaned over her desk and frowning at us, shot us a sharp "Shh!"

Finally, I checked out with my favorite librarian, whose name I don't know. She calls me by my first name; still a novelty in a city where I'm relatively unknown. She always wears earrings that match her outfit perfectly. Sky blue shirt, sky blue earrings the exact same shade, coral, yellow, sage green ensembles are all accompanied their respective pair of earrings; her daughter makes them for her. A couple weeks ago she greeted me wearing a denim blouse with a farm scene embroidered on the front. As for the earrings, she had out-Heroded Herod; in the right ear was the cow's front, and in the left ear was the cow's backside, udder and all. They were a stitch. When she asked me if I liked them, I glanced at the left ear, then the right, again to the left a few times then suddenly I became worried she'd read my act of speechlessness a 'no,' so I told her they were perfect with her blouse. She beamed at me, leaned over the books, and proceeded to tell me all about her single grandson.

First Things First

An updated list of firsts for Meg Schudel:
1) Ate "Pirogi" last night for the first time, it's a Russian potato dumpling--my Argentine/Armenian friend made them for me...it was an ethnic and delicious moment for me (Ha! Thanks Natalia!)

2) My first car wash, no, I'm not kidding. I'd been through a couple before with my grandfather when I was a little girl. Back then, I laughed and clapped my hands like I was on a ride at disneyland. But now that I've grown up, I only laughed and smiled like an idiot when the waves of water, suds, and "rainbow wax" drenched my vehicle. This was during my second visit to the car wash, my first attempt was utterly anticlimactic. I just assumed the machine took plastic, so I sat in a line of five cars for thirty minutes waiting for my turn only to arrive at the inescapable entrance and not have any of the needed currency to obtain a wash! It asked for a code or cash, after frantically checking every nook and cranny of my car for dollar bills, I gave up in futility and (I'm not kidding, I get really anxious in situations where strangers are waiting on me) yelled at the machine , "WHAT IS THIS CODE YOU SPEAK OF AND HOW DO I GET IT?!" Nothing doing, and unable to escape any other way, I simply had to drive right through, in the car wash hut and out the other side, leaving the person behind me to think that I was 10 kinds of crazy...which I suppose I am a little. Once her laughter had subsided, the benevolent Alison Selig gently explained the code thing to me later, I get it now.


3) First horned melon. Yeah, check it out, it's the funnest fruit!! It's slimey, brilliantly colored and WAY too much work to fish the seeds out of the juicy membranes you're supposed to consume. It tastes a little like kiwi, honeydew, and a green grape.

4) Got my first business card ever! Scary. And corporate. But embossed on crosshatched cardstock so I suppose I should be grateful.


5) Tried Pike's Place brew at Starbucks, it's everything. Try it (dedicating this one to Peter).

6) On a sort of sad note, I had to cut two friends out of my life. It was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I've never done that before. Until recently, I'd always believed that every relationship is salvagable. Then I grew up. I knew these individuals would continue to unapologetically break my heart, and that I had nothing else to offer them either. They already took what I could give them and, let's face it, left me a bit empty handed. In the end, they know I still love and pray for them. To those who've supported me through this, I can't thank you enough.

7) I have my first California library card, I'm feeling more and more like I actually live here! Tip to the poor: rent movies from the library, it's free! I dropped Netflix like a bad habit and hit the library's DVD collection. Libraries tend to have the more obscure books-made-into-movies pieces you can't find other places. No time for movies? Do the books on CD, my mother's discovered them and finds excuses to hang around the house to catch up on her "reading," if you can't get to the library, do librivox for free literature downloads.

8) I left my number for a stranger. I've given it out before, just not in a "call me" scrap of paper way, always verbally. Sarah and I were at a restaurant in Little Italy and the waiter was the sweetest guy, we talked Argentina while other tables seethed at him for his inattentiveness to their appetites (I know b/c the table next to ours teasingly called me out on it when waiter was absent and Sarah had gone to the loo, "thanks for distracting the waiter, we'd like to get our tirimisu sometime today".) Andrew, the waiter, seemed enthusiastic to have someone relate to his Buenos Aires experiences, so I left my number with the tip before I left in case he wished to continue the convo. No, he hasn't called yet, I really don't mind. I was more curious to hear his stories than to date him, promise.
9) Found sand dollars on the beach! I've only ever found seashells! They were sort of dirty looking and cracked around the edges, not like the bleached white ones you see in stores, but I like them anyway.

9) Had to shake sand off of my car mats.

10) Made what I consider to be my first major purchase, a piano. The most I've ever spent on any one thing and I love all 88 out-of-tune keys of it.

A Forrest in my sunset

I have a story today, I know I haven’t had one for a while. Three weeks ago, I was driving home and took a detour so I’d drive by La Jolla beach. As I could’ve predicted, the ocean worked on me like a magnet, I was compelled to pull over and park, slip on my flip-flops (I always keep a pair in the car now), and run down to the water. I only meant to get my feet wet, but I played in the water, sand, and tide pools from 4:00 p.m. until the sun began to set (about 7:30 p.m. here). I hadn’t even realized how long I’d been out there but seeing that the sun was setting, I made my way back to the top of the cliffs for a better view of the scene, sat on a free bench and decided to have a chat with God.
I’d been feeling a little, okay a lot more distant from God than I’d like to admit and was ready to have quite the little discussion with Him. As usual, I came to him with the sort of indignance and frustration that I know for certain is my own doing, but I like to pretend is his fault. God doesn’t mind, I’m sure. It’s so incredulous and foolish that he can only shake His head and return my fist-shaking session with patience, waiting for me to get the picture. I asked God what I was doing here in San Diego and why I wasn’t meeting more people and why he wouldn’t give me a church and a community.
I was engrossed in this mental vent session when this man suddenly appeared at my side. I was truly startled and looked up to see a grizzled man peering at me from under a fisherman's hat, wearing soiled clothes, and holding an engorged plastic sack in one hand and a tattered backpack in the other.
“I’m having a barbeque,” he said, “but the problem is I don’t have a grill or anyone to share it with.”
Never at a loss for words, I responded coolly (I was more in the mood for conversation with the Almighty than a bum), “That sounds like a conundrum.”
“Conundrum! Now there’s a 5-dollar word!”
I have a curse for using overly large words when in the presence of those who are least able to grasp them. I’m not joking. It’s one of the things that makes communication with children difficult for me. Inevitably, whenever I need to sound eloquent and well-spoken all the richness of the English language eludes me. But put a homeless man in front of me and eureka! It immediately put a wall up between this man and myself, though I hadn’t meant for it to.
I began to say something else but he interrupted, “Do you mind if I sit here?” as he set down his bags and eased himself down beside me—I noticed that the bulging platic bag contained cans and cans of cheap beer. I inwardly sighed and consented though I wished him gone. He began a few more times to make conversation with me and I, while trying to remain somewhat civil, ignored each of his queries and icebreakers. I did a safety scan: were there people within screaming distance? Yes. Were there cars frequenting the street behind us should he choose to attack? Yes. Did I have even a remotely sharp object on me should I need to protect myself? Yes, I loosened the cap off of the pen in my pocket…just in case.
As I wound up my analysis, he expressed his impatience for my disdain and accused me of not even being able to look him in the eye. This I proceeded to do and asked him with equal impatience if he could honestly blame me, a woman on my own, for being wary of a strange man with a plastic bag full of beer. His expression and tone of voice changed immediately. He said, “I’m not really a bad guy, if you don’t mind alcoholics.” I told him I’d not known any so he would be soley responsible for the basis on which I would form my opinion. He cracked open a can and cheered to that.
He repeated, “I’m not a bad guy, in fact, I would like to give you a present.” He proceeded to dig around in his back pack from which he produced a canvas back full of seashells and a length of elastic. He asked me to hold out my wrist, I refused. I was uncomfortable. So he pursed his lips and nodded and encircled his own wrist with the elastic and cut off a length a bit smaller than that. He looked at me and asked, “I don’t have any friends or anyone to talk to. Could you do something for me? Can you stay here with me? You can leave either as soon as the sun goes down or as soon as I finish your bracelet, whichever comes first. But please stay.”
I nodded, and he set to work, his clumsy hands and painstakingly stringing the small shells onto the elastic explaining that this is what he did for a living. It was too hard for me to watch him. The craft would’ve taken young, dexterous hands moments to complete, but his rough hands with scabs and cuts all over them worked so slowly. I had to look at the sunset, I would guess we had about 15 minutes left. He almost completed the bracelet when the elastic broke and he had to start over again. I helped him gather the shells that had flown off. He patiently began again, using his own wrist to measure, not asking me this time. At this point I felt so bad, I offered to purchase the bracelet from him, I only had $3, but he seemed grateful for the offer and accepted. The sun sank faster than I’d predicted and he prattled on about disconnected facts about himself I tried to follow and stories whose meaning was indiscernible. "By the way, I'm Forrest." All the while he talked, I tried to find a way to introduce the subject of God into the conversation, for what could offer more comfort to a man like this? Maybe he could even go to a church for some aid. That's what I was there for right? Isn't that how the Chicken Soup for the Soul books go? There to pray but a serendipitous encounter leads to warm and fuzzies in the end? But he prattled on without ceasing and I never felt like that opportunity presented itself and I inwardly yelled at God for the second time that day, “What the heck am I doing here if you don’t want me to witness to him God? Why this utter waste of my time? Why won’t you help me do what I'm supposed to be able to do?!” I was so angry.
He finally finished, just as the sun hit the water and he held it up to examine it. I started tearing up out of frustration at not being able to introduce the subject of God and at the overwhelming pity I felt for this man, luckily it was getting too dark for him to tell. I handed him the money, and he held the bracelet open for me to slip my hand through. I tensed at once, having no desire whatsoever to touch or be touched by this man. But then a moment of clarity—Jesus never refused to touch anyone no matter what their status or situation, and he was God! He, of all men, did not have to condescend to touch and interact with the lowly. The man’s hands were still suspended in air, holding open the ‘o’ of the bracelet for me and I looked him in the eyes and saw him as an equal, for the first time. I put my hand though, feeling his calloused skin brush mine, and he took the back of my hand, turned it over, and examined the inside of my wrist staring at it and stroked it with his thumb then released it. It was a very intimate moment that could’ve easily taken a on a shade of perverseness, but was very innocent and our eyes met as one human to another, his were clear of any ulterior motive and full of appreciation. Mine still welled with tears. He thanked me slowly and sincerely saying, “Thank you for letting a lonely man share a sunset with a beautiful woman.” I didn't feel beautiful at all, I felt like an insufferable snob who was rubbish at witnessing. I thanked him for the bracelet, put on my sandals and told him to take care of himself.
There's no punch line, I'm about as confused now as I was when I drove away from the beach. I failed to share Jesus with Forrest, but I gave him the only thing that occurred to me that Jesus might give; a touch.

(Photo is, finally, not "borrowed" from the Internet. A shot of sunset on La Jolla beach--not taken on the same day as my meeting with Forrest.)