Dead Man's Honda

This evening I walked quickly down the hallway on the south side building when I came across a stout, smiling man emerging from a filing office. I smiled softly like I do when I pass strangers and he waved and said hello as if we were the best of friends. In fact, he stopped me:

“Hey! Don't you drive that Honda Civic?” He said cheerfully.

No. Freaking. Way. This isn't even close to my building.

“Ha ha…yes, I do, actually,” I answered.

“What year is that thing?”

“Oh it's a 1987,” I said back.

“I used to drive a 1991 Toyota Corrolla.”

Wow. That's like, totally not at all related to what I just told you.

“Well, it's a great car,” I said back to him and he laughed like I had told the most sarcastic joke anyone had ever heard.

“No really,” I tried again, “Its great— it only had 23, 000 miles on it when I bought it.”

“Oh yeah? Way back in high school huh?” he said laughing.

Bite me mister.

“No— three years ago actually.”

“Well I thought when I saw that thing that they were maybe going to make it into a rice rocket or something.”

They? As in—the props department??!! A rice rocket?!

“You know how they race those cars around and beat them up and stuff? You know that? I thought maybe it was one of those.”

“Oh I've never really seen those....” I answered.

“Well you could always call Pimp My Ride and then I would see you on TV!” He laughed as he walked into his department.

I relayed the story to Alex who was waiting for me at the other side of the building. We were headed to a mixer for “young professionals” (do they have mixers designated as for old professionals?)-- compliments of our boss who serves on the organization’s board.

“Oh man, I will call them for you. That's perfect! They’d like, paint it hot pink and get some gigantic monitors in there” he said as he headed to his Mercedez that had just been rear-ended the week before.

“But then if people rear end me,” I said, “I might care. Caaaauuussse….you could pretty much drive OVER my car at this point and I really wouldn't even pull over to get your information. See why my life is better than yours? Not to mention my nose isn't broken....” (like his).

My mouth dropped open at another one of Lindsey’s stories about a client. Her latest client could be voted Most Likely To Have Originated On Mars…..but he is still, of course, a valuable human being I wish I could meet:

Impt Note: The written version is just not even HALF as funny as Lindsey acting this out:

“You know I am a prophet,” he said to Linds nodding emphatically.

“What?” Lindsey said back.

“Yeah….. I dunno what religion you are?”

“I’m a Christian…..”

“Ok. Yeah. So then you know, if you are a Christian and go to church, that God is going to break off California and let it fall into the bottom of the sea.”

Um. WHAT? Lindsey said she strained to look casual instead of looking drastically confused.

“Yeah—you know. God is going to break off California and so he has sent me as a prophet…to warn people about California falling into the sea....and to start after school programs…..for kids.”

“Oh he has?” Only weeks before, this same client told her that God wanted him to preach the Word and become the first black Donald Trump.

Yeah. I would have thought he was going to say, or mean, Billy Graham or something too but nope—he meant Donald Trump.

“So God wants you to be a prophet and start after school programs before California falls into the sea?”

“Yeah—and be a real estate agent.”

I hoist two year old Miracle onto the counter because she whimpers like a yelping puppy over a bumped elbow.

“You know, I’m pretty sure you’re the only 26 year old that is like this…” Lindsey says as I knock over a tub of water (soaking my feet) for the five kittens being chased around the house by Alfred and Little D who dive under the table and skid around polished white rocks that Lucas, my dear nephew, had tossed all over the living room the night before. There was a zen-like candle-holder in the center of the table-- a black square dish with white, sandy rocks inside. Then somehow the white candle disappeared and a gaudy, large, red candle was stuck in the middle of the white gravel. All of a sudden the zen-ness was gone and it looked like Christmas decorations met a sushi restaurant.

Oh why do you think that, Lindsey? Because I collect stray children and cats?

I take it as an insult, which is not how she intended it, of course, and give Miracle a plate of fish crackers after “bandaging” her elbow and placing her on the ground.

“What happened to yer kid?” Alfred asks with a pout on his perfectly-shaped five year old mouth.

He was frightened away by your intoxicated grandmother who screamed for you all to get your asses back over the fence, was my first thought.

“Well he went home with his mother,” I said.

Desiree dashes out the door and Miracle trails after her sweet scent whining, almost inaudibly, for a “tug” ---

“She means hug,” I add.

“Oh. Where did these children come from?” Desiree asks as she looks at the tiny girl stretching her arms up.

“Under the fence,” I say.

Which is exactly accurate— their housing complex is slightly higher than ours and a long fence separates the properties. From the lower half of ours, Little D ripped the fence out from the nails holding it in place and pulled Alfred and Miracle down into our property and brought them over to the apartment.

Before I know it Miracle has gotten into our bathroom cupboard and covered her little brown face in ivory-colored concealer—she’s a smart two year old— it looks like lipstick…and…er…apparently...alloverthe face….stick? I can’t get the concealer off of her face because she is howling for me to paint her toe-nails bright hot pink. So I do. Then I wipe off the white stuff and then put a little real lipstick on her and she is so pleased she smiles and flirts with herself in the mirror for about eight minutes--- a shocking length of time in the world where I am used to Little D who can barely hold still long enough to play Catch Phrase with herself.

Yes, that’s a game that usually requires at least 4-8 players but D can lounge (I mean twitch around in every direction) on the couch and read the words another person is supposed to guess-- and guess it herself. That requires blinded creativity, I think— playing a guessing game with yourself and truly thinking you don't already know the answer.

And then it’s Sunday morning and Little D is with me in the Sunday school class Lindsey and I teach, where she fits in so well with the romping two year-olds that it worries us concerning her developmental level. We sit in the classroom with the children perched on chairs or on our laps as Lindsey asks a question about the lesson— a very simple:

“So what does God say about being afraid?”

“He says that we don’t have to be afraid like when my dad was killed and then we were in the hospital and I know he is with God so it’s ok and so we don’t have be afraid when people die like that…” Little D jumps in.

The two-year-old faces fall.

Oh crap.

“D, thank you for sharing,” Lindsey says positively and nods.

And thank you for scaring the crap out of the kids….I think briefly though my heart still aches for the little girl, who, three years later, is still obviously grappling with the loss of her father. My mind flashes to three years ago when I first moved in and saw the sprightly child dancing around and into our apartment. Sometimes she would come in and promptly fall asleep on the couch out of sheer grief and depression. Just nine years old now and such a long, sad, story.

Her world is completely different from those in our Sunday School classroom. Though both are surely plagued by uncertainties and their own dysfunctions, (as well as joys!) Little D sleeps in the living room of their one-bedroom apartment with her older, 13 year old brother. She is well acquainted with drugs and alcohol and homelessness and fear and poverty. Two year old Miracle is different from our two year old Sunday School kids dressed in flowery dresses or designer shoes--- she doesn’t cry when she gets upset. She sort of yells. Like the sounds of her relatives screaming at each other over the fence.

“You really don’t need to go overseas to help kids,” Lindsey tells me. “You’ve got plenty of them right here.”

And that hits a strange, raw, undefined, spot in me because I’d rather be overseas with kids whose lives are, relatively, “worse”. At least I love it when I have been overseas caring for children. But is that for me or for them? My mind flickers to Friday night and a meeting with a professor who encouraged me to do research in Capetown where he lives. I was excited about it--- his description of developments in justice and reconciliation in post-apartheid South Africa were riveting and felt like a divine hand opening up a door of exciting opportunity.

But then I remember D and Alfred and Miracle and the boys who hover in the driveway…and those I haven't even met yet....and I think of Little D writing huge “I Love You Leisel’s” in oil pastel all over the kitchen table (at least this time it wasn’t all over herself) and I begin to think that sometimes the sacred is grungy and unexpected and curious. And right in front of my face.