Invisible

He looked to be in his early 60s: compact, designer baseball cap tight on his head, beard close-cropped, clutching a smartphone in his right hand. It was eight in the morning, we were in line at Whole Foods, and the guy was wearing sunglasses. I thought at first he was talking to himself in a quiet mumble, but he had an ear-bud in and, judging by the few words I could make out (“stocks,” “downside”), he was doing business. The woman behind the register greeted him and rang up his breakfast. He either didn’t hear her or just ignored her. I saw her bristle. The man kept talking and, when she told him the amount he owed, drew out a considerable fold of bills, pulling out a crisp five and two singles. All the man’s movements were slow, deliberate, controlled. He fingered through his change purse and dropped a quarter on the counter. Still talking. The woman made change. The man took his time replacing his wallet and gathering up his items. Never once did he look at her or stop quietly chatting with his business partner—in Dallas? Hong Kong? When the man finally stepped out of earshot, I said to the woman. “I don’t think he was even here.” She chuckled. “I try not to take it personally when they talk on the phone.” I nodded. “But it’s when there are people behind in line that it gets to me.” The woman looked after the man then back at me. “You’re not the only person in the world, you know?”

Need Work

When I saw the white-haired gentleman standing on the meridian strip holding a cardboard sign, I instinctively reached for spare change. I try to keep dollar bills in one of the dashboard cubbies so I can roll down the window and wait for the guy to step over. “Good luck,” I say. “God bless,” usually the answer. But today no spare bills, no loose quarters. I rolled down the window anyway and smiled at the man. “Nothing on me today.” The first time he saw me do this, my son asked me why I bothered to say anything if I didn’t have any cash. He’s a savvy kid, especially around money, and probably thought I was feely guilty. “Everyone needs encouragement,” I said, hearing the sanctimony dripping off the words. I tried again. “And no one likes to feel invisible.” A nod and Avery was back on his phone. The man hadn’t moved or smiled back. But he did say, without turning to look at me: “I don’t like doing this. My people just don’t do this.” I nodded. The man was bristling with pride and an anger that seemed ready to tip into a humiliation he was just as determined to fight off. “At least it’s good weather.” He nodded. The light turned green. “I’ve decided this is my last day.” I looked down at his sign and saw that he wasn’t asking, as I had assumed, for money. “I can’t do this anymore.” He glanced over once then shifted his gaze off in the distance, readying himself for the next shift of cars. “You’ll get there,” I said, not sure what I meant by “there.” A light honk from the car behind me and I drove on.

Close

A quick look of mischief in her eyes. “Who’d you vote for?” I was getting a six-pack of beer, the obligatory I Voted sticker an emblem on my shirt. The young clerk couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Tall, thin as a rail, her skin unblemished and glowing in the supermarket light. I could barely look at her. “Hilary.” “I’d vote for Bernie,” she said. “Yeah, I get that. I almost did too.” She hovered the six-pack over the scanner. “Then why didn’t you?” I chose my words carefully. “I’m not sure he’d make an effective president.” She grinned. “Better than Trump.” “Oh yes, much, much better.” The woman behind me in line shifted her weight from foot to foot. I didn’t care who heard me. Nor did the young woman, who went on a brief but passionate diatribe about Trump’s standard dirty tricks. I slid my card and tapped the yesses and nos. “That white man is evil.” I was taken back—not by the sentiment, I whole-heartedly agreed—but by the way she attached the adjective to the noun. She threw me a worried look. “Not that you’re like that...” I looked her straight in the face. “If that’s being white…I don’t want to be white.” She ripped off the receipt and handed me the beer. I thought she was going to say something back but instead she nodded and turned to the impatient lady behind me. I walked out to my car, shaking my head in confused joy.

Notes from Vegas Strip

…a land of canned music seeping nostalgically out of every bush. Of young women waiting to accompany you in a photo, naked but for pasties, a pair of panties and a set of bunny ears. Of a garrulous Elvis impersonator riding around drunk in a scooter cart insulting passers-by. Of earnest men dressed all in black broadcasting the word of Jesus on street corners. Yellow minis, giant hair, and his-and-her t-shirts announcing “King” and “Queen.” Billboards like movie screens. Glitter and glare glancing across glass buildings backdropped by sure-bet blue. Overweight adults lugging flagons of florescent Mardi Gras-style Hurricanes. Tricked out cars passing dignified under a giant, looping rollercoaster. Eager and desperate young men passing out fliers with signature flair. A storm trooper next to a ninja turtle next to a transformer next to a man sleeping on the sidewalk, his cardboard sign smudged and illegible. A single, dancing blue M&M. & the grimy old man in the bright orange t-shirt announcing GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS…