Blind Faith

Here's something that I posted a while ago. I just edited it for something else, and figured I'd repost it.

From the moment I saw Enid, I knew I was going to like her. Not necessarily like in a "let's be best friends" way. More like her in a "My, what fun huge pointy rhinestone-rimmed sunglasses you're wearing!" way. I was sent to visit Enid as part of my job at a non-profit that matches volunteers with isolated senior citizens. My co-workers gave me the heads up that Enid was very intelligent and often personable, but had the tendency to get paranoid and angry. My love for crotchety old folks was what led me to the job in the first place, so I felt ready.

When I entered her apartment, Enid was sitting in the dark, in the corner of the living room in an old mold-green chair, sporting a floral muumuu and the aforementioned rhinestone glasses. The familiar old lady scent (a mix of talcum powder, dentures and saggy skin), along with Enid in her chair and a table with a small radio on it, were the only things filling the room. I greeted her with a friendly, "Hi Enid, I’m Mary!"

Enid spoke matter-of-factly, with a southern accent, "Well, hello Mary. Thank you for coming. Where did you go to college?"

I sat on the edge of the table, and proceeded to answer Enid’s litany of questions about my background and education. Enid and I talked for over an hour about sociology, theology and the state of American education. Just when I was thinking, "This gal knows her stuff", she said, "Mary, the po-lice shoot lasers under my doors at night." That's precisely how our conversations went from then on. Discussions about education and politics were peppered with details of Enid's paranoid hallucinations.

For the most part, Enid kept to herself aside from the few friends she had from my agency and a couple people she knew at church. She came to our office to help with our newsletter mailing, carefully placing labels on envelopes with her special finger measurement method and yelled at people who dilly dallied and held up the process. Occasionally she'd get relaxed at a luncheon and do a special dance with her walking stick. Much of my quality time with Enid was spent taking her to medical appointments. One day we sat next to each other, in silence, in a crowded doctor’s waiting room for what seemed like hours. I was apathetically flipping through a year old issue of Ladies Home Journal, when Enid yelled, "Mary! I thank God I do not have the squirts!"

For some unknown reason I was able to keep my chuckles to an inaudible level and managed to utter, "I think we all thank God for that." The guy sitting across from me was biting his lip so hard I was sure it was going to bleed. The woman next to him covered her wide grin with her hand and bolted for the door. Enid, sat still, looking straight ahead, seriously pleased that she was squirt-free.

Months went on and Enid and I became closer. Enid didn't talk much about her past, and didn't get very personal with me, but she grew to trust me completely. When we went to a doctor's appointment, Enid wanted me to read over everything and make sure it was okay. Sometimes, when presented with something she had to sign, Enid would yell, "Can't you see I'm blind?! Mary will let me know if I should sign it!" That was one thing I loved about Enid. She wanted to do things on her own, but wasn't beyond yelling, "Can't ya see I'm blind!?" to anyone who annoyed her. My favorite of these episodes was when we were at her regular doctor's office and a new novice doctor asked what medications she was taking. Enid, being very prepared, pulled a zip-loc bag full of prescription bottles from her gigantic black pleather purse and handed them to the assistant. The woman, who looked to be about twelve, picked up a bottle, looked at it for a second and asked, "What's this?"

Enid screamed, "My God! You're my doctor and you don't know I'm blind!? How the hell would I know what you're holding up? Read the damn label!"

Suzie med student flashed a snotty look my way as if we were supposed to commiserate with each other. I said, "I know, Enid. You'd think between your glasses, the walking stick and the fact that you've been a patient here for god knows how many years, that they'd figure that one out. I think I'm in the wrong field."

Enid sighed in exasperation and said, "Mary...read her what's on the bottle!"

Enid would usually call me at least twice a day, often with very practical demands. “Mary, please come over and tell me when my milk expires.” “Mary, please come over and re-set the speed dial on my phone.”

One morning my co-worker Tony yelled from the other side of the office, "Hey Mary...your girlfriend is on line two."

“Hi, this is Mary.”

It was, of course, Enid. "Hello Mary. I love you."

"I love you too, Enid."

"Okay...have a nice day." she said, and then immediately hung up.

I was with Enid the day she found out she had cancer. She had not been feeling well, and after some tests, Enid's doctor suspected that it could be cervical cancer. She went in for yet another test, and after helping Enid get into her paper robe and walking her over to a nurse, I headed towards the waiting room. Enid yelled, "Oh no...Mary has to be here." So I stayed with Enid, and stood at the edge of the bed and held her hand as she sat with her legs in stirrups: naked, vulnerable and terrified. As suspected, the results were not good. In fact, the cancer was worse than the doctor had first suspected. It was terminal.

Enid was quickly hospitalized. On one of my visits, Enid carefully removed a tiny key from the inside zipped pocket of her purse, and directed me to go to her apartment and use the key to open up the suitcase under her bed. She said it was full of important paperwork. The next day I went to her apartment to follow Enid’s order. After cleaning out her fridge, emptying the garbage and tidying up a bit, I looked under Enid’s bed and there laid a huge dark-brown leather suitcase. I dragged it out and flung it on the Pepto-Bismol pink floral sheets. I sat on the bed and unlocked the suitcase with the tiny key. The top immediately popped open from the force of papers yearning to breathe free. At the top of the pile were numerous copies of some poems Enid had written, most of which she had recited to me hundreds of times. I reread my favorite, “Little Flower.” Enid’s recitation always ended with her slowly bowing her head, dropping her arms, pausing in silence and then saying, as if reciting Shakespeare, “Little Flower…I let you die.” It made me smile every time. After setting aside insurance paperwork and medical forms I thought Enid might need, I came to the last document in the pile- the transcripts from her murder trial.

I knew that Enid had spent time in prison back in the seventies. The social worker that referred Enid to our agency told us that Enid was a witness to a murder that her husband had committed, and subsequently served time in jail. Enid would occasionally refer to her time in prison but would quickly change the subject if I asked any follow-up questions. The details that I read that day were much more horrifying than I ever imagined. Enid was no witness. Back in the early seventies, Enid (actually her name wasn't even really Enid) and her husband were expert con-artists. They had hired some people to put a new floor in their basement. The men who went to install the floor were suspicious and contacted the police. As it turns out, there were two bodies buried down there. The bodies were of a couple that had mysteriously gone missing months before. The dynamic duo of Enid and her husband had failed to receive some money they thought they were owed, so they strangled their "friends" and buried them in their basement.

My girlfriend was a murderer. And I loved her.

I sat in Enid's tiny bedroom that had nothing but a bed and a dresser, and reread that document over and over. In some ways, I was creeped out that I didn't feel very differently about Enid. She had always been nice to me and aside from the time she crapped on my hand as I was helping her out of bed, she never gave me reason to dislike her.

The next day I went to visit Enid and brought the medical forms she needed. She told me that she had a dream that she was on Jeopardy and won the car. She said my co-workers and I were all there and she gave the car to our organization. I stared into her foggy blind eyes and tried to picture her strangling someone. It seemed so impossible.

Getting to know Enid affected me in a way that I still can't completely understand. I watched someone who killed, grapple with facing death herself. She never discussed what she did with me, but she said she always prayed to God for forgiveness. She was terrified of dying. In some ways, Enid grew old alone because that's what she deserved. But on the other hand, sometimes I'd look at her and think that she served her time and did the best with her second chance at life.

Enid died within a few months of her diagnosis. If there is an afterlife, I wonder where Enid is right now. I sometimes miss that crazy old broad. I never met anyone like Enid, and hopefully never will again.

Rock Out With Your Socks Out

As you may or should know, my brother Jim is a very talented guy. Check out the great review his show, The Gumball Gang: Crime-solving Kids, got in today's New York Times. According to the NYT, the show is a "bulls-eye" and Jim's songs are "jazzy." But I think that's just cause it's not appropriate to use the word "kick-ass" in the NYT. Especially in the family section. Show details at Tada! Youth Theater.

Here's Jim and I in...oh...I'd say about 1982. I like to call it: We are cooler than our socks would suggest.

No Train, No Gain

Countown to the New Brown is the Chicago Transit Authority's slogan for the revamping of the Brown Line. I don't know if I've ever been so scheeved by a slogan before.

Last night, on my way home from work, I sat wondering why I like the Brown Line so much. Is it the voyeurism? I do enjoy seeing what people are reading. For example, I've never read anything by Jodi Picoult but she seems to be a big hit among women who flat iron their hair. Last night's readers also included a tall lanky dude in well-pressed pants reading "The Sun Also Rises" and a hipster gal with a dagger tattooed on her arm reading "Naked" by David Sedaris. I pulled out "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert. That pretty much says, "Hi, I'm single in my 30s and looking to feel good about it." (Mini review: Interesting read but Liz is a tad too self-absorbed for my taste. She says while writing on her blog about herself).

Back to the train gang (eee-yang-eee-yang)... If there's not already, there should be a website, "Crazy Shit I saw on the train today." The other day I stared at a dude's tattoo for at least 7 minutes. I've seen this guy before. He's a tall skinny white dude who I see running along the lakefront sometimes. He's got a tattoo on his inner forearm of scrabble letters spelling out TUPAC. What on earth is the story there? I mean, it's only a 9 point word. If you're gonna put a scrabble word on your arm, at least go with something like QUIXOTRY. And sweet Jesus, generic preppy white boy, please don't tell me your Tupac tattoo is serious. That's almost as bad as the guy I saw at North Avenue beach with a giant tattoo of Che Guevara on his back.

This week's fellow train riders also included this crazy bitch that brought her bike on during rush hour. That's always a hit among all the riders. Who doesn't love a stranger's bike wheel jamming into their calf at the end of a long day? Just in case she wasn't making enough of a spectacle of herself, she got on her phone and this is what we all heard, loudly:

NO SHIT! You were pulled over!? Did they take your car??! Did they impound it?! How drunk were you!? HOLY SHIT, MAN..that is way over the legal limit!!! (hysterical laughter that continued even after she got off the phone).

There really is nothing funnier than when your friend gets a DUI. Things that crack me up? Arrested Development, prat falls, and when my friend gets arrested for driving drunk. Wiping tears just thinking about it.

But it's crazy bitches like that that make me love the Brown Line. I guess when it comes to crazy bitches, it takes one to know one.

Chicago: Where You Bean All My Life?

A couple weeks ago my friend Anne and I met up in Denver, and drove our Rav 4 rental up to Missoula, where we met up with Kristen for a week of fun and relaxation, Montana style. It was a truly fantastic time. (Pictured above: Anne, Kristen, Dorothy, Me and Earl. Dot and Earl are the best people in Montana, and possibly the planet). We cooled down on a 104 degree day with some tubing down the Blackfoot River. We camped in Glacier Park, and survived what we feared was a bear wandering around our campsite in the middle of the night. Could’ve been a large raccoon, but I’ve got my money on Grizzly. Thankfully, we’ll never know. We got together with a wide array of old friends for Big Sky beers, and grilled salmon and many a laugh. One night we paid a mere $7 for a great band and all the microbrews we could drink. It was the Montana I remembered and fell in love with eleven years ago. The beautiful big sky riddled with stars, the crisp fresh air, the friendly people, and the mountains and valleys that make my heart melt a little. Before the trip I thought that I might fall back in love again and want to give up city streets for open space. It was just the opposite. My fling with my old love Montana made me realize that I think Chicago might be my soulmate.

This is no small realization. I’m not even sure what makes Chicago my potential soulmate. I guess they’re right when they say when it’s right, you just know. And that a relationship is work but the work shouldn’t be in deciding if you want to be together. There are a ton of things about Chicago that I love. I love the Brown Line, even when it’s slow and repeatedly closes down stops all willy nilly. I love that I can walk to practically everything that I need. I love the Davis Theater and the way I’m never sure if my chair will outlast the movie I’m seeing. I love the path along the Chicago river and the way it smells like a blend of river sludge and wildflowers. I love the produce selection at Harvest Foods. I love Nehod and Mario, the friendly security guards at my office building. I love Lake Michigan in all its beauty and mystery. I love that I have friends that live on a boat out there. I love the baristas at the Grind. I love the Old Town School. I love that there are an endless amount of plays, and comedy shows and readings that I could be seeing, even if I don’t often go. But it’s not this laundry list of loves that makes the Chicago the one for me. Chicago just gets me.

Montana’s beauty is obvious. In Chicago, I have to work a little to find the beauty, but when I find it, it’s that much more rewarding. Chicago is sometimes complicated and messy, but it’s loyal. I can go back to Montana and wish it well and remember what it brought to my life, but I realize that I’m a different person than I was when Montana was my main squeeze.

San Francisco was a serious relationship that I always knew wasn’t THE one. We met each other’s families and vacationed together, but we never discussed the M word. Mortgage. I would never be what the bay area needed- our histories were just too different. But it made me laugh and was a shoulder to cry on and we had a great time in the sack. But alas, eventually, we stagnated. I wasn’t sure it understood me completely and I couldn’t really figure it out either. I cried when we said our goodbyes, but I knew it was the right decision to go.

Boston was a short intense fling. We had extreme highs and extreme lows. We’d have an amazing weekend together biking along the Charles and wandering through the cobble stoned streets downtown. But that would inevitably be followed by an enormous argument after getting lost in Big Dig traffic for two hours, and then not being able to find a single open parking spot in the entire city. We were angry with each other for a while but enough time has passed that I can appreciate the purpose Boston served in my life. I met some great friends through my relationship with Boston, and got a nice masters degree out of the deal. We’ve put our baggage behind us and can now occasionally enjoy each other’s company.

Philadelphia was my first love. We took our time getting to know each other. Because we were young and naïve, a lot went unsaid and unexplored. I know that it has a lot to offer, but I was too young to make a lifetime commitment to Philly. I felt the need to sow some wild oats. But Philly and I had a ton of fun together. We really cracked each other up and we trusted each other implicitly. I don’t see it often, but I know that whoever settles down with Philly is a lucky gal.

I have to thank all my old loves, because without them, Chicago and I may’ve never found each other. Chicago and I have some different opinions but we support each other’s growth. The blue bag program is ridiculous but I faith that Chicago will find a more useful way to recycle soon. After all, no one is perfect. Paulina is pronounced paul-I-na? That is just silly and endearing! Chicago, you’re so cute sometimes! Chicago is hilarious and sort of progressive and interesting and smart and it is always trying to be better. Between the lakefront and the architecture and the food, the opportunities for romance are endless. Chicago and I don’t know each other completely, but we’re awfully smitten with each other, and just might be willing to spend a lifetime getting to know each other better.

But what does that make Jersey?