In the past two days, I have had two grown men -- STRANGERS -- take me on an hour-long tour of the emotions.
The first started innocently enough. I was talking in a group about Facebook, and as the group started to disband, the man (he is sort of an acquaintance I guess... and he is very sweaty and his spit collects in the corners of his mouth all the time) and I were left sitting on a bench alone. And then he said, "I mean, I'm married but I definitely look. You know, I LOOK."
It was so weird and suggestive that I almost said, "Dude. I don't feel comfortable with this conversation." Because I'm not the asshole in person that I am in my head, I considerately said, "Well, you're a human, and marriage is hard, but anything beyond looking could be terrible for your FAMILY. How old are your children anyway?"
I gave myself a mental pat on the back, thinking I'd successfully redirected the conversation. But really I'd pried open a giant can of squirmy conflicted crying worms.
He went on to talk about his children, his students, gays and lesbians, foster parents, Syria, the mentally disabled, "something really bad that happened last night," his high school soul mate, a kid who died of cancer, and about 500 other random topics. I just stared straight ahead, except for when he said something so crazy I looked at him out the corner of my eye to make sure this was really happening and I wasn't being schizophrenic.
"I guess I'm just a really sensitive guy. I have a lot of feelings."
Ya think? At this point I'd listened to him blab on for about 40 minutes, so I felt like he'd earned some of my wisdom.
"It's okay to have feelings, but it's not okay to act on every single one because feelings can change in an instant," I began. "And you have to set up some healthy boundaries so you're not having such intense feelings about other people's pain. You can't borrow other people's pain or you'll never feel good."
I'm pretty sure there was applause. It could have been in my head.
Well, today I go to the flea market because it's Antiques and Vintage Day and it's 50 cents to get in and I'm unemployed and it's too hot to stay inside. I've been on the hunt for an old typewriter for my upcoming Lunatic Asylum Themed Halloween Party (yes, that deserves capital letters) and I was hoping I could fine one Angeleno who doesn't know the value in a crusty turn of the century typewriter. I walked through the outdoor market, which is a little like visiting a bazaar in Juarez, and there it was, sitting under a rusty old toy car.
The seller was on the phone so I tried to look like I had nothing better to do and was absolutely not trying to understand his private Spanish conversation. When he got off the phone, he said, "That is my son. He is so lazy. I try wake heem up at 5, he say no. I try at sees tirty, he say no. At 7 I go or I pay more, so I leave heem. Now he come by bus."
The man is not all the way set up yet, so I assume his lazy son is his partner in this enterprise. Before I can say, "Kids suck, huh?" he says, "He was shot 7 times. One across hees chess, two in each arm, that's five, one thru here (he gestures through the front of his head) and one thru here (this gesture is through the back of the head toward the front). He 27 year old. He not the same."
I couldn't think of anything to say, and that blip of silence cracked open a can of tragic, unsettling, Jesus-infused worms.
He told me about how he was lonely because his wife had just left for Germany to help her daughter with her new baby for 3 months, how his daughter who works part time at Target has to get dialysis three days a week for diabetes and just applied for a kidney transplant, how his other son is in prison in San Francisco for gang stuff, how he had an ear ache and a hip pain but he prayed and the next day he woke up healed (the hip story came with an agility demonstration that can only be described as a jig), how all he wants is enough money to eat, pay rent, and maybe go to Chuck E. Cheese with his grandkids, (I think Chuck E. Cheese is my favorite thing to hear someone with a Mexican accent say), how he goes to church Wednesday nights and Sunday school on Sundays and eats dinner with his mom, how sometimes the people in the booth next to him get nasty because he goes over his boundary by a few inches, how he's made mistakes with women before but with his new wife it's about respect, not sex, how his brother's 13-year-old daughter had a belly ache and passed out after visiting the doctor and it turns out she's ate up with a brain tumor and she's on a ventilator and her skull is open just resting on her head. Then someone interrupted to ask how much the antique car was.
They negotiated between $5 and $7 and settled on $6. "How much is that typewriter?" I managed to squeeze in. "I'm asking $80 for it."
Normally I would have tried to negotiate him down to $40, but what human with an ounce of compassion could in good conscience do that to this man, especially when all they want the typewriter for is a prop at a halloween party? Like I said, I'm not the asshole in person that I am in my head... plus he'd put me on his prayer list and looking for a job the normal way isn't working so why not give Hay-suess a try.
He rambled on about church and Jesus and how awesome heaven is going to be, and the whole time I'm thinking, well, yeah, because your life is absolute hell. Eventually people started visiting his booth, so I managed to say, "It was really great talking with you, but I'm going to shop around and let you finish setting up. I hope life cuts you some slack soon. Good luck with everything."
There was no applause.
I'm not sure what about me screams, "I'd love to unburden you of all your troubles," but if I get emotionally dumped on by one more grown man, I'm going to send him a bill.
