This was written back in the winter---just now posting.
Three weeks ago, my California children had their car stolen off the street while they slept. Inside were the scarves crafted by my daughter's senior residents at her workplace. She was to deliver them to a homeless shelter the next day.
Two weeks ago my niece's car was stolen from her apartment parking lot while she slept. Some of the papers from inside were left behind, but not her tennis shoes.
Saturday morning my baby girl ran 18 miles as part of her marathon training. While she ran around a lake on a beautiful day surrounded by families with young children, other runners and walkers, her car window was smashed. Everything was stolen from the trunk, even the shampoo she had just purchased.
Saturday evening I sat in my living room watching the sun set out my window, the bare oak trees eerily graceful in their silhouettes against the violet sky.I'd not accomplished a thing all day long. Dinner was in the oven, but we needed a salad. I stood up, picked up my keys, told Ed I'd be back in a sec.
As soon as I walked out the door, I breathed more easily.
It felt so good to be outside.
The car was on empty, so after the Kroger stop, I pulled in to the neighborhood Shell. I saw him right away. He had a white garbage bag of stuff and was leaning against the wall along the side of the building.
As I started to pump my gas , he spoke to me- something about 90 cents left over. I told him I had a credit card....
Then I thought. nah... I've got cash.
For at least the last 5 years, probably longer, I've made a practice of keeping dollar bills. whenever I get asked for money, I give a dollar. I don't try to figure anything out. I give a dollar, and we touch hands, and I look at them. I am doing them no great favor or harm. A dollar isn't going to put them in the gutter or get them out of it, but I am reminded that we belong to each other. We share something.
I think it's the touching hands that stays with me the most. Sometimes it's the eyes.
So I rumbled around and found a dollar. I gave it to him, touched his hand.
I started praying. I prayed for the children of whoever stole my California kids' car. Was something different that next day for their family, "good" or" bad"? Who was wearing my niece's shoes now? What was going on at home for them?And who in the world ate all that Wendy's bought with my daughter's credit card? How was their weekend? What's their mama doing tonight while I'm headed home to have eggplant parmesan?
I finished pumping my gas.
As I closed the tank, I looked over the top of the car to where he was leaning against the wall. "What's your name?"
I'm not not sure why I asked.
He looked at me across the night.
"My name's Kavin,"he said.
*****
Well, of course his name was Kavin.
Of course.
You see, Kavin is ours. He is the local grifter. I know Kavin by reputation. He has stolen all over the neighborhood. Some time back, I came home to a partially raked yard. I couldn't believe Ed had actually done it! And in truth, he had not. He had (unknowingly) hired Kavin to rake the leaves. and , not surprisingly, Ed fronted him cash for lunch and lord knows what else. Ed even drove him home.
When Ed dropped him off, Kavin took his white garbage bag with him. That would be the white bag that had Ed's electric drill in it. Kavin had stolen it from the back house.
.
"My name's Kavin."
I did take a beat. I thought about all of those faceless people who had entered my life in the last few weeks. I really wish they hadn't. I don't really want to know them, don't want to touch their hands or meet their gaze.
I don't really get it.
"Kavin," I said.
"You have a nice night, Kavin."
I went home and had eggplant parmesan made from the summer's bounty.
A California Pinot Noir.
A spinach salad with clementines, pears, tossed with blood orange infused olive oil..
And chocolate.
