Collateral Damages Part 1

 

Marylee knew she was still a mile from work having just past the green services sign that read The Quickie-1 mile (A double entendre no one ever failed to acknowledge with at least an embarrassed smile, especially the New Yorkers who’d been swooping down on Sag Harbor every summer since she could remember, COVID-19 summer or not.) when her best friend Ilene stopped to give her a ride.  The cold air blowing inside the big pickup was a God sent.

Happy as Marylee was for the ride, (something was wrong with the starter in her Camry yet again), she didn’t feel very sociable.  Not after a family meltdown of historic proportions that morning, a meltdown where she not only shouted at her two-year-old Darlene but had an impulse to shake her. Something she promised herself she would never do. Her mother, who was supposed to babysit that day, had looked at her like she’d lost her mind.  And maybe she had. Darlene had chewed, mouthed and mangled an entire new box of facemasks she’d gotten at a great price at Walmart. And Marylee had to have one for work. They cost 20 dollars a box at The Quickie, 20 dollars she didn’t have, but that’s where she knew she’d have to buy them in order to have one to start work.  So when her car wouldn't start again, she screamed "I cannot be late again!", and ran down the driveway to walk to work, probably scaring her mother, her neighbors and Darlene (again).

“So what are you doing walking in this heat?’ Ilene asked once Marylee got comfortable in her seat. “You practicing to be a camel?” 
You know why I’m walking, Marylee thought. Almost embarrassing, isn’t it? 
"Car trouble." Marylee's voice was shaky even to her own ears.  Jesus, please don't let me cry, unload, or explode she thought. Ilene can't help and I just don't have the time. 
“Again?” When Marylee didn’t answer Ilene asked, “Hey, can you smell me?  The Clorox I mean?  I tried to cover it up with perfumed soap.” She leaned over as far as she dared while driving. “That really hit me when you said I smelled like Clorox.” Ilene worked at the Pizza Party just on the outskirts of town and was constantly wiping down tables."No, you smell great." Marylee said.  And to Marylee's nose, she did. A combination of spray starch, Clorox, and lilac soap with just a tinge of cigarette smoke.
As they pulled into the Quickie Ilene asked, “Hey, where’s your mask?” Hers was hanging around her neck, ready to pull up at a moment’s notice.
“Don’t have one.  Baby ate my last one.”
“Uh- oh You got a problem.”
 “You got that right. I’ll have to buy a box at work.”  
“Isn’t there a law or something where they got to give you a mask, like, every day?”
“You got a lawyer to figure that out, Ilene?” 

 Marylee jumped down from the truck and while taking a minute to tuck in her shirt she thought about Ilene. She was a good friend, lucky too, with Gary.  Without him, Ilene would be living on the edge as much as she was. Gary found construction work for the summer peoples' houses almost year-round. Then she thought about her job at The Quickie. You needed two incomes to make it these days. Or one real good one.   A career job with benefits and a saving program. Maybe daycare.  She knew she was smart. Her teachers told her so. They told her she should apply for scholarships. But Darlene came along and no husband came along with her and life just got away from her.
The Quickie was on the far end of the one major street that ran through Sag harbor. The real name of the street was Main Street of course but Marylee and Ilene called it The Thin White Way. But only in the summer because that's when the sidewalks were filled with the fit, beautiful, glowing people.  Even the men and the children had a shimmer of beauty.   Maybe money made you thin and gave your skin that smooth shiny look. 

As soon as she clocked in Marylee grabbed some disinfectant spray and paper towels and began wiping down the coffee counter. "Morning Frank.' She said to her boss while making sure to extend her swipe to the counter's edge like he liked.  "Hey Frank,’ she went on without looking up, “you got any extra masks laying around?”
  Frank’s belly popped open the middle button of his shirt for the first time in what Marylee expected would be 30 times that day.  “No. I have no extra masks laying around and where’s yours?  You can’t work without a mask.”
Marylee held her breathe while Frank buttoned his shirt. He continued. “You can buy a box right here.  I’ll even give you an employee discount.  $18.00.” He walked over to the register, box in hand, ready to ring.
“I don’t have 18 dollars on me right now.  Can you loan me a box till payday? Or maybe I can find a scarf in the back in one of the lockers and tie it on.”
“No scarves. The people we get here in the summer are picky about things like that.  We got to look professional.  And no loans. I’ll just dock your pay.”
"Thanks, Frank."  Marylee took the box, thankful for the moment that she could work the whole morning for nothing.

The first couple of customers that morning were locals. A couple of lottery tickets. The New York Post. A six-pack of coke.
Then came some summer people. The New York Times. (The older ones still seemed to like to read the actual paper.)   And sunscreen, always sunscreen, the summer people bought tons of it there, even though everyone knows you can get it for half the price in a Walmart; then a couple of coffees served from behind the counter. One with soy. One with almond milk. It was time to wipe the counter again.  Marylee grabbed a bottle filled with a homemade mix of dishwashing liquid, Clorox, and water. She gave a big blast of what this time around was a very strong solution. The fumes were horrible and pierced her eyes, nose and throat.  She ripped her mask off, letting it fall into the nearby sink, and began to cough while trying to splash water in her face.

As she was recovering from her coughing fit, a tall, nice-looking man brimming with good food and good nights' sleep entered The Quickie. Definitely not a local.  His khaki shorts had lots of pockets and he wore a shirt Marylee recognized as one that had built-in sunscreen, or something expensive like that. He glanced around as if afraid of catching something other than COV-19 and headed down the first aisle.  A minute later he shouted to no one in particular, "Where's the sunscreen?"
Marylee wasn’t surprised at the urgency; summer peoples’ needs were always urgent.  She was, however, surprised at his volume, but answered him quickly anyway. “Last aisle in the back."  
The man grabbed a bottle without looking at the price, and when he met Marylee at the counter she had just finished drying her face, and her eyes were red-rimmed. She was of course without a mask.  The new clean one she needed was still in a box hidden away in her locker.
“Hey, where’s your mask?” The man asked. Marylee glanced at his face and took a step back.  His anger seemed as scary to her as any virus.
When she didn’t answer right away, he went on. “You know you could be spreading the virus.”Marylee started to explain, but before she could get a word out Frank stepped up to the counter. "Sorry, sir.  You're right. She's been told. She should be wearing a mask.  We all wear one here. Normally." He made a point of readjusting the one on his face. After nudging Marylee aside he finished the sale himself and watched the man leave the store. Then he turned to Marylee."That's it, Marylee. You have to wear a mask. You can finish this shift but you're done here."
“But I just bought a new box of masks! I had to take mine off, I couldn’t breathe, the spray, it got...”
“Look I don’t care what happened. The lateness is one thing, then you didn’t have a mask this morning, and now this. I can’t let it get around that The Quickie is an anti-mask place or something. I’ve got just three months to make money and like I said I can’t get into any of this mask stuff.”
“This mask stuff!  What mask stuff? I wear a mask when I have one! I’d love a fresh mask every day. Hell, I’d make a mask if I had time, or buy one of the fancy cloth ones if I had the money.”
Marylee was trying to speak calmly but Frank cut her off just the same.
"Sorry, Marylee.  Just clean out your locker at the end of the shift."  But Frank knew she wouldn't stay through it and already was mentally going through his list of part-timers who would be glad to fill in.
Marylee knew that in jobs like this, low wage, interchangeable jobs like this, when it was over, it was over. It didn’t have to make sense. You went down the street and found another job just like it or went on unemployment if you could.  Both options were without a future and both were humiliating.

After she’d gathered her things, and pointedly brushed past Frank on the way out the door of the Quickie to the parking lot her tears broke through. She dropped to the curb to take some deep calming breathes like she’d read about, and that’s when she saw the man who had started it all by asking about her mask.  He was standing at the other side of the parking lot talking on his cell phone at the top of his voice like an arrogant rich jerk. But then she caught a few words. Something about an asthma attack, COVID-19…getting an Uber. And when she followed his line of sight down the street, she saw he was staring at an ambulance pulling up next to a small female figure.  His daughter? Yes, it had to be. The man put his phone away and made a call.  Probably for the Uber. That done, he dropped down on the curb to wait. He glanced over at her but didn't catch her eye.  Marylee wondered if he recognized her and could even imagine how his outburst had affected her life. She wondered if he even realized she was struggling to survive and her job in The Quickie may seem stupid and small to a person like him, but it had been very, very important to her, and to her daughter.

In other times Marylee might have said something to him. Told him off.  

Asked him where you have to go to school to learn to be such an ass. Any 

number of things. But what was the use? And besides, she had her health

 and her daughter's health and she owned no one money.  Hers was a

 simple directive. Survive this crisis then the next one. God only knew what

 kind of complicated problems a man like that had besides a sick 

daughter.  He looked close to tears.

So both of them sat on the curb in front of the Quickie and cried.

Collateral Damages Part 2

  Michele, a pretty, thirty-four-year-old redhead, and semi-retired special-ed teacher took a closer look at her seven-year-old daughter Jannie. She doesn't look good she thought as she stuck yesterday's dirty clothes into the mesh bag that hung in their 27 ft. sailboat for just such purposes. Not like a perky kid out for a 3-day getaway with her parents, far away from homeschooling.  Asthma attack coming on? Always a worry. A cold? COVID-19?

“Jannie are you Ok? Feeling all right?” 

"Yes, Mama.  Just tired and my throat hurts a little."

 Her throat hurts. Michele’s mind raced through COVID-19 symptoms. This was not good. But COVID-19 was rare in children.  Wasn’t it?  She’d been homeschooling Jannie all spring.  But there was that outing for her cousin’s birthday a week and a half ago where everyone was supposed to be wearing masks and social distancing. But were they? Michele didn’t want to overreact and scare her daughter, but…but what?  Ignore the sore throat and take a risk? 

 This getaway, this sail, was supposed to be a break for them. A break from being in the house, the part-time roofing gig her husband Jake had taken while waiting for a go-ahead from his last remaining client from his regular job as a software engineer, (It seems no one wants to upgrade their companies' office software when there really were no offices anymore.) and the constant drumbeat of COVID-19.  It would also be a break from her mother’s COVID-19  hospitalization, her sister's death from malignant melanoma last winter, and everything else. Jake had said maybe they'd all be able to relax and sleep better on the boat, so she said she'd try, but one of the scarier parts of everything else was her own recent diagnosis of a malignant melanoma right in the middle of her forehead, and until after the Mohr's surgery she didn't think she would ever sleep through the night again.  They wouldn't be keeping the boat much longer at any rate.

Jake stuck his head below deck. He was good looking, tall, and long-legged. And thanks to that gig he was even in pretty good shape, which was nice since they would have had to cancel their gym membership even if COVID-19 hadn't canceled it for them.

“Ready to go Honey?” he asked his daughter.

“Yes, but do you have our masks Mom?” Jannie answered.

“Of course.  Three of them right here in my shoulder bag.” It crossed Michele’s mind that wearing a facemask shouldn’t be so natural to a nine-year-old. But if wearing masks helped why not be sure she knew enough to wear one?

“Got your sunscreen?”  Already Jannie was in tune with the new layer of fear and tension in the house and Michele had only gotten the diagnosis a few days ago.

Michele checked her back pocket for the tube.  “Right here. Let’s go.”

As they climbed in the dingy, Michele whispered to her husband. “Jannie has a sore throat.”  He gave her a look and a quick nod no.  They’d talk later. Sag Harbor was beautiful as usual and likewise full of beautiful people.  Thin, trim. Lululemon-ed women with flat bellies and a casually confident style. Both men and women looked sleek and athletic and were dressed in expensive weekend clothes.  The men were standing down after a hard week of making sure they were sufficiently achieving, and the women were moving front and center to advertise all that achievement. The streets were tree-lined, the sidewalks wide, the shops overpriced but nice to browse in. Even in Jake’s and Michele’s best years, when they were both working, these were not shops Michele and Jake could really afford to shop in. But both blended in on the surface and they could afford to eat an expensive lunch here once in a while.  Maybe Michele could even afford a t-shirt on a sidewalk sale outside one of the shops, but that is where the blending in stopped. 

 

They walked down the main street.  Jake and Michele kept a few steps behind Jannie, giving them a chance to talk. They tried to keep their voices down but masks made that almost impossible."I think she'll be fine," Jake said.  "Did you look at her throat?"

“I don’t know what to look for.  I’m a teacher, not a doctor.”

“Well let’s not get crazy.  Let’s wait a couple of hours."

 Michele and Jannie weaved in and out of the shops while Jake followed two steps behind, occasionally sitting on one of the benches along the sidewalk, ready to supply a few dollars for a soda, or an ice-cream. If Jannie wanted to eat or drink something he would take that as a good sign. 

The morning passed fairly pleasantly and you could almost forget the world was in the middle of a pandemic. Michele even bought a t-shirt.  Jannie had several opportunities to ask for something to eat or drink but remained quiet.  Both of them knew quiet is never good in a nine-year-old.

They decided a simple lunch was in order. Egg salad like Jannie liked. They'd get take-out from a deli.  Then back to the boat for a nap for Jannie. If she wasn't better by later that afternoon they'd go directly home. They found a picnic table at the far end of the public park that ran behind Main Street and settled down to eat.

“Time to re-sunscreen Mom.” The first words Jannie had spoken in half an hour.

Michele nodded. “Right you are.” She took her time before reaching into her back pocket.

“Hurry Mom!  Reapply every few hours like the doctor said!”

“OK, OK Jannie.”

But there was no sunscreen there. She checked her front pockets. Not there either.  Quickly she stood up from the picnic table and searched the ground around her."It's gone," she said.  "It must have fallen out of my pocket in the dingy."

 Jake started gathering up their lunch. “We’re heading back to the boat.”

“But Mom needs it now!  Now!  The dingy is way over in another part of town!” "OK! Calm down," said Jake. "Your mom will be ok till we get back to the dingy!" 

He bent down and felt Jannie’s forehead."Warm." He mouthed to Michele. They'd left the thermometer at home but even without it, he could tell she was definitely hot. His mind raced. That God damn party. They weren't all in masks. Please just a cold, not COVID-19 on top of asthma.

“No, she won’t!”  Jannie began to wheeze. “Mom needs sunscreen right now!" she continued wheezing, “Get her some sunscreen or she’ll die like Aunt Irene.” 

"Jannie, please. Your asthma." Michele said. "Here's your inhaler."

Jannie took a couple of inhales and started to breathe easier.

“How do you feel Honey. How’s the throat?"

“Sore.”

“Let's get you to the boat and then right home.” Michele took her hand and began to walk back to Main Street.

“No! Daddy- go get Momma some sunscreen!  Please!  Hurry up! The boat is way at the other end of town."Michele and Jake stared at each other for a moment."Alright,"  Jake said.  "There's a convenience store about a block away. Right down the street, I'll go get some sunscreen.  I'll be back in five minutes, just stay here and promise to stay calm.  We'll all go back to the dingy together.”

Jake took off at a slow jog.  When he was about a hundred yards from the convenience store, The Quickie, (a stupid name that at any other time he would have laughed at) his iPhone rang. It took a second for Jake to recognize it was the number he'd been waiting for, the number of his last semi-active client, but when he did, he thanked God.  After much sidewalk pacing, arm-waving, and in general over-animated conversation, he ended the call.

“Yes. Got it!”  He said out loud. “Finally!”   He could have cried with happiness. Then he glanced at his watch. When he realized twenty-five minutes had passed not five his mood quickly changed. He pulled open the door to The Quickie anxious and mad at himself. 

He scanned the first few shelves. “Where’s the sunscreen?” he asked no one in particular.  When no one answered immediately, he walked toward the center of the store and asked again, this time very loudly. A female voice from the other side of the store answered him calmly. “The last aisle at the end.”

He found a small overpriced bottle of off-brand sunscreen and brought it to the counter where he met the source of the female voice. She was young, with red-rimmed eyes, probably high Jake thought, and she wasn't wearing a mask."Hey, where's your mask?".

The girl just stared at him.

“You know you could be spreading COVID-19.”  Jake tossed the sunscreen on the counter along with a twenty. A second later a big guy with a Quickie logo on his shirt, that strained over his stomach, stepped up to the counter next to the girl."Sorry, sir. You're right. She should be wearing a mask.  We all wear one here. Normally." He made a point of readjusting the one on his face.

Then he pushed the girl aside, finished the sale, and steered the girl by the elbow away from the counter. 

 Jake left the Quickie and before he could even leave the parking lot his cell phone rang again.

He knew it had to be Michele. He quickly took the call. And when he looked down the street, he knew what the call was about. An ambulance was pulling up next to the picnic table.

After assuring Michele he would meet her at the hospital as fast as he could, he called an Uber and dropped down on the curb to wait.  When he glanced to his left, he saw the girl from behind the counter. She was also sitting on the curb about a dozen feet away. And she looked like she was crying.

Jake turned his gaze away quickly.  He couldn’t bear to meet her eyes. He knew he'd gotten her fired.  He knew her pain was his fault.

At any other time in his life, if he'd said something that had gotten someone fired in a situation like that, he would have intervened.  Gone to the manager. Told him or her he'd overreacted.   Asked the boss to give the employee a break, another chance.  And if that hadn't work, he would have apologized to the employee and tried to make things right. Somehow. In this case, he would tell the young woman he never wanted to get her fired. That he wasn't rich and entitled like lots of the people he supposed she rang up in the summer. That wasn't him. It was just that right now he was so worried about his daughter's health, she has asthma and maybe COVID-19. And he was worried about his wife's health, she may have a bad cancer. And he was hanging onto their house by the smallest thread. But all he could bear to do was stare in the opposite direction, wait for the Uber and say nothing.  And that brought him to tears.

So they both sat on the curb in front of The Quickie and cried.

 

 

Just Tell Me

Tell you about it?

 I really can’t do that. I can “speak of ” it, “announce” it, or “state what happened”. But tell you?  I really can’t do that.

Why you ask me??

Well the answer starts back in about 2016 when people had gotten into the habit of reacting to news of any significance only after reading about it in the news and information digester,  or simply “ digester”, of their choice.

And of course, by 2016, there were lots to choose from.  All putting things in “context”, or in “perspective”; all curating and reassembling facts, and all telling you what “the take away” is and just plan differing on how to “tell” a story. So by 2020 when everything went down, people were getting their news digested by so many sources in so many ways, no one was getting anything near what resembled the same story- about anything. Even when a story was captured on a cell phone or by a drone! Even when they saw it with their own eyes!  People still waited for their news digester to tell them what they saw.

And that- all that telling-is what really led to The Telling Riots that broke out on September 3, 2022. That’s why a news event that should have been considered a monumentally exciting scientific discovery, broke society as we knew it and why I really can’t tell you anything anymore. For instance. I shouldn’t be telling you about this.  But I am. Because it’s important and you really do have to know.

It started over something so simple.

A family of four, living in Schaumburg IL was playing with a litter of eight-week old puppies born to the family’s golden retriever, Trixie. The father of Trixie’s litter was Roscoe, a beagle, and the only male dog within a few blocks who had somehow made it to 6 with his privates intact.

The male head of the household who owned Trixie was thrilled to have something of interest to put on social media, (it later became known that he had been treated in 2020 for social media attention addiction) so he posted hours of video of their six puppies via a puppy –cam on every conceivable social media outlet.  Puppies had been done before, had been done for years, but something about these puppies was so unique the feed went viral almost immediately. Not just viral, the puppy –cam “broke the internet” as they used to say.

 Why you ask me again?

Well, I’ll tell you why. Yes, I’ll TELL you. I have to tell you so you’ll understand.

 They talked!  The puppies talked! Clear middle American, mid-western English!  And so did Trixie!  But with a slight southern accent.  (She was born and raised in Alabama.)

Of course, there was much excitement. Actually, there was hysteria. No one had ever heard a dog talk before!  People had wondered about and hoped for such a thing for hundreds of years- as long as dogs and people have lived together.  And now, finally, it was part of the world’s reality. What could this possibly mean for our society?

The digesters immediately went to work telling people the answer.

 All of them, from your local Patch to the NY Times “weighed in”. (Another phrase banned from our language because it signals a “telling”. And besides everyone was sick of it.) Of course all the digesters’ tellings were different and many were in conflict.

 For example, when some digesters stated that testing should be done on Trixie and her litter hoping to prove it was all a hoax, the digesters who spoke to groups who wanted to ban animal testing became enraged. So the “testers” in order to prove that their tests were harmless, offered to do their testing live on camera.  This worked the digesters who spoke for the media outlets into a frenzy as to who would get broadcast and advertising rights.  When college students heard of the impending

broadcast their digesters demanded a 20-second delay, with trigger warnings because it was rumored that some of the puppies were prone to vile politically incorrect statements when under stress.  This got the educators’ digesters in an uproar because if these pups were this unmanageable perhaps one or two must have ADHD or were on the spectrum and forget testing. Early intervention was called for instead.

The agricultural interests’ digesters wanted no testing, broadcasting, or intervention of any kind because if we started treating dogs that talked just like humans, what would

happen if a few plants started talking a blue streak? How would they stay in business, not to say what would we all eat since most people had given up meat; afraid that other talking animals might show up on their dinner table.

The nudists’ digesters said don’t worry about plants, they knew for a fact the only ones that talk are hemp and cotton, and by the way, they’re saying such nasty, evil stuff they certainly deserve to be eradicated. (The point had been made about leather and if people couldn’t wear cotton or hemp what was left?  Wool?  In these temperatures?)

Koko the gorilla who had been signing for years and had maintained a small but loyal following signed that all plants do talk, they just talk very quietly and slowly and only Lowland gorillas can hear them.   Most digesters dismissed this statement as the meanderings of a jealous has-been whose thunder had been stolen.

Then when the Chinese digesters, who had suspected that dogs could talk for centuries but considered them a delicacy anyway, read about Koko they offered to take him back to China where he’d be shown the kind of respect a  signing low-land gorilla deserves.

This angered the North Korean digesters who wanted a signing gorilla of their own and were afraid that without one they would be viewed as a second-class power.

Of course, the PETA’s digesters basically told everyone in so many words I told you so. And now you’re all banished to hell.

It was a real mess of tellings. But for the first time, all these various “tellings” were pissing people off.

Groups’ splintered, families split up. Friends no longer spoke. Fights broke out in the street. Redditt had sub-sub-sub groups. Each and every one of the digesters had such different takeaways about the pups in such self-righteous, all-knowing terms that anyone who read one digester couldn’t break bread with anyone who read another.

And just when the tension in the world was almost unbearable the unthinkable happened. Trixie and her puppies were kidnapped from their back yard without a trace.

They were never seen again.

How could this be? 

One last time the people turned to their news digesters for answers.   But this time it was different. The people weren’t interested in assigning blame to their favorite digesters’ bogeyman. As a matter of fact, the people realized it was the digesters who were at fault for this kidnapping.  If they hadn’t pit group against group and driven some group or someone to do this loathsome thing, Trixie and her wonderful brood would still be with us instead of lost to us all, forever.

Did it make sense? Maybe not.  But people were angry-mad as hell. So it was no surprise when one thing became increasingly clear to almost every living being. The digesters had to go. 

But who to lead the charge? Who to trust to reestablish the establishment?

Well as you know after a few tumultuous months, a great leader did emerge who led the great uprising that started September 3, 2022. He and his pack of supporters took on the digesters.

They started by storming 30 Rock, and the Ed Sullivan Theater just to make a statement. Then they made sure all the local cable companies’ offices were burned to the ground. Any big box store that sold TVs, computers, or internet devices was ransacked multiple times making business impossible. Once this pack of rebels was voted into office anything with the label 'smart' was banned.  Nothing was streamed. This time the internet literally was broken. Eventually, after years of upheaval and unrest, social media came to mean leaving your calling card near someone’s mailbox.

So why am I risking all and telling you this?  Because it is your legacy and it is your turn to take over.  Now on your sixth birthday, just like your  great, great, many times great grandfathers before you, and your first known grandfather many years ago on September 3, 2022, it is your turn to lead us and keep us safe from tellings and digesters.  It’s your turn Roscoe the 15^th."

“Woof!!”
"Roscoe please!  Use your words."

Mirror, Mirror

June 13^th

I just have to get this down on paper. I believe the first time I noticed it I was walking past the post office.
I’m certain it was the post office because I’d just sucked my stomach in, in anticipation of their front window, that acts like a mirror on sunny days, (After all these years I wasn’t about to let what amounted to a full-length mirror sneak up on me.) when low and behold instead of seeing me with a sucked in stomach, I saw the reflection of everything around me; with myself nowhere to be found. Anywhere.
The next time I noticed it I was getting out of the shower a day or so later.

I was feeling a bit daring after 3 weeks of ridiculously healthy food and no white wine (Boo-hoo!) and decided to take a purposeful inventory of the old girl who carries me around. Well, all I could see was the vague outline of….. someone.  I had to assume it was me.  So I did a little jig just to be sure.  It was me all right.  I never could dance.

Now, I thought, that is strange. Strange, but not too disturbing. It had to be an illusion.  Some phenomenon that would pop up on one of those brain stimulation sites we women past a certain age subscribe to like Food for Thought, or Brain Droppings. I put it out of my mind.
Until about a week later.  I was putting on my make using my 5x lighted magnifying mirror, having switched from my 10x magnifying mirror as a present to myself on my 60^th birthday, and I quite clearly saw that I had no mouth!  Well of course I really did have a mouth.  I knew because I immediately stuck my hand in it and pulled on my tongue and clicked my teeth.  My mouth, my lips, my tongue, were defiantly there.  But my reflection defiantly was not.

It was clearly time for the round of specialists. I wanted to get started right away so I could quickly move onto the shrinks I knew I would end up with.  Believe me, it didn’t take long.  One visit to an ophthalmologist, one to a neurologist, and whoops!  Off I was sent.

I went to three, just to be sure, and of course, they all asked me if I felt invisible.  What else is a psychiatrist going to ask an almost past middle-aged white bread woman who no longer has a career and still has no grandchildren (Let’s not get started on that!) who has lost, OK maybe misplaced, her reflection?
“Ah, I see you say you “lost” your reflection.”  They all said in one form or another.  “Do you feel invisible?” They asked in one form or another. “Our society is tough on older women, not like in some other countries where maturity is valued.” They all explained.
And you know what I said?  I said, “Baloney!” Actually, I said something a little stronger, but I hate to put vulgarity in print.  “I don’t feel invisible!  I feel like I have no reflection! And I know that isn’t normal. And aren’t we all supposed to fit under some bell curve of normalcy?” 

They all in turn, once again, said about the same thing:  “I’d like to schedule a series of appointments, but first I’d like to examine your insurance, and/or credit card.”

I turned them all down. Because the scary thing was I was beginning to like not having a reflection.  I found it freeing to never be caught up in how I looked. I found it so freeing in fact, I felt able to say things to people that needed to be said for a long time.  Things I wouldn’t ordinarily say.  I felt very much myself. Myself at 6, 10, or 12, before the world and I attempted to civilize me.  I dressed solely to be decent and avoid arrest. Now without a mirror to seek approval from, I felt unfettered.  Not only was I free to be myself, but I was, as the kids say, `diggin’ this whole no reflection thing- tremendously.

That’s about when I noticed I couldn’t see other people’s facial expressions.  People’s faces began to blank out as soon as I spoke to them; like they’d just woken up from a pleasant nap. No matter what I said from boo to I love you, to watch out for that spider, to you’ve just won the Nobel Prize for being

you, no one’s face moved a muscle.  Sometimes the rest of them moved. (Quite a bit, like out of the room.)  But that wasn’t my problem. So I didn’t worry about it.  I just continued to say what I wanted, when I wanted to.
At this point, I could have gone back to the doctors but I figured by bother? 
 I was diggin’ this development too.  I was now saying anything I wanted, to who I wanted, and never had to put up with any nasty expressions in return. I spoke back to snarky store clerks, I swore blue streaks using words I never thought I’d say, I rambled on knowing I had to be boring people but because I couldn’t tell for sure I didn’t let that bother me so what the hell. I bid what I wanted at bridge and had fun imaging the expression on my partner’s face.  I told my daughter at a family gathering, in front of everyone, to stop being a fool and have a baby now while she was still young enough to get her figure back and I was still young enough to babysit.  I was my own Salim Rushdie speaking truth to power, (Or at least to my relatives and neighbors and that bitch who sits in front at spinning who always says at the end of class “let’s go another 10!”) and I was never happier. 

Now I can’t tell anything from people's voices. I hear no inflections whatsoever. But as I told you after the two other developments, all in all, I don’t give a rat’s ass.  I’m me and I’m running wild through the world and I am digging it!!

June 25th

I’m sitting in my bedroom behind a locked door.  My family and a few other people are just outside, talking to me in what I hope is reasonable language.  They’ve been out there for a few hours and though I can’t speak for their tone, things seem to be heating up. (I suppose in hindsight it might have been a mistake to bring the baby thing up to my daughter in front of her sister in law who has two precious toddlers and has always been naturally thin because it seems like my daughter is leading the charge.) They are insisting that I see someone.  That “I’m not myself.”   That “Things can’t go on as they are.”  (Who says?) They all love me and miss me and blah, blah, blah, and they are sure I can get better with the right doctors and medicine. Who said I need to get better?  They just want me in a straitjacket.  Of one sort or another.

July 6th

I have a significant update. First I should mention I had to spend a couple of days in a hospital for the very, very, nervous, as I like to call those places. (All I had to do to get out was act reasonably normal

until my insurance ran out. Didn’t take long! My insurance stinks!) When I got out I continued to act normal, at least in front of my family, just to get the heat off, and guess what? Since about 4 days ago I really am back to normal. I can read expressions and hear tones of voices and see myself in the mirror and of course, I’m responding “appropriately” just like before.  Everyone around me is thrilled. 

Oh well.

July 12th

I have yet another significant update!  This time a marvelous one! I’ve just realized after all these years wandering around on the earth…get this…!  I’m gorgeous and everyone loves everything I say!! First the gorgeous part: I look in the mirror, any mirror, even those dreadful window reflections that sneak up on you and the backs of  teaspoons, and I don’t look a day over 25! And what a body! I may take a trip to Hollywood to see if I can get a gig on one of those Indie films! (Is that where young beautiful people go these days to do that?  Or is it Portland? ) And since everyone

loves everything  I say, preening and laughing and giggling at my slightest remark, (I can say no wrong, believe me, I’ve tried!) I should be able to get  “kickstartered”-I believe that's the word-  and get a lot of money with no work just like all those other beautiful well-liked people do these days when they want money and haven’t really done anything. Then when I get a lot of money…well who knows? With looks, popularity, and money I can do anything or say anything I want!  I’ll be free again!  Heck, I’m free now! Maybe to hell with the money! I’m beautiful and well-liked so anything goes! I can be or do anything I want and people still want to please me!  For instance, just now a bunch of people are gathering outside my bedroom door trying to get me to come out.  They want to talk to me for my own good they say, (probably have some business deal they want me to get involved with or at least … "attach my name to", isn’t that what they say in Hollywood and Portland?)  Or maybe they just want me to come out so they can gander at my countenance for a while. Has to be something like that.  Remember KISS?  Keep it simple stupid!    Don't overthink it!  So I'm heading out there now.  I'll try to write more later, from Hollywood or Portland.  Or maybe both!