Thanksgiving

Miss Scarlett Presents
An Original Piece of "Fiction"
Here are some issues with which I should be concerned: world peace, education, the homeless, women’s rights around the world, AIDS, healthcare….

Here is what actually, in my day to day life, causes me distress: carbohydrate content, auditions, callbacks or lack thereof. I’ve got to find time to do laundry, to make a grocery list and make a trip to the store, and somehow fit that in between rehearsals, performances, my day job, and perhaps a few moments cuddling my cats or spending time alone with my husband. I find it amazing that I can be so busy and so stressed and so crazy and yet at the same time somehow I feel like I’m sleepwalking. I’m running around in a haze, just trying to get by. One moment of minutiae is just preparation for the next one. For example, you know there are those days when you forget your cell phone. You walk down to your car, and realize that you have left it on the coffee table. You think, “Oh, I’ll only be gone for two hours, I don’t need it.”

One such evening, a week before Thanksgiving, I was coming home from a show in my mini-van. (Yes it’s a mini-van. I recently married into mini-van ownership. I’m cool with it. We drive it like a sports car anyway, so you know…) Anyway, I’m driving home from a show in Rogers Park and the van starts…well…um, farting. Loudly, and constantly. It was also shaking. Violently. Financially-disabling-repair-type shaking. I pulled over, my heart racing. “Okay…okay.” I tried to calm myself down. Usually with car stuff, I don’t have to worry too much. You see, I married a little grease monkey. Will has tools for the car just for fun. Like, there’s a jack that comes with the car, but he prefers to use his own. He has big yellow ramps for performing oil changes, wrench sets, an oil filter wrench, an oil filter ever so resourcefully made out of a beer bong, and several authentic BP uniforms from his former life as a gas station attendant.

I got out of the car, looked around for the damage and saw the problem: A big old stinkin’ flat tire. I knew I was going to have to wait in a particularly shady chapter of Rogers Park, but I knew we would save some cash with Will’s ability to fix cars. This was great because I had almost no money on my debit card, and maybe a ten in cash. If we’re talking cab fare, ten bucks doesn’t get you home to Logan Square from Rogers Park. Plus it was the middle of the night so most buses weren’t running. I reached into my coat pocket for my cell phone to call Will and…

Oh crap.

Sans cell phone, the only thing I could do was drive to the nearest service station, brave the cold and use the pay phone. Unfortunately, the nearest gas station was five blocks away and I was forced to fart down the street with my hands clenched at 11:45 and 12:15 shouting “I KNOW!” at any passersby who may have felt inclined to indicate to me that I might be having car trouble. After what seemed like an eternity, I pulled the van into a Shell station on Clark and Devon.

I called Will. Nothing. I called him again. Nothing. I called him ten minutes later. Nothing. I proceeded to call him approximately 57 times. Cell phone. House phone. My cell phone. Nothing.

It was 36 degrees that night and I had on red ballet flats with no socks, and not at all a large amount of change. Thankfully, it occurred to me that I still had the handy dandy little calling card that makes phone charges directly to my parents’ telephone bill. This also leads me to this next part wherein at one a.m., stranded on a street corner, I called my Mom. Crying, of course. Thinking she and my Dad could, you know, drive in from Ohio to save me from this godforsaken street corner in Rogers Park. I’ve always handled misfortune with grace and poise. Mom, too. She said: “GO SOMEWHERE SAFE! Oh my God! You’re going to be raped! Murdered! Shoved somewhere full of bacteria!”

Funny that, although I had driven past the intersection of Clark and Devon many times, mostly without thought, I had never considered it to be a particularly sinister place until that night. But looking at it from my position of varied safety at a hygienically questionable pay phone, it had swiftly taken on the characteristics of some back alley crime scene from Law and Order SVU and I suddenly had the distinct sensation that I had the potential to be a cornerstone of this week’s plot line.

Who knew what dubious characters lurked in the shadows. I was petrified. A girl walked past me yammering away on her cell phone and in my hysteria I considered hissing at her and scratching at the air like a threatened raccoon. I shot a glance at the van and realized then that this was no ordinary flat. My tire must have been slashed and the culprit was probably underneath the van, hanging onto pipes or tubes or whatever the hell is under cars in the hopes that he could slash my ankles.

The most ridiculous part is that Clark and Devon is extremely well-lit, the gas station had many customers, and no one in particular seemed to notice me. But late at night in a neighborhood far from my tree-lined friendly hamlet of Logan Square, my eyes weren’t seeing a typical corner in Chicago. No! They were seeing New York City pre-Guliani. Gotham before Batman. Smoky Mountains National Park after I read that book about bear attacks.

My mom had managed to regain some composure and talked me down from my madness. “Call a cab, leave the van and go get Will! I don’t see what else there is you can do!”

“What about the money?” I moaned.

“See if a cab will take credit cards. Now go find out if you can leave the van there.”

I walked into the gas station to ask if I could park the van for a bit. The man informed me that leaving the van was out of the question.

“Well, is there someone you can call? Do you have a number?”

“This time of night? They will charge you lots of money.”

“Yes, I know. But apparently I can’t leave it here.”

This same sort of exchange occurred when I asked to have it towed.

“Where will you tow it?”

“I don’t know, sir! But you won’t let me leave it here.”

“Ah, that is true,” I had the distinct feeling he knew where he would tow it if I were to leave the vehicle unattended in the parking lot.

I headed back outside with tears rolling down my face in frustration. Ashamed at my helplessness, I walked back to the van, snuffling and mentally kicking myself…and Will. I grabbed the owner’s manual from the glove compartment and started to search for information on how to change the damn tire. I should know this! It seems so simple! I am intelligent. I have skills. I read The Bad Girl’s Guide to the Open Road. I have an education from a great university.

The gas station attendant caught my attention. A man had pulled into the parking lot on a rickety bicycle looking, as my Mom would say, “Rode hard and put away wet.” The attendant told me that this man would fix the tire.

In any other situation, when approached by someone like the man on the bike, I would have at the very least quickly crossed to the other side of the street. At three a.m. in the morning, yes, I am that girl. Am I proud that I become that girl? No, but that’s what I’ve been taught and that’s what my gut tells me to do. That night I was desperate and desperation introduced me to Larry.

I’m pretty sure Larry was homeless. He was unshaven. He wore glasses that had seen better days, glasses that reflected eyes that most likely hadn’t. His faded black ratty puffer coat was from one of the Gaea bins, and his jeans were caked in dust and dirt, a symptom of constantly biking around a big wintry city. He had a pizza box strapped to the back of his bike as a kind of trunk. He dismounted and walked over to me, asking where my car was. I pointed to the van. He walked over to inspect the tire.

“Yep, you got a flat alright. But don’t worry; I used to fix these all the time! You got a spare?”

“Oh, I’m sure we do,” I offered secretly hoping that the spare was not curled up on the couch spooning with my most likely fast-asleep husband.

We walked to the back of the van and I opened the hatch. It was a mess back there. Blankets, gas cans (if only), some hamster shavings, and two old bags of clothing destined for the Gaea bins. They were in the way and I was supremely embarrassed. I shoved them aside and patted the carpeted flooring of the van. “This,” I said triumphantly, “is where I assume the spare is located.”

“I don’t see one.”

I smiled sheepishly. Larry squatted down on one knee and looked at the undercarriage. “Your spare is down here,”

I fought the urge to ask him if the renegade convict I had assumed was lurking under the chassis was also visible.

He stood back up, “You got a jack?”

I responded with a series of sobs and handed him the owner’s manual because it was clear I had run out of answers. Larry took the manual from me and asked if I would mind if he had a cigarette. I told him of course I didn’t and secretly wanted one too. After locating the jack, he squatted down by the tire and began to work.

“Where were you when it happened? Right here?”

I relayed the sordid tale and brought him up to speed, hoping I wouldn’t be chastised for driving on the flat as much as I had. What caught Larry’s ear was where I had been earlier that evening.

“You’re an actor? Like onstage?”

“Roughly.”

He told me how he dabbled in stand-up comedy, how he went to open mic nights at a local club and even shared a few of his jokes. He talked about how scary it is to get up on a stage, "But then you get those first few laughs," he said and shook his head.

"It's like a drug, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is."

Larry told me how his love of performing stand-up had sobered him up from both drugs and alcohol although he seemed ashamed of the cigarettes. I stood over him as he worked, not because I didn’t trust him. I just felt useless. He looked up at me, “You can sit in the car, if you want.”
“Hmmm? Oh no no. I’m sorry, I’ll just…I’ll try to call my husband again. I’m actually starting to worry about him.” I wandered over to the pay phone and put my hand on the receiver. As I was about to dial, I stopped and turned to Larry.

"Can I write you a check?"

"Sweetie, I wouldn't have anywhere to cash it."

It was right about then I received my yearly holiday reality check. On a typical day, I get irritated with the Blue Line for always being late. I mean, make a goddamn announcement, you know? Give me an idea….something! I get mad at Giada on Iron Chef for being such a sore loser to Rachel Ray. I grouch at Will for buying me full-fat yogurt instead of fat-free.

When all was said and done I handed him the ten from my pocket. "You know. If you had told me you didn't have any money, I still would have done it. You know why?" He pointed skyward. "He takes care of me."

It was very humbling. I had met truly a happy man. A man I had been trained to avoid. No one ever told me that someday I might need him. All I could think was how I could have spared a little more cash. I felt ashamed about shouting about my lack of money. I shook his hand and said goodbye and wished him Happy Holidays. I cried all the way home.

When I finally crawled up the stairs into our apartment, I must have looked like hell warmed over.

Will met me at the door. “I’m sorry. I fell asleep.”

“I know,” I said. “Me too.”