Odd with a T - Story Section

50k Table

"What are you going to do this evening, Mr. Edwards?"

"I hadn't thought much about it. How about you?"

"Well, I'm going to cook dinner for a little while. I thought you and The Deedle could take the movie back."

I look at The Deedlebug. She's standing next to me with her neck bent back. The blue eyes, the dimpled, oversized cheeks, and bald head make her look like a cartoon baby. As always, her tongue is out. We’d gone for her first stroller-free walk around the neighborhood the night before.

"What do you think? Do you want to go outside."

"Yeah."

I take Motorcycle Diaries out of the VCR. I'd like to keep it and watch it again, but it's a new rental, so it’d cost another four bucks. I'm sure it'll be on cable eventually.

"All right. We'll be back in a little while. Do you need anything while I'm out?"

"Nope."

"Okay, then we'll see ya."

I head to the door with 'Bug following me. She takes a while to get up the step to the landing, but goes right down the two outside. I open the gate and wait for her to go through. She grabs a tendril of the plant growing on our fence, and keeps walking. She's already forgotten about it when it jerks back out of her hand. She toddles forward. She’s reached the stage were she’s so amazed and focused on the things directly ahead of her that the present lasts in milliseconds.

We stop two more times on the sidewalk beside our apartment to inspect leaves, but eventually turn right, and head up the street. We walk under the big tree in the front yard of our apartment building.
Deedle points, "ees"

"Yes, leaves. That's a tree. That's the biggest tree in the neighborhood."

It actually is. I've walked every street within a four mile radius for exercise. When you walk, instead of run, you notice everything.

"Let's keep moving."

We pass the house beside us that for some reason smells strongly of semen about three months out of the year. I wasn't exactly sure how to describe the smell the first time I noticed it, but my wife was able to help.

The next house has little tiny rocks in the yard instead of grass. Deedle likes to pick them up and let them fall through her hands like sand. They scatter all over the sidewalk and the sound makes her laugh. I think she's secretly setting up traps for the skateboarders in our neighborhood.

I squat down beside her to show my support. It's good to get their hands dirty, and in L.A. County you take what you can get when it comes to nature. She's developed this habit that I find hysterical: When I squat down, she squats too. When you're two-foot-six, with stubby little legs, squatting really doesn't get you any closer to the ground. But it sure looks funny.

"No." I grab her arm. "Not in the mouth."

I shake her hand, then brush off the rocks that stick.

"Let's walk some more."

She comes along amiably.

"I kinda figured you were going to do that, since you did it last night, too. Could you try to keep rocks out of your mouth for me? I'd appreciate it."

A car passes us on the street and it startles her. She clings to my leg and hides her head behind my knee. "It's just a car, Baby. You'll be all right."

"You want me to pick you up."

She flings her hand in the air. "Yeah."

I carry her past the 99¢ store on the other side of the street. It's busy as usual. The Indian homeless guy is leaned against the wall in his fatigues. We share a nod and a smile.

"I tell ya what. I'll take ya to Colorado, then you have to get down and walk."

"Does that sound good?"

She nods.

I carry her to the stoplight and set her down. "We're going right." It takes a little guidance to help her find right. I take her hand and we walk along, me bent over and her reaching up, and I explain, "Colorado Boulevard is a very famous street in Pasadena. Actually, it's well known throughout the country for the Rose Bowl Parade." She'd seen it three months ago, but I figured she didn't remember too well. She was working really hard at standing up and walking at the time. "Yeah. The parade goes down this street every New Year's Day, unless that day happens to fall on a Sunday, then the parade is moved to the second."

She's more interested in the pipes sticking out of the bottom of the one-story brick medical building than my story. I don't care. I’m feeling very fatherly. I normally don't speak much in public. It's easier to avoid saying something stupid. But it's different when I go out with The Bug. It's more important that she learns what little I do know than other people learn what I don't. As we pass Brit's English Restaurant / Pub I recall her playing with the chairs next door at Big Mama's and Papa's for what seemed like ten minutes last night. "Mind if I grab you up again?"

She raises her arms again. "Up."

"Thanks. I'll put you down by the Tae Kwon Doh place so you can watch the big kids kick."

We pass the metal tables the city-college kids sit and smoke cigarettes at while they wait for their pizza. Momma wondered about their cleanliness last night and The Bug got a good hand washing before she was allowed to put her hands back in her mouth. The Tae Kwon Do class is in session, but I don't put my daughter down because I'm distracted by something I can't quite get a grip on at the bus stop further up the sidewalk.

I turn my head slightly and concentrate. It's … there's someone in the garbage can. Ugh. It's a lady. The City of Pasadena has placed a green garbage can with a lid on it, similar to one that you might see at the door of a fast-food restaurant, next to the covered bench and there is a lady digging in the bottom of it. She's barefoot, on her tip toes, with filthy soles and thick legs with blue veins. Her entire upper body is in the trashcan and she's talking loudly. I can't make out what she's saying. Her ass is too distracting. Her mini-skirt is up around her waist and a pair of shiny blue underwear with green strips V-ing down to her crotch is showing. It's a fairly large ass, and … they might be swimsuit bottoms. I suppose anything is possible in the wardrobe of a homeless lady.

I just want to pass.

I check to see what DeedleBug thinks. Fortunately, she's not paying attention. She's focused on a group of power-line pigeons. I turn back to the garbage can and watch in astonishment. Other people are waiting for the bus. They're obviously as shocked as I am because they're all huddled together on the other side of the bench.

In front of us I notice another homeless guy is crossing the street. I recognize him as the one my wife said had tried to come up and grab Deedle in the 99¢ store.

'Aw, what a cute little fella!'

I'm sure he's a nice enough crazy man, but I don't want his filthy hands – and I'm not saying that out of prejudiced, his hands are literally streaked with black shit – touching my baby girl. Honestly, I don't even want his breath touching her. I put her on my hip and tense to shove him out into the street if need be. I'll straight arm him. No, better yet, I'll stick a foot in his chest. He either senses my plans or is struck by the scene playing out in the garbage can and leaves us alone.

It's not that I'm afraid of the homeless, or my neighborhood. I'm not. I'm very certain I could take care of myself. I just have no clue what they're going to do next. They're largely unstable, which is why I like the Indian guy, he seems to run at about the same level all the time. These other guys, that guy coated in black grease, and the one who constantly tells you he just got out of prison the day before and shows you his ID and the one with the full shopping cart that pushes his dog and bike around all the time, they're jumpy and/or always jacked up on something. You never know what they're capable of and, mostly, I just don't want to hurt anyone. I know if I'm ever provoked, especially now that I'm a Dad, I'll completely snap. I spent the better part of my twenties working for giant, stupid F'ing corporations and I've built a fury that should never, ever be unleashed on anyone.

I cross Allen street.

"What do you say I keep carrying you?"

She consents. There is simply too much humanity around us right now for her little steps to deal with. We go half a block and walk across the small parking lot for the tiny, old strip mall in our neighborhood. It holds an auto parts store, an empty storefront, a non-chain convenience store, a Thai restaurant, a bakery, a shoe repair store, a cell phone place, a hair stylist / nail place, the video store, and a Laundromat. Before The Bug was around, when we lived in a quiet neighborhood in the foothills, I used to come here to rent porn.

I put her down outside the video store and she follows me in. The storeowner's wife greets my daughter, then me. That's the way it goes when you go out accompanied by a bald baby with a tendency to show off her dimples. I set the videotape on the counter. The Deedle wants to stay and remove all the DVD cases from the bottom shelves, but I insist we head back home. She agrees and we make it to the sidewalk before she turns and runs back into the store.

The storeowner's wife laughs, "She want see me again so soon."

"We'll be back." I grab Bug. "Don't worry, Sweetie. We'll come back."

I resume carrying her.

"Wah. Wah."

"You can't walk right now. This is a parking lot. There are cars driving here."

"Wah. Wah."

"I'll put you down when we get up there to the fuzzy bushes."

"Wah. Wah."

I point. "Fuzzy bushes."

I let her down to touch the fuzzy bushes. I touch them myself. They really are cool. They're like a desert version of a pussy willow.

"Ready?"

She comes along. We take a left on Colorado, past the nail shop where the black and Hispanic ladies go to receive pedicures and manicures from the Asian ladies. Several of them smile at us. I'd like to think that they find me attractive, however they are probably attracted to my offspring, or maybe the love that can be seen flowing between the two of us. I let her down to look at the cakes in the bakery window. She got a kick out of them last night, especially the one with frosting bubbles and a little rubber ducky. She points at a tiny Elmo and walks away from me to the dry cleaners.

"Hey. You're going the wrong way. Home is this way."

But she's not going the wrong way. She's seen something interesting and has to get a better look. I follow her.

"Bug. Home is this way."

Then I see what she sees. The lady who fixes pants has, apparently a very long time ago, placed a doll collection on the ledge just inside of the window. They are porcelain, with painted faces and the old-fashioned clothes that look uncomfortable, all stiff and confining with frills up around their necks. Many of the dolls have fallen over, probably from those high collars choking them, but The Deedle doesn't notice. She's used to knocking things over and viewing them from weird, upside-down angles.

"Oh!"

I look up to see a really tall black guy stopped and looking in the window.

He says, "I thought she was sewing or something."

His smile makes him less menacing than he could be. I can't help but think I wouldn't have seen the smile had I been walking alone. When you’re talking to a toddler you don’t have to act tough.

"Nope. We were just looking at the dolls."

"I've never noticed them. You know we American's are always in too much of a rush."

"I agree." I place my hand on The Bug's head, thinking about how much I truly, authentically do agree that Americans need to slow down. "But it also helps to see things if you're about this tall," we both look at The Bug and she looks up at us, "and take little tiny steps."

Somehow we start a conversation about window shopping.

He asks, "Have you seen the new place across the street?"

"The old video arcade?" It spent a short time as a scooter store, and is now a furniture shop.

"Yeah. Have you seen the stuff in there?"

"No. I mean, I've walked by but I haven't shopped there. Do they even have a parking lot?"

"Yeah. There's some spots out back. They used to have the prices facing the window. That statue."

He points to a small knock-off of something famous. "Is sixteen thousand dollars."

"You're kidding. Who do they sell to?"

"I think they sell mostly over the internet."

"They'd have to."

We're looking at the store diagonally across the street when the light turns from yellow to red. The car at the light stops but the one behind it doesn't. There's a loud crash, followed by the sounds of glass and metal falling to the ground. Deedle nearly jumps into my arms. I hold her and we watch the lady who'd been rear-ended stop in front of us on the street. The other lady looks as if she is going to drive away. Our new friend takes off like he's going to chase her, but she was only trying to find a spot along the curb.

No one appears to be hurt. There's a lot of commotion. Greg from the gas station across the street and one of the guys that works for him, Joe, come out. Both the ladies involved in the accident immediately get on their cell phones … rather than talking to the people who have come over to see if they are all right, the ones who could actually help if anything was wrong. I guess that means they were fine, somewhat socially inept, but fine.

I look down and there is a small, dark-haired lady standing in front of us. "I stopped to tell you the inventory in that store is millions, multiple millions, they have stacks of rugs that are probably several thousand dollars a piece."

Nothing could have interested me less, yet, I am tragically polite and instead of telling her so I say, "really."

She goes on about a bunch of crap I don't even process, prices and names of things, then finishes up by saying, "… there is a table with an inset in it that is $50,000 – and that's without the chairs!"

An ambulance is coming down Allen and a fire engine is headed toward us on Colorado, both of them with their sirens on. I expect Ms. Deedle Bug to start crying at any second, but she's being a trooper. I think she's curious to see how I'm going to get us out of this conversation with the lady who was trying to … I don't know what. Be nice? Deedle is even less impressed by money than I am and neither of us had any need for these figures.

"That's ridiculous."

I said it mostly to have something to say. A puzzled look crosses the lady's face.

"Why? If you've got the money?"

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

I try again to say something, anything, to the lady. But I can't. I'm afraid any response to a statement that ignorantly capitalistic would be rude, so I mumble something about getting home. I was appalled.

Traffic is stopped so it's easy to cross Allen. "Fifty thousand dollars," I mumble.

We go past the bus stop and see the homeless lady is out of the garbage can talking to a retarded, young man. He might possibly be her friend or boyfriend, or maybe even her son, but he is definitely not capable of helping her out of her life of talking to the bottoms of garbage cans. The other people are still waiting for their bus. A few people have come out of the other stores and are headed toward the accident site with 'what happened?' looks on their faces.

I don't set my daughter down. I probably won't set her down until we're in the apartment. I don't think she minds one bit.

"We're going to go home and see Momma." I tell her.

"Mom-ma!"

"Yeah! Momma. You're so smart."

We repeat this conversation five or six times.

I tell Momma about our trip over dinner, then I take The Deedle upstairs for her bath. I dress her in cloth diapers, double wrapped, and pajamas, read her a few books and put her to bed. She doesn't need any swaying to fall asleep. She's practically out by the time she hits the crib.

I tell my wife that I'm going to write, and pull out the laptop. Then I sit and think about that lady telling me that it's perfectly acceptable for some clown to spend fifty-thousand dollars on a table with no chairs. I get more and more frustrated. How could you walk on the same streets as me and wonder why it is not all right to spend fifty grand on a fucking table?

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50k Table