At Least They're Committed

He was skinny and 60something and smoking in the open air on the porch of the dive bar. You know how I feel about smokers. His flesh was pasty white and he was taller than the man yesterday and his hair was brittle and thin and more pale than his skin. He was layered in weathered flannel shirts. A few of us were walking past — not together mind you, I knew no one — but he was watching me so intently, only me, I had to look back. “Hello!” he said, his lips pulling back to reveal tobacco and life-stained teeth. I enthusiastically said, “Hi!” and passed him the genuine but crooked grin I’ve had all my life. “Beautiful!” he said. “I love that smile!” I puzzled and giggled and said thank you and stepped in line at the bus stop, shaking my head. I’ve never liked my smile.

Minutes before, I had bolted from work having caught my reflection in the office window of a colleague who had asked for consult. Dorian Gray, Dorian Gray. I told you I was a Gray, but this wasn’t a painting, it was my reflection. Black circles, sagging jowls, dead, vacant eyes. Horrified, I fled. I never wanted to grow old. I never thought I would. I don’t like it. I can’t.

It’s nighttime now and I sit on my bed wrenching the mud-colored stuffed dog from the mouth of my brindle-coated real dog. Her big, brown eyes watch in anticipation until . . . wait for it . . . I toss it down the hall, its floppy legs bouncing down the stairs and her skinny butt bouncing after.

In upright fetal position, I’m thinking about the man on my way to work yesterday, when I was fearful about the welfare of people I care about, wondering why I care so much in the first place, angry at the ignorance of small men and feeling exiled by my lot in life. I was hiking up the bad-ass hill on the coldest day of the year and he was an elderly, black man decked from head to toe in Denver Broncos gear. He watched as I passed, and he smiled. “Good morning ma’am,”  he said. “You look beautiful!” I smiled and said, “Good morning! Thank you, sir!” realizing that I’d watched two people pass him moments before, and he had said nothing.

Yes, yes. Having two sweet, old dudes on the street randomly tell me I’m beautiful means a fuckload more to me than any schmaltzy rich asshole trying to kiss my ass. What did they see? What? So close together, such different men, so random. I know, I know it means something. I know it’s you. I know you’re asking me to hold on. And I want you to know I’m trying. God, I’m trying.