Maurice After Christmas

      Christmas is over.  Paper and boxes and candy and electronics and gobs of filthy lucre litter the area (s).  We be paying this one off for a long time.  A day without bone-crushing debt is like a day without sunshine.  The amount dropped at The Giants Dugout alone is astonishing.  Go Giants.  Go turn us upside-down and shake until our pockets are empty.  We love it - it feels good. 
      So I get a call on the cellular this morning - it is Maurice from the parking lot.  Long story embarrassingly short - I did give this complete stranger my cell phone #.   Say what ?   When I first got a cell phone, only 4 people were allowed to have the number : husband, kids, and mother.   Even that was a push.  They had to earn it.   Like voting : a privilege, not a right.
   You must know that this is extremely atypical behavior for Trudy, this giving of information to anyone.  I often comport myself as if I am living in the Witness Relocation Program.  It's just better this way. (Remember : you're only paranoid if they're NOT really after you.  Fact.)    Completely against type and unprecedented.   For what it's worth, and now that the offspring are grown, the message is and always has been this : trust no one.  Ever.  There IS a boogey man.  Mommy has seen him and he will get you.   Bad people happen, so best to just assume they're out to get you.  It's just a matter of when and how bad..  
    As awful as this may seem, it is somewhat of a relief not to have to dress it up for the kids anymore.   I guess you really, in good conscience, cannot raise a child in this way.  Children have to learn to trust and develop good judgment and be cautious and curious at the same time.   They need to experience and experiment and try and fail and learn.   If a child is raised to fear the world, that is wrong.  But if a child gets hurt by the world, is that not wrong, 
too ?     Especially if a simple warning would have helped ?  Think about it.
  So, Maurice calls, and he says he has a gift for me.  I had told him his was so not necessary - the man parks cars 7 days a week, and has a family to raise.  Chief and Sparky are all over me : who called, who was it, they woke us up, etc.  I am loath to confess my security faux pas.  I admitted that it was my new Christmas pal, Maurice from 5 Star Parking on Bryant Street.  He invited me to stop by the parking lot so that he could give me a gift.  I think it is terribly sweet.  The family is appalled.  Oh, the sputtering and yelling and just utter disbelief.  I stand at the ready to take endless shit from these people who purport to love me most of all.  But what could I do when Maurice wanted my number so he could gift me  ?   Be nice and kind to him and then basically admit that he is "the help" and nothing more?  I had almost accepted the fact that, for whatever reason, Maurice was just a nice person who.. got past the moat for a brief time.  Alligators, barbed wire, and land mines notwithstanding.
   I invite Chief to go with me, since he was so concerned about my judgment (or lack thereof).  He says no way - I insist, just so he can see that Maurice is, oddly enough, NOT the boogey man.   We get to 5 Star, and there is Maurice - grinning and waving as we pull in. He leads us to his car and produces a Target gift certificate.   He apologizes for it being "...a bit light ."  He is beaming and blushing. So am I .  I told him he shouldn't have.   He says he wanted to.  He tells me that his children loved the cookies I baked.  We report nice Christmases, and offer wishes for the new year. 
    We hug and shuffle our feet in an " aw shucks" kind of a way.  He proudly offers us "free parking anytime !"  I tell him I don't want to jeopardize is job by him giving freebies.  He stops, grabs my hand and says : "No, it's okay. The boss told me that my family and really best friends can park free."
   I am not sure which category I fall under : but surely the boogey man would consider me neither friend nor family.

Calm and Bright - 12/11/09

So,

  I pick up Joe College yesterday for a whole month of fussing at home over her.  Her favorite potato soup was made, she ate until she had a tummy ache, poor lamb.  I imagine it is either rank gluttony, or the body's gradual adjustment away from dorm fare.

    We check the Advent calendar(s), and discover that Christmas is pretty damned nigh.  Shitfire.  No money, no spirit, no energy to even decorate the damn 50 degree house.  If I wait long enough, the spirit and/or decorating will take care of itself in the spontaneous formation of icicles.  Yessss.

    Chief, meanwhile, never stops plotting and planning odd things.  It is not only past time for a tree, but the Annual Sanders Christmas Card Photo is so overdue.  We start tossing around ideas, much to the..NOT delight of The Girls.  I like Chief's first suggestion : to go to Home Depot (where they push all trees thru a contraption and, like, enrobe them in netting for easy travel) and wrap him in netting like he is a big tree.  I instantly warm to the idea a bit (subsequently warming the house a bit - bonus!!) - and start wondering : will they allow it (he assures me that a big enough tip will make any holiday temp worker look the other way), can we just wrap him up without running him through the machine, would it look better with his hands stretched over his head or by his sides like a little tin soldier...

  Sparky alludes that this is "ri-Goddamn-diculous". Missy is apoplectic (it makes no sense, it's crazy, who would ever even think of something like that, there is something wrong with you).  We grab the camera, wait for Missy to choose the right shoes (boots or white Converse ?) and for Sparky to 'de-lesbian " her hair ( ? ) - and off we go.

   So, we decide to panic, since there is not time to buy a tree, and our favorite discount tree lot (FloorCraft in the Bayshore) is...closed.  Every other tree lot in town charges way too much, so we begrudgingly head out to Home Depot and hope that no one sees us enter or leave.

   The tree part of the store is roofless, which we find cool - but they only have the kind of tree that we hate (the stick-ish noble fir) .  I linger longer than I should by the tree-wrapping machine, and finger the netting thoughtfully.  Then, cold (no roof) and sad (ugly trees) - we time-wastingly enter The Depot - lured in  by shiny balls and inappropriately-large holiday inflatables.

    It is like an oversized psychotic winter wonderland: Santas, snowmen, Rudolphs - all a minimum of 15 feet tall : plastic, tinsel, "soft glitter", snug villages, sleighs, ugly wooden shit, and hundreds of clear boxes of huge colorful ornies.  One snowman has fallen over and is crushing a small village : I can almost hear the tiny screaming as Missy gleefully takes a picture with her phone.  

    The wheels start to turn in my head - and my first thought is that we need to take cover.  The backside of this immense display is hidden from the rest of the store - but all the front-facing decor and joy that would be good to pose with is facing the other way.  Dang. Okay - necessity being the mother of invention and all....  

      Sparky, unbidden, starts loading up a cart with hundreds of fancy decorations for a possible photo.  I tell her "where were you when you were a baby ?  You guys in the cart with all that stuff would've been adorable !" 

       Our first stop is near some shelving which is chock-a-block with the afore-mentioned large colored ball boxes.  Boxes and boxes - 6 deep.  I immediately envision my offspring sitting and lying on these store shelves - cozily surrounded by ornaments.  I roll up my sleeves,and start tossing boxes and stacking - hissing for Sparky (who will usually do anything) to climb on the shelf.  I say  : "It's a Home Depot shelf fer Chrissakes - it's made to be sturdy - get up there, quick !"  I decide that she should be on a shelf : feet back to the wall, head sticking out and cradling her little Christmas head as she peeks out.  Missy's place will be on the very bottom shelf, crouched whimsically.  

      As Sparky gamely starts to climb among the ornament boxes, Missy (party pooper) is backing away, looking appalled and mumbling disbelief and saying things like : "MOM !  This is too crazy, even for you !  I am NOT doing anything of the kind.  I am 18, you can't make me."  I gently remind here that, in her deepest heart of hearts, she knows now who Santa is and he is not only watching but expecting her to pose for this picture...

   Knowing that Sparky is now a given, I start a system of quick movements, mindless chattering, subterfuge - and other flim-flamming that I employ when trying to manipulate a "tough crowd".  I have moved down the aisle, toward the fallen snowman (who I instantly right so he can be sat under by teenagers). Chief, camera in hand and knowing me for 34 years and knowing his part (s) - instantly starts moving boxes around and stacking cases of pretty Christmas wrap all around.  Good man, that one.  Mind you, the whole time, there is a veritable cacophony of hissing, giggling, teen outrage, and my insistent voice whisper-yelling things like "Come on !  Shoosh now !  Can we just do this ?"

 wrapping paper.  Missy stands there, grimacing and freaking out : "I absolutely refuse to do this, I want to go back to college are we near a train station, if I pay $50/day to live in the dorms over Christmas, that's my whole savings, Mom

 (aside: why me?) I can't believe you."  Everyone (except me) keeps saying we're going to get caught/get in trouble.  In for a dime, in for a dollar : the only way we'll get caught is if you girls don't do as you're told.

   Chief snaps away, like a real photo shoot.  The Models smile gamely (although I'm thinking we can't use the one where Missy is miming shooting herself in the head).  I am darting all around the shoot,  getting yelled at for "being in the wide shots".  I get yelled at constantly, as Sparky is certain there will be breakage.  I bravely grab a big old Nutcracker (the most hideous and Satanic of all Yule decor, second only to the creepy, homeless-looking "Old World Santa").  The shooter calls for "more ornaments - quickly !" 

 I scamper over to the original shelf, and, what ho ! I spy cylindrical stacking packs of ornaments !  Eggs-cellent !

     I run them over to a group chorus of : NO !!  These are apparent;y inappropriate.  Whatevs.  It is hell being the shot designer.  I slam them down on some fake show, and run back for more boxes.  I deliver, and get behind Chief so I can make the Nutcracker pop over his shoulder.  How funny is that ?

   Uh oh - what's this ?!  It's A MAN and he's coming back to see what we are doing.  I assume (as do the others) that he is an employee and we are SO about to get busted and then some.  We have made a shit-mess of this department, all in the name of a Christmas photo.  In unison, and without planning, we do the only thing we can : we totally ignore him and refuse to look his way.  Daddy keeps snapping.  (There is a big part of me that believes 2 things  : a) if you stand very still, people cannot see you and b) if you have sunglasses on, people cannot see you.  It's worked so far...).  Finally he speaks, softly " "Well, that's an interesting idea."  He departs - just another customer.  Whew.

     Finally, Missy can take no more.  We wrap up the shoot, and I make a feeble attempt at replacing some of the props.  If we linger too long, we will likely have some 'splainin' to do, Lucy.  We sky up outta there, giggling, through the roofless Garden Center (still cool).  The camera is loaded with about 20 pictures, one of which we sincerely make it to the finals.

    FYI : other ideas include : a) setting up the silver Christmas tree in Golden Gate park for a groovy juxtaposition of flash and flora and b) the all-pink and frosty Barbie Christmas tree on the beach in a storm.

Maurice At Christmas

So,

   An important part of Jury Duty (JD) is parking one's car.  Where, when, why (check the Constitution here), how much, how far, can I get a deal, oh God they're all full, can I park in a bail bonds spot, is this a level of hell down here on Bryant Street.  For many, yes indeed it is - Dante himself would have to remove his belt and keys for security.

    Cheap and close (like my men) are the key considerations.  This time around, I opted for close.  Right across the street - if I was to inexplicably get jailed, the hope is that I could see my car from my cell.   Cool.  

    All lots try to lure you in with taunts of "flat rate !" ($6 for the first 20 minutes), "all day special !" (times restricted), "Park HERE !" (too pushy).  The Court even offers a "juror discount" : $5 in a certain lot that generally fills up before Court is open.  Not too far, but at the end of the day (literally) anything out of sight is "too far" in this neighborhood.   So I go for across the street, like, Ampco 5 Star or something.   I am wondering if they actually have a  ***** rating from a reputable source and, if so, is there a certificate framed and mounted in the kiosk ?   I'll ask the attendant.

   First day in, got my juror grump on, pissed that of my eventual $15/day juror salary, after gas and parking, I break even for participating in jurisprudence.   Jeez.   The parking attendant greets me...and he is smiling.   Kind.   Seemingly happy.   Gracious.  Helpful.  Wishes me a good day.  Seems to mean it.  What the hell is he up to ?  Will he take my keys, have copies made, and ransack my house because he knows I'll be all day in Court ?   I am taken aback, and instantly want to slice his forearm with a knife and check for wires or something else robotic and non-human.

   Sure enough - he just seems to be... nice.   My car and keys are safe at day's end, there were no prowlers in my home with shiny new keys on strings around their felonious necks, and maybe I will park there tomorrow.   Just to say hi.   Even if it is cheaper down the street...

   So, I park there every day.  He is always happy, one day I just tossed off a "thank you, my friend" - he looked incredulous and

 said : "Am I your friend ?"  I told him "yeah, I see you more than I see most of my friends".   After he'd only been on the job for 3 weeks, he told me he lost some important keys, and hoped he didn't get fired.   I told my new friend that I would vouch for him if he got in trouble.

  Trial almost over, and we introduce ourselves.   Maurice trusts me enough to give me a secret code for the machine that gobbles up my Visa card.    I learn that he works 7 days a week at 3 different jobs.   He parks cars all over town, and has a wife and 2 kids.   He tells tales of rich people tipping him 50 cents.  We wondered why the people who have the most seem to give the least.  A woman upset with the parking lot fees and "..she yelled about my mother, my father, and told me to go back to Mexico".  He looked hurt about this.  "My mother, she died ion 1992, my father has cancer - I'm just trying to do my job."  We wondered why people treat other people so badly.

  Finally, the jury reaches a verdict - I will likely never see Maurice again.   Our worlds just don't meet very often.   He has been a nice start to my day these past few weeks -  a smiling face, a good wish - I walk into the Courthouse smiling.  I am the only one who does this.  I wish Maurice goodbye and good luck.  I will no longer need 5 Star Parking.  We shake hands, share Merry Christmases, and part company.

   I stop on my way out, and inexplicably tell him I'm going to bring him some homemade cookies tomorrow.   Chief thinks I am crazy : you don't even have jury duty tomorrow, why are you bringing some strange guy cookies, have you lost your mind ?

   Maybe I lost my mind a long time ago.  Sometimes, you have a brief encounter that stays with you, for whatever reason.  Maurice was an oasis in a sea of assholes and mean people.  Maurice works honestly hard for his family, always ready to smile, grateful for every day.

   I baked all morning, dragged my butt Downtown.   Maurice grinned as I pulled in and handed him the cookies.  Still warm, fer Chrissakes.   He repeated how he wanted to do something nice for me - he didn't understand that he already had.

  As I pulled my sleigh out of 5 Star Parking, Maurice was starting to cry as I sped down Bryant Street. 

     

"Voir Dire"

Or, in English,      "Sit all day".  Most of us experience the 4 seasons.  They are all 4 of them predictable and annual.  San Francisco generally has about 1.5 or 2 seasons total.  Which is fine with me.  We could have all 4, but why ?       Miss Trudy Sanders has a 5th Season : no, not Frankie Valli's love child - but Jury Season.  Time to don my Civic Duty Drag, fluff out the long robes and powdered wig - it is time to haunt the Hall (s) of Justice once more.  The pat downs, the felons, the bad food, the barristers with their (brown ?  why ?) suits and boxes of documents being dragged around like naughty pets. The poor tiny babies visiting jail (Really ?  Can't someone just tell them Daddy's not home and may not be for a while ?).  The absolutely amazing # of people who suddenly "no speak English".  (These people just fry me - I always try to trick them during court breaks...)    I get called EVERY YEAR.  The system is designed to choose randomly.  I think I get that - but then why am I called EVERY YEAR when others are NEVER called ?  Chief has been called, like, once in 35 years...   It just doesn't seem random from where I sit.  In a hard chair.  All day.  EVERY YEAR.    Especially since, mostly, they just don't want me.  I jurried (sp?) on a drunk driver injury case many moons ago.  What a dick HE was : his PD was some neanderthal whose explanation for him failing the Breath-A-Lyzer test was "...he'd just filled his gas tank."  Well, if "gas" was whiskey and "tank" was his stomach, then yes, Your Honor : I'll allow it.   Guilty, guilty, guilty !     I have heard "the Court would like to thank and excuse Trudy Sanders" innumerable times.  I know it's nothing personal - but a rejection is still a rejection.  Defense lawyers hate me, the prosecution generally thinks I'm neat.   I think maybe I talk too much.  They used to reject me out of hand when I was a working therapist : guess they thought I'd think too much or something.  Then,  they rejected me as a homemaker - not able to think at all ?   I opted for a middle-of-the-road "unemployed" today.  Figured I'd fit in with all of my fellow casualties of The Economy.  And maybe could think just enough.       One time, I asked to approach the bench.  I have always wanted to say that, so I took my chance while I could.  It was pretty cool.  (ed. note - I have also always wanted to call a "sidebar" - stay tuned).  Another time, I raised my impartial little hand and said to the Judge : "I wanted to throw up after you read the 11th charge, Your Honor."   I think that was a "thank and excuse".   Maybe they should move me to Civil instead of Criminal.       So, I make it to The Box today, so at least I'm not as bored.  We had a coupla doctors, a high schooler ( ? ), cab driver, bus driver, graphic designers, software whatever-it-is-they-do, retired contractors, teachers, unemployed legal secretary, food service workers, shop-keeps, the ubiquitous pack of "no speakees" - and a couple of just nut bags.  I was positive that the defense (as usual) hated me, and waited to get T&E'd.   I answered questions using phrases such as : "...well, then I'd be screwed, wouldn't I?", "..now, that's just nasty !", and "I prefer to finesse and manipulate before I resort to physical violence, sir."      After 6 hours of the afore-mentioned voir dire - we had ourselves 14 people who promised to be good and fair and unbiased and understood English and were not active felons.    I cannot say any more, as I risk being in contempt of court.  Suffice it to say that Juror #7 has a fresh pad of paper, several sharpened #2 pencils, and a burning desire to take copious notes.  We gon' have a gavel-bangin' good time.             Watch this space.            All my love,                  Juror #7