Machine Gun Symphony!

DUELING GUITARS. Machine Gun Symphony, a Springfield, MO based band, captures the essence of the 80s hair bands. Raw, rugged and rockin'!

I take my place in the front of the stage, encouraged by some over-zealous blondes. "Have you seen these guys?"
I shake my head, "No."
The height of the stage hits me chest high. A good launch pad for a drink. Several people do the same.
The drinks vibrate in their containers as the super sonic boom begins. Lights, smoke, sound! These guys are good. They fiddle with the mix, adjust amps. They have egos and wigs.
I remember the songs. And they do them justice. It's been a long time. They don't make music like that anymore. But these guys do.

Bagworms and Driving Lessons

Last May, I was driving through the campus of Missouri State University in Springfield and  saw two familiar foreign faces.
The girls, university exchange students from Poland and Japan, respectively,  had been to my house and my parents' house for family gatherings and had done several activities with me.

Ola and Nagisa stood staring into the blossoms of a tree. I waved as I pulled up. "Whatcha doin', girls?"
They appeared frightened by something in the tree. I stepped out of my car to investigate.
They pointed cautiously to a web nest in the branches, crawling with bagworms.
Bagworms are caterpillars that literally spin a network of webbing into a tree, eventually growing and taking over as they eat the leaves. They are disgusting and predatory, but certainly not poisonous nor difficult to handle.
The girls were terrified of them.
I noticed they were gingerly tossing stones onto the nest to weight it down. The ritual continued as if I hadn't come across the scene. One would toss a stone, then the other. Some stones were lodged in the webbing; others adorned the grass below.
Being from the rural countryside often plagued by the pests, I casually picked up a stick and raked it across the web, bringing a sticky cluster of crawling critters with it. The girls fled before they could see what I was going to do. Their terror inspired me to pursue them with mock menace.
Waving the branch laden with the disgusting critters, I pretended to pursue them as they turned and shrieked in unison, their cries reverberating off the building behind them.
I laughed and tossed the mess on the ground. I picked up a bagworm and they chorused in caution again.
I held it out as if to say, "Look, it won't hurt you!"
I simply tossed it down when they didn't approach. I have four sons; I'm more accustomed to curiosity, not terror, over creepy crawlies.
Ola approached with caution, looked down at the bagworm on the sidewalk, and promptly eliminated it under her shoe. Nagisa came up behind her. As the shoe raised, both girls said, "Eww! Green!" commenting on the color of the bagworm's inner contents.
They kept a respectful distance, yet watched in interest as I scraped away the rest of the bagworms and dropped them in a nearby trash can.
Now that we had rid the earth of the predators, I offered another diversion: Driving my car.
Ola had taken the wheel once before, her first effort at driving, and had a passion for speed which had led her, us, and my poor car over a concrete parking block.
Nonetheless, I forgive such grievances with fatherly patience and was willing to offer not only Ola, but Nagisa, another driving virgin, the chance behind the wheel.

I drove them to a deserted street and Nagisa watched from the passenger seat as I showed her how to adjust the mirrors, push the brake, put the car in drive, and slowly release the brake and start steering. I went down the street and turned around in a cul-de-sac.
"Now it's your turn," I offered.
She took the driver's seat and was soon creeping down the lane at an alarming 5 miles per hour. I took the wheel from the passenger side from time to time to keep mailboxes, stray cats, parked cars, and the wrong side of the road safe and clear.
All in all, Nagisa enjoyed her first driving experience more than Ola did from the back seat.
(I'm not sure if it was the focus on a "pretty dog" or a "red bird I've never seen in Japan" instead of the attention to the driving that got to Ola, or if it was the forward thrust from the mashed down brakes that did it.)
All in all, it was a happy memory of three people from three different countries with one common friendship.

I didn't mean to

I didn't mean to. I mean, I was minding my own business. But, it happened.
Not totally my fault.
She wasn't really my type. I didn't want to get mixed up with someone around my age. I would have preferred someone young and naïve; window dressing. You know, a chick for looks, but no substance. One I could manipulate and leave, no worries. No hassles.
But then again, those kind of chicks don't dig guys like me. I'm too bold; too sure of myself, and way too old.
I like to have the advantage. For me, the advantage was to be alone. Something comforting about wearing loneliness like a shroud around your heart. Keeps away the interested folks who pry into your soul.
Too late. She was there, in my life somewhere, like a sock you find in the bottom of the drawer. A match to the other sock you'd almost given up on. You're ready to toss it out, alone, when you find its mate.
Now that I found my "missing sock" I feel like I'm obligated to wear both at the same time. No more mismatch.

Yep. I found my match. But I'm not fully ready to be well. I enjoyed being miserable so long, it became my theme. I was like a country music song, being played over and over.
Now, it's kind of like being in one of those sappy fairy tales, but this time, the cartoon never ends. There are no closing credits. It lasts more than an hour and 45 minutes.
I'm beginning to think good fortune is finding me and I can't get away and be miserable like I want to.
Worse, I'm discovering that I don't even want to be miserable anymore.
I mean, I didn't mean to. I didn't plan to be happy.
It just happened.

Sad song

I was doing fine, for a Monday. I was working along, doing my job, getting things accomplished. Chasing the dream.
Maybe it was a song that came on in the background. I think so. It triggered a sort of sad feeling. Ever had that happen? You're doing fine one minute, then the next you're fighting back tears?
I went to the lunch room. It was empty. The lunch room, had it been occupied, would have cured my blues.
But being empty, it had the opposite effect. I retrieved my lunch and was consumed with the loneliness of eating alone. I wanted to die.
I made it out to my car before too many tears fell.
Once in the safety and seclusion of my parked car, I fell apart.
Have you heard a grown man cry in anguish?
It still haunts me to hear my own cries.
I recovered, presently, and returned to work, no one the wiser.
After work, a repeat of the same process from lunch. Get to the car and fight back the tears, unsuccessfully.

My heart won't let her go.

 

They say I'm crazy

I heard it again today... I hear it most days, actually. I'm crazy.
At least, that's what people tell me.
My answer? You're right. I am.
But what's wrong with being crazy? People consider me crazy because I don't conform to their idea of how a middle aged, educated, white man should behave. I have a "thing" for women's high heeled shoes. I go to places of questionable content with people outside my socially acceptable circle.

Therefore, those who are prone to judge others, are prone to label me as "crazy."

Okay, I'm not going to totally disagree with them. But I do want to promote something. I want to promote the idea that "crazy" isn't bad. In my case, "crazy" means:
I talk to strangers. I add them as friends on Facebook. I solicit them from a variety of sources online and offline, in real life.
I seek new relationships from people outside my socially acceptable circle. Meaning, older, younger, other cultures, other races, ethnic backgrounds, religions, political perspectives, orientation, etc. etc. and so forth. I purposefully become their friend and social companion. I care about them. I respect their differences. I don't always agree (sometimes I vehemently disagree!) but I always love them.

If that means I'm crazy, bring on the crazy!

Cita Previa No Necesaria (No Appointment Necessary)

 Walk in clinic has a ring of authenticity in the tourist town of Nuevo Progresso, Mexico. Strategically positioned on the south side of the Rio Grande River bridge, American and Canadian tourists are bombarded with pleas for instant dental care, pharmaceutical needs, and "manicure, pedicure, haircut" callings out.

No appointment necessary. "Almost free," the saying goes. No taxes. No waiting. No Obamacare. No nothing, but bring your cash.

I'd been feeling the filling need myself. Two big cavities on the left side. One on the top, one on the bottom. No insurance, so... why not check the prices.

A bald man with tattoos stands outside the dentist office. Not sure if he's the dentist, but his personality and English exceed the norm. "30 dollars for each filling," he says with confidence.

Sounds good. I walk in.  My wait time is about the time it takes to get my chair ready. No mystery here. No build up to worry about, just come in, sit back amigo, and open up.

The dentist arrived momentarily. A pretty little Mexican girl was his assistant. He wore a surgical mast. "Open."

I opened my mouth. No extra brushing and flossing to impress anyone today. Just walk in, and open your mouth.

He numbed the area and filled the bottom filling. The familiar smell of something burning. The same drill sound as in the states. The banter between dentist and hygienist was in Spanish, however.

My throat was dry, but the air hose in my mouth prevented any issues, however uncomfortable at times. Top tooth, bigger hole. A genuine effort for the second $30 filling. A pause.

The interpreter bald guy returned. "You have a big hole so you need to come back in two weeks. We put in a temporary filling," he announced.

"Can I come back in four days?" I was heading home in seven days and had to work the last two.

The interpreter asked the doctor in Spanish. Permission granted.

Paid the $60 and out the door.

Back again four days later, the dentist removed my cavity but didn't fill it up again. At least, when he was finished, my tongue could still feel the bigger cavity. Hmm. At least he didn't charge me again.

Emotional Bridge

The first time I crossed the foot bridge into Mexico, I wasn't sure what to expect. Friendly older American tourists were there to assure me of the safety and security of leaving the comforts of the U.S. on foot.

It cost 50 cents to go through the turnstyle. I went up the ramp and looked. There it was --- the Rio Grande. Not very grande. Actually, quite muddy. On our side, a big brown wall with a border patrol vehicle at the gate. On their side, clutter and beggars.


The bridge entrance at Nuevo Progresso, Mexico

The sign in the middle announced our side in English and their side in Spanish. One step later, I was in Mexico. I could hear the cries of the beggars. Women and children, far below the bridge waiving to me like I was Santa Claus. I could toss money at them through the openings on the railing if I so chose. I put my face down next to the opening. The beggars gathered, their chorus for cash intensifying.

I greeted them in Spanish, as if they were long, lost friends. I stood and waived goodbye. It felt weird to have the power to accept of dismiss their efforts.

Before me, an outstretch arm and a hat in the hand, reaching through the guardrail near the end of the bridge. Her voice was persistent, but small. I smiled at her but had nothing for her open hat.

The tourists took a photo of me on the bridge, and on the Mexico sign before the large statue and welcome sign.

Then I was left to my own devises. People calling out for me to enter their pharmacy. Others asking if I needed a shoe shine. Still others trying to convince me to get a manicure, pedicure or a haircut. Or all three.

More requests for pharmaceuticals, as if they were pushing used cars at a sleazy car lot. Men in white lab coats holding cardboard signs with prescription logos, indicating what was inside.
Children and parents pushing toward me, thrusting plastic trinkets my way. "No gracias," I say.

Vendors asking if I want to buy a wallet, a sombrero, a hammock, jewelry.
A mere glance in their direction is like tossing meat to a tiger. "Come in, sir. Pharmacy. Almost free. I give you good price."

Children with packets of gum. "How much?"

"Ten for a dollar," says the mother.



I pull out a dollar bill and pick out ten colorful packets of chicklets style gum.

This attracted the cactus kids. "Cactus?" I dirty brown hand clutches a ziplock bag of chopped cactus. The other hand clutches uncut cactus in another bag.

The upstairs restaurant has clean, but small restrooms and plenty of gringo visitors. A mariachi band circulates. Six tacos for five dollars. Sounds good.

I look out the window on the hot, dusty street below. Mexico is different. I want to see more.

Back on the street with a full stomach and a few coronas to boot, I wander off the beaten path. A man asks if I want to buy any food, pottery, baskets, or women. Kinda in that order. "Can I get you a young lady?"

Interesting, but "no gracias."

A strip club ahead. Eager man handing me a yellow piece of paper with "lesbian shower" on the featured menu.

I continue. Now I'm in the real town, away from tourism. No more white people. Lots more chickens, dogs and dust.

The streets are uneven, unpaved, unkempt. Laundry hangs along a fence. I look again. It's clothing for sale.  Each pair of jeans has a price tag.

A convenience store the size of a rich woman's closet. Children play at outdoor video game machines different from anything I've ever seen. Like a third world arcade from 1983. No expressions. Void of conversation, just boys standing in their school uniforms pushing the buttons and watching the faded flickering small screen.

Dogs lie in the road, unmoved when cars pass. Many Texas license plates. All cars coated with grime.

Some houses look more like chicken coops. The dogs look too tired to bark at the gringo.

A air of despair and poverty lingers. Oppressive, like humidity in July in Louisiana.

Graffiti on a wall. A bar with happy hour all day painted on the purple exterior.

An ice cream cart. Kids on the sidewalk. "Hola, como estas?" I smile. No reply.
A woman, chubby and suspicious. Young. "Hola," I say.
"Hello," she says.
"You speak English?"
She nods. "Lived in Texas most of my life. Came here to get rid of family problems."
She shows me her arm. Riddled with scars. "I cut myself when I got depressed."
"How old are you?"
"15."
Her 14 year old English speaking brother arrives. A man in his 30s, half black and half Mexican wanders up suspiciously. I greet him like an old friend. He only speaks Spanish. Another chubby woman with him about 20, no English.

I flag down the ice cream cart. "How much?"
"Two dollars?"
"Two dollars! Oh, no, loco gringo no mucho denaro," I say, to the amusement of the onlookers. "Uno dollar each. Five for five. Cinco for cinco."
My four new friends and I enjoy a tasty treat in the hot January sun.

Afterwards, 30 something man asks if I want a "sombrero."
I say yes. He gets a palm branch hat from the house. Now I look like a Mexican, complete with a string under my chin.

I waive "adios" and the man asks me to bring him a budweiser on my next visit.
Three girls walking toward me. "Como te llamas?"
"Angelica."
The other two don't reply. Either they don't have names, or they don't have interest in a goofy gringo with a Mexican sombrero.

Back to the less dusty tourist area. Everyone notices my shoes and begs to shine them. I enjoy the attention, declining each offer.

Back on the bridge, 25 cents to leave Mexico. Passport check. "What are you bringing home?"
I walk home. Beggars on the bridge. Crying out for money. I toss them coins and gum.
Tears suddenly well up. I'm crossing the border because I can. It's cleaner and quieter. The cries of the beggars are gone, but their sound still rings in my heart.

Red Russian

When you decided not to leave with the others, hope swelled in my heart. Would you really stay?
I tried to deny it. This must be a dream. Too good to be true.
But I could take care of you. I could mentor you and this euphoria could last beyond the summer.
I would take you in as my own; a stray from another country, another culture.
You would continue to be my source of comfort and joy.
You weren't supposed to impact my life so. But you did. And now, you were staying. Really staying! Really staying?
You weren't specific.
Would you really be my girl for a semester? Would you really enroll in the local university and live with me? You said that's what you wanted more than anything.
I got you an eye appointment but the doctor friend of mine was out. You were disappointed because you were leaving town to be with friends for a week.
I couldn't figure out why you were so disappointed, since we could reschedule.
You indicated you didn't know when you would return, or if.
My throat went dry. My head spun. My carefully laid plans, hopes and desires were dashed.
You were leaving. Not the country, but the area. You were going to Chicago to see him, but not to visit. To live with him.
You told me you wanted to heal. To not be with boys like that anymore. That you would let your mind and your body heal. That you would make decisions based on wisdom unincumbered by outside pressures from poor choices.
You didn't love him. Why did you want to abandon us for him?
You left. You came back. My heart skipped, afraid. Would you stay?
I tried not to let it show. But it bothered me you were leaving again.
You came back a second time. Another fluke. Or was it fate?
Would you stay after all? Was God telling you to be with me and be safe?
You left again. You didn't give me any time alone to say goodbye the way I'd hoped.
You went to Chicago. You didn't like it. You missed me and you missed being here.
Then you left again. Not for home, but you went to Miami. With him.
So far away. Anger. Rage. Jealousy.
I couldn't think. I let you have it. I wanted to scream. I think I did.

You didn't come back. You stayed. Far away, yet still in my country, though barely. Not legal, no money, living with a boy you didn't love and not with a man you did love.
I couldn't face it. I stopped trying to relive the past. Then I had an idea. I would visit you there, in far away Miami.
I did. It was joyous. He was there, of course, pretending all was well. I knew better. You knew better. But with him, we couldn't be honest with each other. Alone, together, we shared. I talked. You listened.
Then you agreed with me. I wanted you to stop this nonsense with him and come back to me. But you stayed. I left.
Then something weird. I came back. A fluke. Or was it fate?
We talked again. We continued long discussions of importance. We loved and lived again.
Then, I left again. You loved me. I loved you. But we still live apart.
We still have so many miles between us. We still don't share life the same way we did in the summer.
I still miss you. I still want you to live with me. I still hope.

Dear Wife

Dear Wife,
Here are all the things I wanted to tell you before you divorced me.

I realize I wasn't a good listener.

I realize I only thought of myself first, then other women, then the kids, then my friends, then you.

I would have divorced me too.

Sincerely,
Me

P.S. Now that I have learned all these things about myself, will you take me back so we can have a good marriage now?

Adverteasing

Delbert pushed up his thick glasses and hit "send," squirming with excitement. He had posted a personal ad on a social media site, soliciting for sex without ramifications. His heartbeat pounded.
At 5 feet, 4 inches and 220 pounds, sweaty Delbert didn't actually have a chance in the real world with real women.
He was 28, a virgin, and still living with his parents. (No offense to all the other 28-year-old virgins living with and mooching off their parents!)
Delbert was a bit of a slacker, but more than saavy with all things computer. He had a part time job at Best Buy, where co-workers referred customers with computer based questions to him but had little else to do with him.


He'd fallen hard and fast for Monica, the assistant manager, but was crushed to discover she was dating the manager from Circuit City. He had thought fleetingly about squealing to corporate about a "conflict of interest" shared between managers of two warring companies, but soon lost interest as Abigail, a prim and proper college student with amazing braces and pimples that matched her freckles, began her employ at Best Buy.
Delbert took it upon himself to "train" Abigail; alas, however, she was not in his department and his training session ended ubruptly when his former flame Asst. Mgr. Monica busted his meaty chops for dawdling and drooling during work hours.
After that episode, Delbert retreated to the confines of his pig sty, an upstairs locker room smelling bedroom in his parents' stuffy, aging "bad-part-of-town" home. There, surrounded by Star Trek and Charlie's Angels posters, his chubby nubbs pecked at the keyboard of his Apple.
Internet access was Delbert's saving grace. Without it, his communication was limited to defending why the meatloaf set aside for dinner guests was half eaten or yelling at his neighbor's dog to stop pooping in the yard. (It was Delbert's duty to de-poo the family property!)
Online this lonesome eve, Delbert's deliberation was ended. His masterpiece ad for unrestrained sex with any female over 18, "age/race/weight unimportant" was complete. His photo, while only slightly altered (he Photoshopped an older picture of Mel Gibson over his senior high school portrait (when he weighed a mere 198 pounds) was plastered to the bottom of the ad, along with his real cell phone number and e-mail addy.
Within two minutes, Delbert struck pay dirt. He pressed his finger to the bridge of his slumping glasses and glared eagerly at the screen. A reply from Wandamamumra1324@hotmail.com.

"Are you still looking? I am:)"

Fascinated by his remarkably speedy success in the world of hunting and bagging babes, Delbert pecked out a nervous reply, including his full name, address, cell phone number, and e-mail address, with the promise to send more pictures, including nudes, if requested.

Three nervous minutes ticked by. Delbert's palms and pits perspired profusely. (Okay, enough alliteration!)

Bingo! The reply from Wandamamura1324@hotmail.com !!!


"Delbert,
Hey babe!  Yes, I am real. Glad to see there are other people on this site looking for the same thing that I am. ;) To be completely honest... I am just looking for a hookup/good time. I really don't have time for anything serious in my life right now, but who knows?  So tell me a little about yourself? What do you want? What do you like sexually? Let me know and i will send you some more sexy pictures ;)"

Delbert barely read the words. His eyes were fixated on the photo of the statuesque model primping before her cell phone in an anonymous women's restroom.  Her spaghetti straps had slipped off both shoulders and her lacy bra unashamedly broadcast her bodacious bust. (I know, I have a thing for alliteration!)




His reply was dutiful, calculated, albeit sweaty.

"Wanda, you are amazing. You are perfect. I have heard of feminine protection, but you are feminine PERFECTION! You make every man's dream come true. I would be most honored to have you be the ultimate subject of my ultimate dream. Please call me immediately.
Resptectfully at Your service,
Delbert P. Newcomb"


To his joy, a reply came within the minute.

"Delbert,

wanna meet up?? This e-mail thing is getting old. If you want babe, you can actually verify you are not a sex offender creep or anything at my profile below and give me a call or text. My phone number is listed on the profile page. Sorry but it's the only way I'm going to meet someone offline. have to be careful these days.  Ever since the social networking serial killer thing a while back i have to be extra safe. :( Message me once you are verified and then we can plan something. im ready when u are hun!


 xoxo, Wanda"

Delbert read her profile with interest. She was 5'7" (he'd have to wear cowbody boots or platform shoes on their first date) and weighed 128 pounds. He hoped he wouldn't step on her. His fat face fell when he got to the part about a credit card number. Oh, well, Delbert told himself. As soon as he could sneak his parents' Visa card after they were asleep, his dream date would be a phone call away...

Five cents worth

I'm in a stuffy room of on the quiet side of a modest hotel. The room has two bunkbeds for four foreign exchange students working the summer in our tourist town. Nearly 10 students from Turkey adn Russia crowd the room, watching me, the only American.
"Who has five pennies?" I announce to the group of boys and girls.
A murmur goes thorugh the audience, as I clarify which coins are pennies. Five cents is gathered and I proceed to explain homonyms with an illustration. Erdom, a Turkish boy with the least English skill, is my example.
"Hold out your hand," I tell him. He glances at his peer group, who nods. He obeys.
I place a penny in his open palm.
 "Do you smell anything?" I say.
He looks back at the group. One of them translates in Turkish.
He shakes his head, "no."
"You have a scent," I say.
Now it's my turn to look at the group. "Do you understand?" I say, slowly. "Scent means smell. And this little coin is known as a cent. The two words sound the same in English, but have a different meaning."
Nods and sounds of affirmation and realization waft through the group. Erdom appears confused, but tries to act as if he, too, understands.
I place another penny in his open palm.




 "Do you see any fruit?" I say. He answers, "Fruit?"
I use hand gestures like I am eating something. "You know, fruit?" Someone jabbers something in Turkish. "Oh, yes. I mean, no. No fruit." Erdom smiles.
"You have a pair," I say.
The room discusses this. Nods and words of acknowledgement. The more fluent explaining in their respective languages to the less.
Third coin. "Do you see any snakes?"
"You have three copperheads."
One of the Russian boys asks the proper spelling for the poinsonous snake name, writing it down when I tell him.
Four pennies now in Edom's palm. "Do you see any cars?"
"You have four Lincolns."
And now, the finale... the fifth and final penny placed in his hand. "Do you see any naked women?"
A pause.
Erdom isn't sure what this means. His delighted counterparts explain.
He smiles, embarrassed. "No."
"And you won't see any for just five cents!"

I just had to meet this woman

 She was picture perfect from a movie script. Blonde. Alone. In a dress. Sitting outside in one of a string of outdoor seating areas splashed along South Miami Beach's Espanola Way.
The night air was inviting. I was walking alone, my friends otherwise occupied. Nothing to do.
I stopped, too quickly, looking at her to abruptly. Then, casually, as if everyone on the semi crowded street were watching, I nonchalantly eased away from my female subject, browsing the area with my eyes as if looking for a lost friend.
 Convinced I wasn't being detected, I walked casually past my subject. She had a sadness in her eyes. Probably Russian or Ukrainian, trying to find her niche on the selfish southeast tip of America adrench in tourism.
A second pass, a "should I or shouldn't I" conversation to myself...
My feet were heading in her direction, my heart pounding with each step. Hurry before I chicken out.
"Where are you from?" (My famous opening line. Not smooth, per se, but sincere.)
The sad eyes focus on me. Her wine glass is nearly empty.
"Russia."
Bingo!
I settle in with my best Russian greeting, explaining to the stranger I am indeed visiting a Russian friend here in Miami Beach. Which, of course, I am.
She invites me to the sit, but not at her table. Her large handbag occupies the seat across from her. I perch awkwardly at the next table, leaning toward her as we exchange information.
A waiter appears; I order a glass of wine to match hers. She offers me the option to move to her table. I pick up her bag, but she will not allow the precious brown leather pouch to touch the ground. I move the bag and the chair to her side and drag my chair to her table. All is again well.
She gives me flat, undecided replies to my banter. Her eyes don't mask her suspicion; nor do they betray her more than mild interest.
Her name is Olga. Typical Russian, she is under 30 and has already lost her life's compass.
Typical American, I'm well beyond 40 and still searching for mine.
My zeal and enthusiasm doesn't rub off; yet she fancies my company until my wine and hers are gone.
She provides the requested contact information and excuses herself, Eastern European style.
But I'm not finished.
I dash after her. She is already down the street, crossing an intersection when I find her again. It is nearly 11 p.m. and I am not comfortable with her being alone on the streets. That will be my rationale should she question my persistence in being near.
I am now ten feet away, walking abreast of her confident high heeled steps.
Her looks over. "What are you doing?"
"Walking."
(I figure honesty is as real as it gets!)
"Why are you following me?"
"Oh, I'm not following you. I'm walking with you."
She has no real reply ready and trudges on. We both realize she hasn't a clue where she is going.
"So, what are you doing?" I offer.
"Looking for a job."
"It's 11 p.m." I observe. "A little late?"
She sighs and keeps walking, looking in a bar as if she wants to enter, then backpeddling almost on top of my feet upon her sudden exit.
I do a graceful sidestep to avoid a collision.
"I'm American; I can help you get a job," I volunteer cheerily.
She continues to strut.
"At least, I know very good English; not so good on my Spanish, which seems the language of choice around here."
My blonde companion is unmoved.
"If you want me to leave, just say 'get out of here--- you're a creep and I don't ever want to see you again!' and I'm gone," I blurt.
She doesn't reply. This girl likes me!
We are back on Espanola Way. "What kind of job do you want?"
"Something like this one," she says, indicating an attractive girl hostessing at a restaurant.
I approach. "Hello, this is my friend from Olga from Russia. She is looking for work like yours. Do you know of any openings at your restaurant?"
The girl is more than pleasant and helpful with information. "Be persistent," she advises. "Keep coming back. Managers hire people on the spot for who show the most interest."
Our non-American friend doesn't quite understand. Perhaps she thinks filling out an application is the only requirement and that a boss will happily call her back.
Sigh.
We continue down the street, beyond the busyness and into the darkness.
"Why are you still here?" she demands, as if my usefulness had expired.
"Keeping you safe," I say, sincerely.
I make more small talk. She indicates her desire to stop by a department store. We enter. Since it's Christmas time, I go to the holiday section and return with a pair of reindeer antlers on my head. I extend a santa hat to my guest.
"Here," I say. "Put his on."
She declines. (No surprise there!)
"Ah," I say. "Here's the hat for you! (I give her a Bag Humbug Santa hat). Do you know what that means in English?"
She shakes her head.
"It means "Olga is a grouch! She is jaded and cantakerous!"
"What means jaded and cantakerous?"
"Look it up," I say.
Her hand held device translates the words.
"I am not!" She declares.
We are now in the candy isle.
"What kind of candy do you like?"
Olga likes Reeses.
I get the biggest, most expensive brick of Reeses peanut butter cups available. It costs over $13.
"I need your pen, Olga."
"Why?"
"So I can write to Olga from John on your gift," I say.
"You have to buy it first."
"Oh no, I need to write on it first."
"Why?"
"So the sales girl won't think it's for her."
It takes a lot more convincing that I'm willing to share here in this blog to get Olga to agree to letting me borrow her precious pen. But, after all, she realizes I am certainly trying to offer her a very decent gift, as far as gifts from strangers go.
We leave the store. I carry Olga's and my purchases in a bag.
Behold, she is staying at the same high rise I am staying at.
We neither one have a security card, so we approach the security guard together.
Olga gives her name and unit number. The guard gets ready to waive us both in, when Olga goes KGB on me.
"We're not together," she snaps, and walks off toward the gate to freedom.
"Olga! I have you gift right here in this bag," I say, pointing.
I look at the male guard. "Women," I whisper. "PMS. One little spat..."
He looks at me with sympathy. "I hear ya," he says, shaking his head. "Go on in."
Both inside, I glare at Olga.  "Way to throw me under the bus!"
She seems satisfied that she had put me through so much. I hand her the bag. She removes the Reeses and hands it to me.
"Oh no, that's for YOU. Remember, it says right here with your own pen's ink: To OLGA from JOHN."
She smiles politely. "Thank you."
She is at her door.
"So, I will see you tomorrow late morning?"
"I never said that."
"Call me!"
She waives and turns to her building.
"Paca," I say in Russian.
"Bye," she replies in English.

Women.