A few Mondays ago, despite having taken the day off for a “personal holiday,” I rose early. Wanda protested this move, clawing at my legs, purring while stretching leisurely, and putting her best paw forward. But I was awake and ready to start the day, although I had no particular plans in mind, except a vague idea to finally check out the Warhol exhibit at the de Young. I took my time putting on my favorite old ripped up Levis and gnarly hoodie circa high school in the late 90’s. I skipped the elevator and bounced down the five flights of stairs, my heart pumping happily.
Taking a deep breath of the slightly polluted but brisk Mission air, I strolled to Ritual on Valencia (a few blocks from my place) for a cappuccino. Walking a few yards away from me was an old woman, probably in her eighties, wearing a teal chiffon kaftan. She was walking backwards. She had a cane and a purse and walked slowly but otherwise as though it was perfectly normal that she was moving in reverse along the cracked pavement. I didn’t know what to make of it, and am not one to ask questions of strangers. But the image stuck with me through my order from the magenta-haired barista, on the way home, and back in my apartment where I sat on the miniature wrought iron balcony multi-tasking: nibbling an orange scone, sipping my capp, and smoking a cigarette.
Why would one walk backwards, and how would this affect every day life? Your view of the world? Relationships? Politics? It must become completely topsy-turvy. Was I reading too deeply into this? Most likely yes. But maybe we are the ones going though life backwards. While she may not see what is ahead on the horizon, she is not missing anything she passes. Literally, life cannot pass her by. Does this old lady have it right?
Speaking of life passing by, I suppose you are wondering what happened with Fiona. After I ran into her, she regained her balance and planted her hands in the back pockets of tight (hot!) jeans, tan arms flexing, eyes wide and amused. Were I more gutsy, I most certainly would have asked her out, ignoring the fact that I was standing in the middle of the street, slighty tipsy and soaking wet, having just almost plowed right through her, also not even knowing if she played for my team. However, I am not that kind of girl. Instead I blushed a brilliant shade of scarlet while Fiona openly laughed (even chortled) at my appearance. It was useless to attempt any sort of suave pick up.
Been playing in the neighbor’s sprinklers?
Sorta, I guess you could say…it’s just really hot out…
You know, I have been trying to get a hold of you for ages. You are impossible to track down apparently. You still have my cell phone.
Oh shit, I know I’m sorry—I was in Paris and then…
Yeah yeah yeah. Save it.
She said this with a smile. Flirting.
I know you have been holding it hostage, taking advantage of the poor thing.
I blushed again. I had given into temptation and perused it a bit, managing to find out that her ringtone was the “Piña Colada Song,” she talked to her mom every Wednesday morning, she could not work the T9 function, and she liked to take pictures of random street signs throughout the city.
I was not about to admit this. Instead I told her
I would never take advantage of an innocent. Anyway, I am on my way home right now, for a quick pit stop. I am just down the street if you want to come grab it.
Yeah that would be great but I am actually running late. To a date.
Okay buzzkill. And slightly awkward.
Oh. Okay then. Well I live off of Valencia and 20th. And you have my number.
Yeah from your funny bizarro messages!
Yeah…god sorry, I’m really bad at leaving voicemail. But you should be able to track me down a little better now.
I sure hope so.
We stood there and kind of looked at each other. Then
Well I really am going to be late. Hopefully I see you soon and there are no ransom demands coming my way.
She winked a navy blue eye at me and I am pretty sure my heart stopped beating for a second. I am also pretty sure I have never felt such a sensation in my chest. Fiona flitted away and I continued my wet slog home.
Wanda sat on the toilet, black tail twitching, and watched warily as I showered, did hair and make-up in front of my old Hollywood-style lit mirror, and tried on six outfits. If she could talk, most certainly I would be getting a lecture of some sort at this moment. But I ignored her judgey eyes and threw on a slate gray James Pearse tank, my skinniest skinny jeans, some bangles, and put-me-in-debt Jimmy Choo watersnake sandals.
Voila! C’est bon, non?
Wanda ignored me, pretending not to understand, and I sashayed out the door to El Rio. For once in my life I beat Ruth and Cecilia there; they had managed to land a perfect spot on the back patio, and had an ice cold Stella waiting for me. I cheers-ed them and filled the girls in on the events of the last hour. They were properly horrified (by my lack of clever banter and waterlogged state) and intrigued (by Fiona’s light teasing and tight jeans). And then the inevitable discussion: lesbian, bisexual, curious, barsexual, or straight? Ruth maintained that Fiona was straight, clueless, and nice. She also took the opportunity to rib me incessantly for having a crushy-poo on a giiirrrllll! Cecilia of course disagreed, noting the evidence I had brought up: short nails, short hair, wide standing stance, and the flirting, ie. the wink, and argued that Fiona was
Clearly a lesbo!
Ruth was quick on her toes though, having just finished her last year of law school at Hastings, and shot back
Short nails are in, everyone in the Mission gets that haircut, and maybe she used to play sports.
I also reminded them that she had been rushing to a date, but C rebutted me with
She didn’t say a date with a boy, did she? True. You should have asked her if she likes Tegan and Sara or Uh Huh Her. Ruth rolled her eyes at Cecilia and shook her head.
This line of conversation continued and morphed into something else entirely through several rounds of drinks. At this point the music was louder, El Rio was packed, and it was still sizzling hot despite the night air. Too hot for me to join C and Ruth and the masses of bodies packed on the dance floor. I leaned back in my seat, drinking in the scene and my beer. That is when I heard her laugh, mingling with the din of music, talking, and movement. She was sitting across the patio, under an overhang laughing. A lithe curly haired chick had her arm draped casually around Fiona’s shoulders. I watched her—tried not to stare—but she noticed almost immediately. She smiled and inclined her head and then it was as if I did not exist.
My heart did the thing again.
Cecilia and Ruth stumbled back towards me, sat down, and filed my eye.
Told you so. Cecilia smirked. I attempted to put my eyeballs back in my face and compose myself as someone heartbreakingly cool and collected. Fiona didn’t look at me again the rest of the night, even during a last ditch attempt when I flirted with some young buck just a few feet away.
When we finally staggered out of the bar at last call, Cecilia, Ruth, and I attempted the walk home backwards. We failed miserably on that count, but I was certainly not allowing life to pass by.
Always,
Louise
Taking a deep breath of the slightly polluted but brisk Mission air, I strolled to Ritual on Valencia (a few blocks from my place) for a cappuccino. Walking a few yards away from me was an old woman, probably in her eighties, wearing a teal chiffon kaftan. She was walking backwards. She had a cane and a purse and walked slowly but otherwise as though it was perfectly normal that she was moving in reverse along the cracked pavement. I didn’t know what to make of it, and am not one to ask questions of strangers. But the image stuck with me through my order from the magenta-haired barista, on the way home, and back in my apartment where I sat on the miniature wrought iron balcony multi-tasking: nibbling an orange scone, sipping my capp, and smoking a cigarette.
Why would one walk backwards, and how would this affect every day life? Your view of the world? Relationships? Politics? It must become completely topsy-turvy. Was I reading too deeply into this? Most likely yes. But maybe we are the ones going though life backwards. While she may not see what is ahead on the horizon, she is not missing anything she passes. Literally, life cannot pass her by. Does this old lady have it right?
Speaking of life passing by, I suppose you are wondering what happened with Fiona. After I ran into her, she regained her balance and planted her hands in the back pockets of tight (hot!) jeans, tan arms flexing, eyes wide and amused. Were I more gutsy, I most certainly would have asked her out, ignoring the fact that I was standing in the middle of the street, slighty tipsy and soaking wet, having just almost plowed right through her, also not even knowing if she played for my team. However, I am not that kind of girl. Instead I blushed a brilliant shade of scarlet while Fiona openly laughed (even chortled) at my appearance. It was useless to attempt any sort of suave pick up.
Been playing in the neighbor’s sprinklers?
Sorta, I guess you could say…it’s just really hot out…
You know, I have been trying to get a hold of you for ages. You are impossible to track down apparently. You still have my cell phone.
Oh shit, I know I’m sorry—I was in Paris and then…
Yeah yeah yeah. Save it.
She said this with a smile. Flirting.
I know you have been holding it hostage, taking advantage of the poor thing.
I blushed again. I had given into temptation and perused it a bit, managing to find out that her ringtone was the “Piña Colada Song,” she talked to her mom every Wednesday morning, she could not work the T9 function, and she liked to take pictures of random street signs throughout the city.
I was not about to admit this. Instead I told her
I would never take advantage of an innocent. Anyway, I am on my way home right now, for a quick pit stop. I am just down the street if you want to come grab it.
Yeah that would be great but I am actually running late. To a date.
Okay buzzkill. And slightly awkward.
Oh. Okay then. Well I live off of Valencia and 20th. And you have my number.
Yeah from your funny bizarro messages!
Yeah…god sorry, I’m really bad at leaving voicemail. But you should be able to track me down a little better now.
I sure hope so.
We stood there and kind of looked at each other. Then
Well I really am going to be late. Hopefully I see you soon and there are no ransom demands coming my way.
She winked a navy blue eye at me and I am pretty sure my heart stopped beating for a second. I am also pretty sure I have never felt such a sensation in my chest. Fiona flitted away and I continued my wet slog home.
Wanda sat on the toilet, black tail twitching, and watched warily as I showered, did hair and make-up in front of my old Hollywood-style lit mirror, and tried on six outfits. If she could talk, most certainly I would be getting a lecture of some sort at this moment. But I ignored her judgey eyes and threw on a slate gray James Pearse tank, my skinniest skinny jeans, some bangles, and put-me-in-debt Jimmy Choo watersnake sandals.
Voila! C’est bon, non?
Wanda ignored me, pretending not to understand, and I sashayed out the door to El Rio. For once in my life I beat Ruth and Cecilia there; they had managed to land a perfect spot on the back patio, and had an ice cold Stella waiting for me. I cheers-ed them and filled the girls in on the events of the last hour. They were properly horrified (by my lack of clever banter and waterlogged state) and intrigued (by Fiona’s light teasing and tight jeans). And then the inevitable discussion: lesbian, bisexual, curious, barsexual, or straight? Ruth maintained that Fiona was straight, clueless, and nice. She also took the opportunity to rib me incessantly for having a crushy-poo on a giiirrrllll! Cecilia of course disagreed, noting the evidence I had brought up: short nails, short hair, wide standing stance, and the flirting, ie. the wink, and argued that Fiona was
Clearly a lesbo!
Ruth was quick on her toes though, having just finished her last year of law school at Hastings, and shot back
Short nails are in, everyone in the Mission gets that haircut, and maybe she used to play sports.
I also reminded them that she had been rushing to a date, but C rebutted me with
She didn’t say a date with a boy, did she? True. You should have asked her if she likes Tegan and Sara or Uh Huh Her. Ruth rolled her eyes at Cecilia and shook her head.
This line of conversation continued and morphed into something else entirely through several rounds of drinks. At this point the music was louder, El Rio was packed, and it was still sizzling hot despite the night air. Too hot for me to join C and Ruth and the masses of bodies packed on the dance floor. I leaned back in my seat, drinking in the scene and my beer. That is when I heard her laugh, mingling with the din of music, talking, and movement. She was sitting across the patio, under an overhang laughing. A lithe curly haired chick had her arm draped casually around Fiona’s shoulders. I watched her—tried not to stare—but she noticed almost immediately. She smiled and inclined her head and then it was as if I did not exist.
My heart did the thing again.
Cecilia and Ruth stumbled back towards me, sat down, and filed my eye.
Told you so. Cecilia smirked. I attempted to put my eyeballs back in my face and compose myself as someone heartbreakingly cool and collected. Fiona didn’t look at me again the rest of the night, even during a last ditch attempt when I flirted with some young buck just a few feet away.
When we finally staggered out of the bar at last call, Cecilia, Ruth, and I attempted the walk home backwards. We failed miserably on that count, but I was certainly not allowing life to pass by.
Always,
Louise
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