Those Moments

Years ago, I was sitting in a laundromat, in Merced – a central California town which should have its slogan changed from "The Gateway To Yosmite" to "the Gateway to Obscurity" – when one of its citizens-celebré came in and sat down beside me. Does she have a name? Probably, but I doubt that knowing it would lend anything to the story. I'll bet you do know her, though, or more accurately, someone just like her.

The Wandering Hag.

Self-distracted. Exact same outfit every day. Occupying a unique little bubble of private reality, muttering in the unknowable language of her people from a far-off planet – but by-gawd, she knows every human curse word, and suddenly ceases muttering to speak with Toastmasters-level clarity when she needs to utter a few choice combinations.

Guhmu-to-dapuh-mummun-widduh-humma-hummuh-FUCK YOU WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT MOTHER FUCKER GO FUCK YOURSELF!

Merced's Wandering Hag also had a small fuzzy blond dog who was her constant companion. Constant to the point that the little guy probably wanted to run away to the Pound. She pulled him along as she staggered up and down the boulevard – his tiny raw, tattered-mitten paws pushing in protest along the rough cement. His personal level of doggy Hell. Completely silent, no doubt because his doggy brain had learned that yipping and whining meant nothing to his white-haired, sully-skirted tormentor.

Mercifully, they are both probably dead by now.

Anyway, with great apparent purpose, upon entering the laundromat, she spotted me, and made a bee-line for the chair next to mine. She sat. I ignored her, pretending not to care about danger.

She saw through the pretense. She grinned. I held my poker face as long as I possibly could, then finally, fightingly, glanced over.

She revealed her ultimate secret to me.

"I know where the papers are. They're buried."

"Oh," I said? Then I geared into a mode that I have become aware that I do occasionally, much to my regret later on. I humored her – pretended that I knew exactly what she was talking about. It's an odd defense mechanism of mine, that has actually pulled me out of the crosshairs of a bad situation a few times, but most times, like this one, has just made it worse.

"That's pretty smart," I said, "if they get their hands on those, everybody is screwed."

"I know," she said. "You think I'm stupid?"

"Of course not. You knew to hide the papers, and that took brains."

"Bet your ass it did. Now stop fuckin' bothering me about it, alright?"

"Okay," I said, "sorry."

She huffed out, royally ticked that her daily routine had been disrupted.

I waited in silence for the dryer to finish.