The Crazy Guy on the Bus

I had a racial confrontation on the bus one time, with a psychotic guy. The bus was crowded that morning, and many people were standing in the aisle. I heard a resonant, authoritative voice, not the driver, at the front. “Move to the back, folks. Move on back.”

I always like it when a passenger takes control of a situation, offers some leadership.

The people standing in the aisle did not move—they never do—and a half dozen more jammed into the aisle at the front.

Once the bus started moving, the resonant, authoritative voice started singing. Ah, I realized now, it’s a crazy person. Leadership, schizophrenia. It’s easy to get them mixed up.

As usual, the bus emptied quite a bit at U Street, and no one had to stand after that. I saw the singer/crazy guy take a seat near the front. Quite handsome, with a beard trimmed short. Maybe 40 years old. African American. He occasional burst out with a tune or talked loudly to everyone in general. Everyone ignored him.

Then he moved back to a seat across the aisle from me. I was reading a magazine. He sat on the edge of the seat, facing me, with his feet in the aisle.

He looked at me. “Let me ask you something,” he said. I looked up at him but didn’t say anything.

“Let me ask you something,” he repeated. “How would you feel about this?”

I still held my magazine open, but I didn’t look back at it. I gave him my attention. He didn’t seem dangerous, but then, I didn’t know how to behave with a schizophrenic. I didn’t want to encourage him in this conversation, but I thought I should show him courtesy. 

I began noticing the people around us. They were all women, watching him and me.

The man continued. “How would you feel if, today, now, in nineteen-ninety, in nineteen, in nineteen-ninety and something, whatever it is, how would you feel if I said to you, ‘You go sit in the back of the bus?’”

At that point I felt I definitely should not ignore him. Should not turn back to my magazine. Although his demeanor was not aggressive, we had a hostile situation here. I didn’t think to check for a weapon. This was nineteen-ninety, nineteen, nineteen-ninety and something, and back then only post offices had people who came in with a weapon and went, well, postal. So, weapon didn't occur to me.

His tone of voice, in fact, was that of a preacher who intones a rhetorical question, such as, “If the Lord came today, would you be ready to meet him?” 

I kept eye contact with the man. He continued his questioning. “I’m asking you how you would feel right now, if I said to you, ‘Go back there. Go to the back of the bus.’?”

The women around us were watching us. On the basis of no evidence whatever, I felt they sympathized with me. I thought they identified with me as a woman, and as a sane person confronted by a crazy person. Even though they were black, they didn’t see me as a white person confronted by a black person. They were curious, though. They wondered what I would do.

Thus, in just a few seconds after he confronted me I had mentally constructed an entire social and psychological environment that was on my side. I now realize this probably makes me as crazy as he was, but it felt right at the time.

I was trapped. I knew I shouldn’t respond, but with no response from me he just kept going.

“How would you feel if I said to you, “You gotta go to the back of the bus’?”

I did consider answering him. Maybe he would feel reassured if I showed a willingness to be open, to discuss the issue rationally. Plus, I wanted him to know I wasn’t snooty. I wanted him to realize that he had chosen to challenge perhaps the most liberal white ever to ride bus 52.  Quite possibly the most liberal person in the universe. Did I say “rationally” a couple sentences ago? OK, so maybe liberal, but like I said, not really thinking too clearly.

I rejected the option of talking to him, knowing at a gut level that engaging him in conversation was a no-win venture.

I thought again about turning  back to my magazine, but I thought that might enrage him. And, weapon or no weapon, I was scared, all the nice on-my-side ladies notwithstanding.

With no response from me, he continued to harangue me, repeating the question in different ways. I just kept keeping eye contact and listening to him. Maybe he didn’t really expect a response, but I felt increasing pressure to do something. Like I said, I was trapped.

I felt the eyes of the other women. Why didn’t they intervene? Weren’t they on my side? Were they enjoying this, actually?

Ultimately, the driver came to my rescue. He called out to the man to come to the front. The man rose immediately and ambled good-naturedly to the seat near the driver, where they had a conversation that I believe had something to do with whether the man had paid his fare or not.

Ambled good-naturedly! Jiminy Crickets! My magazine was practically soaked through with the sweat from my hands.

That 52 bus. Ya gotta love it.

The Bus Driver and the New Girl

When I first came to DC I took the 52 bus to work. Most of the riders on the 52 bus were Latinos or African Americans, and I felt like an interloper. It was their bus, and I didn't belong. I was white, new to DC, and new to the bus. I tried to be invisible, just blend in, but I had red hair, so . . . .

What the bus driver said to me changed everything.

The driver on the 8:35 bus, my bus, was an African American with a salt and pepper beard. Well, all bus drivers in DC are African American, of course, but I thought I should put that in there for those of you readers who don’t live here.

I’d been taking the bus for a few months, then one week I drove to work because my boss had given me her parking pass to use while she was out. (Without the parking pass, $15/day; hence, the bus.)

But after a week of parking in the underground lot at work, I was back waiting for bus 52 at 14th and Irving, like always. It was the driver with the salt and pepper beard. When I climbed the steps and shoved my dollar in the slot, it happened. He said, “We missed you lately!” I was stunned. He recognized me? He knew I hadn’t been there?

As I worked my way back to find a seat, I heard his words again and again: “We missed you lately.” He knew me! The morning sang.

Maybe they all knew me—hard to be invisible, after all, being one of the only white riders, and with red hair, to boot. Maybe they thought this was my bus, too. The 52 bus. My bus.

America, my country

I learned a lot when I hosted a 16-year-old German exchange student, many years ago. For one thing, I discovered I felt personally responsible for the United States of America. 

Take our first supermarket trip. As we parked in front of the grocery store, my thoughts started running like this:

Will she be impressed with how big Kroger's is? Do they have bigger ones in Germany? Oh, nevermind big. That's stupid. That's so American. Just please let there be no rude people. Well, at least no people yelling. What about food quality? Probably the tomatoes in Germany are redder and plumper. Will the green beans have brown spots like last week? Maybe we'd better go to the Farmers' Market tomorrow.

So, I headed for the cereal aisle. Now there's an aisle that makes you proud to be an American. But wait. Do they have cereal in Germany? Maybe she doesn't even know what cereal is. 

"Do you eat cereal for breakfast in Germany, Tina?"

She hesitated a little before answering. It was her first day here, and I didn't know yet how much English she knew. Maybe she didn't know the word "cereal." Maybe I should explain.  I looked for a cereal box picturing a bowl of cereal.  Instead, I found pictures of Batman and the Smurfs and Count Chocula. I imagined her letter home. "Americans eat cereal with marshmallows and fictional characters." 

After a couple weeks, I began to understand a little more that the point of the exchange program was to educate the host parents. That is, I didn't know for sure how much Tina was learning, but I sure as hell was learning a lot.

That cereal business, for example.

First we had Rice Krispies. I explained that Rice Krispies were made in Michigan, where I was from.  "Yes, we have Kellogg's in Germany, too." Of course they do. I couldn't have figured out that Kellogg might, maybe, have an international division?

The next morning I held up the Quaker Oats box before I started making the oatmeal.  "Do you have this?"

Tina looked inside. "Yes. My little brother especially likes it. He has it every day." 

Great! I smiled as I heated the water for the oatmeal. Another German-American bond!  Imagine my surprise when Tina didn't want the cooked oatmeal and instead put raw oats in a bowl to eat with milk and sugar, the way they eat oatmeal in Germany.

The next day I brought out the Wheaties—Breakfast of Champions. Tina didn't know the orange and blue box, but after trying some, she announced that they had the same thing in Germany. "But we call it corn flakes."

Tradition Slippage

When I stuff the turkey on Thanksgiving, I use Pepperidge Farm Herb Stuffing Mix. That's how it all begins. Just a little crack n tradition. One year you don't make turkey dressing from scratch, and before you know it you're ordering the holiday dinner package from Colonial Cafeteria. Wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to convenience foods. The Pepperidge Farm stuffing. The Betty Crocker canned frosting. The Sara Lee cheesecake.

Tradition slippage is something I’m concerned about as a parent. I want my Rachel to be part of a heritage that I learned from Mom and Grandma. I want her to use a special Christmas tablecloth, and not because Martha Stewart is promoting an eggplant-and-fern color scheme for the holidays. I want her to realize that buying birthday cakes from Kroger—or even from La Madeleine—is against the rules: real cakes are made from scratch, and on birthdays you use the favorite recipe of the birthday person (pineapple upside-down cake, in Grandpa’s case). I want her to see that rolling out biscuit dough and cutting it into powdery circles with a glass dipped in flour is more fun than rapping that Pillsbury Doughboy on the ass and arranging sticky lumps one inch apart. Will my Pepperidge Farm stuffing shortcut—innocent though it seems—lead Rachel to a life of Tater Tots and Hamburger Helper?

I know, I know. This is the era of cell phones and Starbucks, and you’d have to be seriously underemployed not to use convenience foods regularly. All lanes are the Fast Lane. Convenience foods are made for, well, our convenience. I accept that. I’m neither a Luddite nor an ecofanatic. I do not live in an old farmhouse using a wood stove for heat, buying only unrefined sugar. I live in Washington, DC. I pick up deli food at Sutton Place Gourmet with the best of them. I would not want to give up my morning Eggo Waffle, snatched from the toaster on the way out the door.

But there are times when fast food just won’t do. Our family Thanksgiving is a heritage I have to offer Rachel. I want her to learn to do it “our way.” Isn’t that, after all, the reason we have children in the first place? I’ve lived for many years halfway across the country from my family in Michigan, so to compensate for the absence of relatives at the holiday table, I always invite a dozen friends—waifs, like us, with no family nearby. Waifs being what they are, the guests change from year to year, though there is now a core group of three or four who have come to consider dinner at my house their own annual ritual.

The before-the-day preparations are a sine qua non of the ritual. Ironing the tablecloth and napkins, which have been dampened by sprinkling. No spray starch. No steam. No Permaprest. Making the pies—pumpkin and apple and raspberry, and not with Pet-Ritz pie crust, either, but with real crust, rolled out on a floured countertop. Grinding the cranberries and orange peel for the cranberry relish. Not with the Cuisinart. I clamp the hand-cranked grinder (a garage-sale find) to the table and fill the hopper with the plump red berries, which crunch and pop as they are mashed. Some juice always drips from the bottom of the grinder, so, just like Mom, I place a bowl beneath it on a chair. 

On Thanksgiving day, I get up at 5:30 to make the turkey stuffing and get the bird ready for the oven. Some families have Thanksgiving dinner in the evening, but our dinner is at 1:00. And the turkey is always 20 pounds or more, which is why it has to go in the oven by 7:00, and why I always invite a dozen waifs. That’s how we did it when I was growing up, so there it is.

Except for the stuffing. One year, shopping at 10:30 on Sunday night before Thanksgiving, I stood before the shiny bags of stuffing mix on display at Albertson’s. I picked one up to read the instructions: “Just add water” (which, being translated, reads “Wide is the gate”). I bought two bags. Oh, sure, I sauté celery and onions to “make it my own,” as the package says, but I’m not kidding myself that such tinkering takes the place of laying out bread slices to dry overnight. I started down the broad path, and I never went back.

Stuffing mix aside, so far I’ve held on to Thanksgiving and some of the other celebrations in my jihad against Tradition Slippage. But I have conceded many battles. An entire canon of domestic arts has been surrendered—sewing and knitting and crocheting, for example—skills my mother learned from her mother and passed on to me. The other day I was sewing up a rip in Rachel’s jeans, threading the sewing machine and checking the tension, and I remembered when Mom taught me to sew—on that very Singer Featherweight. I was 10 years old and we made a pair of flannel pajamas for me—pale green with little yellow and pink horses. I learned the word “placket.” But I have not taught Rachel to sew. How could I, when I have quit sewing myself? The maternity clothes I made when I was carrying Rachel is the closest we ever came to sewing together.

Grandma was an expert knitter. Of the many items she made, my favorite was a sweater she knit for me when I was six—dark green, with elves jumping over toadstools. Rachel wore it when she was six, too, and many times I’ve told her how Grandma called me to her side to measure the sleeve against my extended arm, and that’s when I knew she was making it for me. I love that sweater, tucked away now in the cedar chest for some future granddaughter. Grandma told us that knitting socks for the family was one of the things she and her sister had to do at ages six and seven. I marveled at that as the needles cramped my sweaty hands during my first knitting project, at age 13. I was making a pair of bright red booties for my first niece. Quelle ordeal! But how proud I was when my sister folded back the tissue paper and saw my handmade gift!

Some domestic traditions passed down to me were more mundane. Take ironing. Before steam irons, I mean. Now there’s a lost art. Sprinkling takes a special touch to obtain just the right dampness, and each shirt, each tablecloth, has to be rolled up to sit for at least an hour to let the moisture spread evenly. I was the youngest of three girls, and therefore the last to learn each task. My first real go at sprinkling came when my older sisters were at camp for a week. Mom never said anything to me, but I read in the letter she wrote to my sisters, “Marian sprinkled the wash. It was so wet I almost had to wring it out.”

Ironing, sewing, cooking—these are traditions that have slipped during my watch. But why choose the hard way? Mom herself was open to shortcuts. Those great biscuits she let me cut out after she rolled out the dough? Bisquick! And I remember she tried a ready-mix cake or two. They were dry, and whether chocolate or lemon, they tasted something like rye crisp, which is precisely why Mom shunned them. But Betty Crocker has learned a thing or two since then, and now box cakes can pass the blindfolded taste test. Convenience creep is inevitable. No doubt some great-great grandmother of mine dropped churning butter and spinning thread when the packaged products became available. I consider this progress.

For all of the warm memories I have about my inheritance from Mom and Grandma, part of my heritage was also the responsibility for preparing meals. Not just for Thanksgiving dinners and other special occasions, but day in and day out. While Rachel has not learned some of the traditions, neither has she inherited that sense of responsibility. She represents the first generation in my family to be freed from the assumption that cooking and laundry are the domain of the women. She has seen that both men and women can cook and iron. Now that's progress.

I have kept Thanksgiving and a few other traditions as my gift of family heritage to Rachel. Call it Tradition Tokenism. But in truth, repeating the Thanksgiving rituals is as much for me as for Rachel. I like grinding the cranberries because it makes me feel close to Mom. And I like seeing Rachel repeat my childhood jobs—getting out the fancy dishes and stemware to set the table, arranging the relish plate.

“Why do we only have black olives at Thanksgiving?” she asks.

“Just because,” I say, giving her Mom’s answer.

“I’m going to make place cards!” she announces, just as I did, and I smile, just as Mom did.

But still, I wonder. Have I held the line sufficiently? Have I passed on enough of Grandma and Mom so Rachel won’t forget them? Will Rachel want to carry on the traditions?

Deep down, I still have doubts. Maybe I should have taught her how to can tomatoes.

Halloween phenomena and broken vows

As I walked around Capitol Hill last year I took pics of all of the Halloween yard stuff I saw. It was lots of fun, and some people are so inventive. These are a couple of the photos I posted on Facebook.

But a couple weeks ago I noticed tons of ready-made Halloween paraphernalia (for lack of a better word) at Costco, and also at two different garden shops. I realized that Halloween is the new Xmas. Something to spend more money on. To put time into. Commercialized. I haven't checked, but I'm sure there is a whole line of Hallmark greeting cards for the occasion.

I know, I'm really slow on this. Obviously it's already a thing.

Sure, in our culture, haunted houses and trick-or-treating and pumpkin carving are longstanding traditions. I myself have put together a costume and hosted a front-steps Halloween party for the last dozen years or so. 

But what I realized is that decorating the yard or the outside of the house for Halloween is a commercial growth industry and not simply the work of clever and quirky people. Granted, the phenomenon is probably contributing to the GDP in some positive way (and if we could only have the strings of little pumpkin lights made in the U.S. it would even create jobs!). 

But I didn't want to abet the noncreative aspect of this trend, so I vowed to resist the urge to take pictures of all of the decorations as I take walks around the neighborhood. I would not include these fuzzy spiders or huge blown-up pumpkins in my regular Facebook postings of front-yard sculptures.

But then I saw this yard, and it was so cute I had to break my own pledge. I mean, they even put a basket in the dog's mouth. Makes me smile even now.

My weakness in sticking to what I already decided reminds me of an interview I heard. A veterinarian was asked if dogs really need those little coats that some dog owners put on them in the winter. You know the ones--the poodle with the red plaid vest, the chihuahua with the tiny fleece jacket. 

The vet said absolutely not. She said that dogs have appropriate metabolism and fur that keeps them warm. She pointed out that when humans think their dog needs a jacket to keep warm it is just a projection of the owner.

So the interviewer started naming some breeds that he thought might need coats. 

"What about beagles?" 

"No." 

"Dalmatians?"

"No."

"Westies?"

"No."

"Dachshunds?"

"Well," the vet laughed a little bit. "They really are so cute in those little coats. . . ."

So, there it is. 

But they really are a cute pair of skeletons, don't you think?

Calling the Doctor's Office

I think we can all relate to this today, even though it happened in 2001.

I was at work on Thursday, July 5. I had had pain in my ankle every day since I had fallen and twisted my ankle. The orthopedist I had seen nearly a month earlier had said I had a “non-union” in my ankle. I guess that made me pretty special, because he said that during his career he had seen about 3,000 ankle fractures but maybe only one non-union.

Well, my non-union was hurting like hell and I decided I would have to face the music and call his office for an appointment.

“Please pay close attention, because our calling options have changed. If you are having a true medical emergency, please hang up and dial 911 now. If you are a physician or other health care provider, press 1. If you would like to reach the billing department, press 2. For office location, fax number, and office hours, press 3. If you would like to schedule an appointment, press 4.

I pressed 4. A new recording reported that everyone was already busy and I should stay on the line for the next available person. After just a few seconds (!), a real person answered. 

“I’d like to schedule an appointment with Dr. Klimkiewitz.”

The real person briskly asked me for my name and date of birth. I’m not sure why she needed that, because she then said, “The first available appointment he has is August 7.” Maybe they don't give that information out to people whose dates of birth they don't know. 

Disappointed with the month-long delay, but knowing it was probably futile to try to get in sooner, I said OK.  But then, realizing my referral might not be valid that far down the road, I added, “This is for a follow-up—could you check that my referral from my primary doctor will still be valid?”

“Do you have the yellow copy we gave you? It gives the number of covered visits.”

“Not with me,” I said.

“Hold on, let me transfer you to his secretary.”

A new person answered. I told her I was scheduling a follow-up visit with Dr. Klimkiewitz and wanted to be sure my previous referral was still valid.

She started to tell me that referrals are good only for a certain length of time, but interrupted herself and said “What insurance to you have?”

“Capital Care.”

“Just a minute,” she said. Then I got a dial tone.

I sighed. I looked up the number again (this was before I had a cell phone). I dialed again.

“Please pay close attention, because our options have changed. . . .”

I couldn’t remember which option I has used, so I had to listen to it all again.

I pressed 4 and got the recording that everyone was busy “helping other people,” which by then I was quite certain was a lie. 

This time a real person did NOT answer within a few seconds, and I got the on-hold torture: “Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line. This call may be monitored for quality assurance purposes.”

PLEASE, I prayed to the god of phone trees, PLEASE make this call monitored for quality assurance purposes. Eventually the first person I talked to, so long ago, came on the line.

I tried to sound chipper: “Hi, this is Marian Wiseman again. You transferred me to Dr. Klimkiewitz’s secretary and she . . .”

“What is your date of birth?”

I considered pointing out that we had gone through this before, but I suppressed that urge and gave her my DOB.

“Let me transfer you to his secretary. Her direct line is 546-8613. Her name is Charlintsia.” Then she transfered me. Again.

The call was answered by a woman sounding very much like the woman I talked to before..

 “Hello—Charlintsia?”

“Yes?”

 “This is Marian Wiseman again. We got disconnected when we spoke before.” Please note, readers, that I did NOT say “YOU disconnected me.”

 I repeated my request about the referral.

“When was the last time you saw Dr. Klimkiewitz?” 

“May 9.”

“Was this for your knee or your shoulder?” She had apparently pulled my file and found—I can’t deny it—that I had previously seen Dr. Klimkiewitz for numerous body parts.

“Actually, it was my ankle.”

In what can only be called a tone of superiority, she said, “The referral you had, if anyone had looked at it, was dated for 2000, and was valid up to July 19, 2000.” I pictured Charlintsia, smiling smugly like a frog that just caught a grasshopper. 

I responded sweetly. “Well, let’s just ignore the year part, because we know that was just a mistake and was supposed to say 2001, since I didn’t hurt my ankle until this year. So, I’d like to see Dr. Klimkiewitz before July 19, 2001, which is still two weeks away.”

“He isn’t available next week.”

“What about today or tomorrow?” I would have willingly cancelled  my lunch date and skipped two scheduled meetings to avoid needing to get a new referral from my primary care doctor. Believe it or not, the phone tree and recordings and unreturned phone calls of my PCP’s office made the current interaction with Dr. K’s office seem positively streamlined.

“Today he has clinic, which is double booked, and he doesn’t see patients on Fridays.”

“What about the week after next?”

“I don’t have the schedule for that week.”

I knew that she meant I had to go back to the appointment desk and start over. I decided Charlintsia definitely looked a lot more like a wart hog than a frog. I was pretty sure Dr. Klimkiewitz could have surgically repaired my ankle in the amount of time I had already spent on the phone.

I decide to play the long shot. I did, after all, have a non-union and was prepared to tell Charlintsia that I  was very special to Dr. K.

“I’d like Dr. Klimkiewitz to call me.” 

Nothing daunted, she said, “What about?”

“About my ankle.” I didn’t even use a sarcastic tone of voice.

“What about it?” she asked. Was she kidding? Can warthogs make jokes?

I used small words: “To talk about the pain I’m having and decide what the next step is.”

“What’s your number? Dr. Klimkiewitz returns calls within 48 hours,” she said. 

Wow! Maybe Charlintsia was really a warthog whose inner piglet just wanted to get out.