Later, just before bed, I asked her if Dad was mad that she gave three bucks to Reggie. She said no, but I knew better. I asked if Dad was right, if Reggie was nothing but a lazy drunk. Mom said some homeless folk were like that, but she didn’t think Reggie was one of them. She said even if he were, she would still give him three bucks. She said it wasn’t her job to pick which ones were genuinely starving and which ones were faking it.
“Help is help to anyone, Mary. Even if they don’t know they’re asking for it.”
I said that made a whole lot of sense, because it did.
And it still does.
Here’s the thing, Iz: my mom needs help right now. And I know it, even if she doesn’t.
Signing off,
Mary Iris Malone,
Samaritan Avenue Vagabond
13
Everything Sounds Better on Vinyl “EXCUSE ME, DO you have the time?”
I look up from my journal and almost keel over. The stranger has a unibrow, a bushy mustache, severe acne, three-inch-thick glasses, and overly chapped lips.
So. Many. Things.
I vomit a little, force it back down. “Sorry, I’m just—” . . . unsure which facial feature to avoid . . . I blink, then gulp, then use my words. “Yes,” I say, pulling my cell phone out of my bag. “Almost one.”
He stomps off, leaving me to stare at my phone. Twenty-eight missed calls. Twenty-six from Kathy. Two from Dad.
Attaboy.
A waste bin sits by my bench, beckoning. I could just throw the stupid thing away, be rid of Stevie Wonder and His Sonic Detritus once and for all. Reluctantly, I stuff the phone in my bag, along with my stick figure journal, then march over to the ticket counter and hand the lady my voucher.
“You traveling alone?” she whines, chomping on gum.
I’m ready this time, armed with a new strategy. “Yes, ma’am. My dad is sending me up to Cleveland to live with my mom, see. They got divorced earlier this year, a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions, and it pretty much devastated me to the point of murdering myself, but really, how does one go about it?”
The lady continues chewing, wholly unimpressed.
“I know, I know,” I say, nodding, smiling, “and before you say it, yes, I thought about sleeping pills, but how many do you take? My luck, I’d take just enough to do some serious damage, but not quite enough to do the trick, you know? Doomed to roam the streets of Cleveland, some tragic kid with a half brain, everyone whispering as I pass, There’s the girl who failed at living and dying. So yeah, I’ll pass on pills, but the car in the garage thing, that sounds promising, don’t you think?”
She pops a bubble the size of a grapefruit, takes my voucher, hands me my ticket. “Number sixteen seventy-seven to Cleveland,” she says, “departs at one thirty-two. You got thirty minutes, kid.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the ticket. “You’re a real treat.”
Outside, the downtown area is abuzz with traffic and music; tourists young and old swarm into boot parlors, record stores, and vintage guitar shops, trying to get a jump on Labor Day deals. Live bands are set up in a dozen storefront windows like mannequins, advertising twang instead of tweed. And the honky-tonks, my God, the honky-tonks! Until now, I’d assumed a honky-tonk was a quiet bar full of strange people I would never want to talk to. In reality, they’re obnoxiously loud bars full of strange people I would never want to talk to. I pass one with a band blaring something about a bedonkey-donk, which I can only assume is the Official Honky-Tonk National Anthem. I’m already jealous of myself five minutes ago. Because you can’t un-know a honky-tonk.
Across the street, a life-sized statue of Elvis beckons, and suddenly, nothing else matters. I grip my backpack and hustle over for a closer look. It’s sort of sad, actually, though not altogether unrealistic. The hair looks about right, anyway. From his later days. That’s when it occurs to me—Mom would love this. However imperfect this trip has been thus far, I’ve now stopped in both Graceland and Nashville, two cities synonymous with Cash and the King.
This is a good sign.
I take another look around and hook my thumbs in my pockets. I whistle, I smile, I throw on my idiot face. Give me your hats, your honky-tonks, your boots, your bedonkey-donks. I am Mary Iris Malone, tourist extraordinaire.
Behind the statue is a store called Hat Shoppe. Summoning every ounce of Malone stick-to-itiveness, I walk inside. The floors are wooden, the people are loud, the music is I-don’t-know-what . . . The first hat in reach has black and white spots. I pick it up, and, just out of curiosity, inspect the tag on the inside: MADE WITH AUTHENTIC COW HIDE. Well that’s good and gross.
I take a deep breath.
I put it on.
I look at myself in the mirror.
I set it down.
I walk out.
As far as I’m concerned, it never happened.