We had to leave the John Prine concert early to catch the last train home, which sounds like the beginning of a John Prine song. We didn't get to hear the last few songs or the encore. I would have liked to hear it all, but what I heard and experienced was food for my soul.

I am one of those folks who were "folkies" back in the 70's. I was underage and faking my way into Earl's and The Quiet Knight. I wondered if I had only imagined how wonderful and profound it was, and how simple.

"Day time

makes me wonder why you left me

Night time

makes me wonder what I said

Next time

are the words I'd like to plan on, but

Last time

was the only thing you said."

Waukegan, where we saw the concert, felt a little like Mars. Nothing open except the theater, and we were smack dab in the middle of downtown Waukegan. After we ate at Fong's, we started over to the theater and while there may have been 10 or 12 cars on the street, we didn't see any need for the police to block the road in front of the theater. But they did. Inside we were overwhelmed with assistance. Ushers (mostly elderly, it must be said) were so helpful it made you feel as if they were setting you up for some very strange goings on.

"Come right in - just go right in - we'll get you all in real quick" spoken in rushed and slightly panicked voices with the subtext of "WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO WITH ALL THESE PEOPLE?" Maybe this was a larger than normal crowd. Maybe they were concerned about us. Maybe this was Mars.

In our seats the lights dimmed for the opener, Iris DeMent. Big applause. The audience seemed very excited to see her.

But evidently in Mars, when everyone is in their seats, there's a custom that as soon as the lights go down, you get up and leave the theater in groups. I have never seen anything like it. Up and down and out and in and groups of 5 guys and couples and they were all in a hurry. It got to the point that I was sure I was missing some give away in the lobby. Then we were in intermission and people were literally hurling themselves out of their seats to get - well, I'm not sure where they were going or what they hoped to find there but they were determined to get there NOW. We'd been sitting there for 45 minutes, tops. Maybe there was a bomb scare we hadn't heard about. Maybe they have extremely weak bladders on Mars.

Finally - lights down, stage lights up and forget about Mars, I was home. And so was everyone else. With no introduction John Prine walked onstage with his bassist and guitar player to a tremendous ovation. And this crazy, unsettled, attention deficit audience became laser focused on his every word, motion and note.

I've been to lots of concerts, seen alot of live music. But there was something really special in this room. In the middle of a song, as Prine hit the lines that break your heart, people would applaud or scream out their appreciation. His songs aren't exactly upbeat if you aren't familiar with them. Best known is probably Angel From Montgomery. When he got to the lines:

"How the hell can a person

Go to work in the morning

Come home in the evening and

Have nothing to say?"

the audience couldn't wait till the end of the song to let him know how much they loved those words and voiced their opinion right then.

I suppose I wouldn't have been surprised if the lyrics had been:
"I'm proud to be an Okie from Muskokie" or
"I'm proud to be an American where at least I know I'm free."

But Prine's lyrics are sad and lonely and cut so close to the bone that it makes you want to inhale like your heart just got a paper cut.

"That's the way that the world goes 'round.
You're up one day and the next you're down.
It's half an inch of water and you think you're gonna drown.
That's the way that the world goes 'round."

Throughout the night, I had a sense that somewhere there was a phantom group of back-up singers. But everytime I heard it, it seemed to stop. I realized that it was the audience, singing along softly. They didn't want to get in the way of his performance, but it wasn't enough to hear these songs, they wanted to share them.

"There's a hole in Daddy's arm

Where all the money goes

Jesus Christ died for nothing, I suppose.

Little pitchers have big ears

Don't stop to count the years

Sweet songs never last too long

On broken radios"

The audience reaction reminded me of the poetry slam I attended last week. Tim was competing in Louder Than A Bomb, the world's largest teen poetry slam. As each one of the young authors got up, the others would applaud in support, as if they were not competing against each other for just a few slots to go to the national bout. And as each performer left the stage the others would rush to their side to hug and congratulate them for capturing and reflecting life so it could be experienced anew. These pieces are rooted in hip-hop rhythms and when they are really good you feel like you can dance to them. Response is built-in and invited and the audience knows and obliges. During each poem, the rapt attention was broken only when the performer put words, rythym, movement and voice together to touch us with images or ideas that were so true there was nothing to do but yell or applaud or stomp feet or slam tables in recognition and appreciation.

That reaction might be expected from a bunch of teenagers. But not at a concert filled with 50-something folks. We know how to wait till the song is over to applaud, to hold our appreciation, to be cool. But song after song, the audience couldn't hold back their feelings. And these voices were mostly male. Grown men sang along in profound recognition of the shared truth in Prine's lyrics.

"Well, I leaned on my left leg

in the parking lot dirt

And Cathy was closing the lights

A June bug flew from the warmth he once knew

And I wished for once I weren't right

Why we used to laugh together

And we'd dance to any old song.

Well, ya know, she still laughs with me

But she waits just a second too long."

Jeanette Winterson, in her book of essays called Art Objects, writes that art does object to "the lie against life that it is pointless and mean. The message coloured through time is not lack but abundance, Not silence but many voices. Art, all art is the communication cord that cannot be snapped by indifference or disaster. Against the daily death it does not die."

Yes. And when we see, hear or read such objections , we are compelled to shout our assent right then. Even on Mars.

Dad is 80

First day of kindergarten, you walked me to school and I got on a bus to come home. Afterwards in the kitchen you and mom, asking over and over again, WHY would you get on a bus? I walked you there, I told you I would pick you up - and you were both upset and I didn't know why I thought I should get on a bus. Finally you told me to go play. But, I thought I saw you smiling.

I thought I saw you smiling but when I turned around you were just looking at me and you said go on now, go play.

I got in trouble in 1st grade and knew I’d be in trouble with you and so I stopped at the candy store and bought you root beer penny candy and you said what is this for and I said nothing and you said what is this for and I said I love you and you said what is this for and I said I got in trouble today and you said we will talk about this later and I went to my room. But, I thought I saw you smiling.

You told me not to go down the Parkside stairs one at a time cuz they were cement stairs and I could go down them one at a time when I was big and I figured I was already big and I went down them one at a time and after you picked me up and after you put spoons on my head and after you bandaged my eye you told me that I should have listened to you. But, I thought I saw you smiling.

We were playing tent, or dress designer, and you flew upstairs and yelled at us WHY was the sheet off the bed and Get to sleep NOW and don’t let me hear another peep and Deb said peep and you came back and yelled again. But, I thought I saw you smiling.

It had been a day and we hadn’t been listening and we had been bickering and nothing seemed to slow us down and mom said wait till your father comes home and you came home and you called us all down from our rooms and made us stand in line and you made me get the phone book and you told us you were looking up orphanages because this kind of thing could not go on in your house and you sent us back upstairs while you thought about it and told us to think about it. And I’m sure I saw you smiling.

I was really mad that we moved from the city, really mad and really unhappy and I cried and whined and moaned and you promised to take me to the library in “town” wherever that was and finally one day you did and I saw that the whole bookmobile that used to come by our house could fit in the lobby of this new library and when we drove home you asked me if I liked it I said I guess so. Oh, yeah, you were smiling.

Plenty of times when I was a teenager we would fight for hours, or I would fight and you would read your newspaper until you couldn’t stand it anymore and neither one of us was laughing then. But there were some times where we would disagree and it felt like playing volleyball and we passed the ball back and forth for awhile until you got tired and getting in a good pass was exhilarating even tho you would slam it back twice as hard. And I think I saw you smiling.

That smile I’m talking about is the one that says you’re getting a kick out of something. It isn’t meant for anyone else to see and it comes with a slight shake of the head. It is equal parts amusement and amazement and it is really, really good and most of us have seen it when you are talking to one of us about another one of us.

I can make people laugh, and when it is just right, when I have put the timing and the words and the tone and the look together just right and everybody roars and I can hear people saying afterwards when they think I’m not listening, she is so funny, I look back. And …I know I see you smiling.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Lucky

Some of my brothers and sisters may think of the old house as the one we lived in the longest, 1008 Pendleton, in Mt. Prospect. But for me, the old house will always be the bungalow at 2937 N. Parkside in Chicago, where we lived in the 50's.

Mom and Dad didn't own the house, they rented the first floor. There were two bedrooms, a back porch, living room, dining room and kitchen.

It's the first house I remember and we left there when I was ten. I think the quality of attention I paid to everything around me was much greater then, so I remember things very clearly. (At least I think I do. Others may remember it differently, but that's ok, that would be their memories.)

By the time we left that house, there were six of us kids, with one more on the way. (Actually there were five more on the way, who knew?) By this time the back porch had been turned into a bedroom to take the overflow from the kid's bedroom.

I am not sure how long she did it, but for awhile around 4:30 or 5 every day, after she made sure we had taken all of the toys out of the living room and dining room, Mom would stop making dinner for a few minutes and change her clothes. Then she would put on lipstick. And sometimes, she would put on a record of one of the shows that had recently come out. King and I, Flower Drum Song, My Fair Lady. I loved the music of King and I, but the cover of My Fair Lady always gave me the creeps with the god character in the clouds with the strings attached to the humans. Anyway, when Mom changed her clothes and put on the music, it felt like magic. I always thought Mom was revealing what she was really like, not just a Mom, but a beautiful woman who loved music and theater and talking and laughter.

Then Dad would come home and we would all eat dinner. Dad would talk about his day at work. One time he talked about someone getting fired and I thought it was terrible that they would put a man in an oven just for not working hard enough. My idea of the nice office Dad worked at was altered to a terrible dark furnace room. My father was a HERO to go there every day!

As I look back, they were so young. Not just compared to them now, but compared to ME now! I remember Dad on the floor, playing with us, letting us crawl all over him, telling us story after story.

The main feeling I have about Dad back then was that he was sure that he was lucky. I don't know if it was the Dale Carnegie course, or his success at work, or his family or all of it. But he acted as if he felt he were lucky - good things were on the way. He made me feel that way too.

On summer evenings, I remember Mom giving us baths and us getting into our pajamas. I can remember what a great feeling it was to be clean and fresh, ready for bed with the sun still up. As I remember one night, Mom was giving someone a bath when a big pink car pulled up in front of the house. We didn't have a car, Dad took the bus to work. (He also walked huge bags of stinking dirty diapers down the block to the laundromat.) The driver of the pink car was honking and it took me a few minutes to see it was Dad leaning out of the car, saying, "Go get your mother!" We tore into the bathroom to tell Mom. I think this was one of Dad's classic surprises.

The bungalow had cement stairs leading up to the front door. However old I was, and however big, the stairs were too deep and I was not allowed to take them one by one. Eventually I wanted to go down the "grown-up way".

Of course I fell, and got a gash above my eye. Dad was right there, it must have been a weekend day. After the cleanup and the bandaid, Dad sat next to me on the couch. He said that the cut had come very close to my eye. And then he looked and me and smiled and said, "You were very lucky." I remember thinking yup, that 's us. We are very lucky.

I look back now at our family's life. I look at Dad watching his great grand-daughters playing and flash back to that young man rolling around the floor with us, tickling us and telling us stories. I look at Mom's beautiful face, that still reveals who she really is.

No doubt we all have all had our challenges, disappointments and even tragedies. But I still think Dad was right. We're very lucky.

How I Learned To Travel

In England for the first time, to be a godmother to my friends’ new baby, I decided to take one day for myself to see London. Being from Chicago, I figured I could find my way around, and I was eager to experience it on my own.

So I did what any good tourist does, I got out the guidebooks, the pamphlets and the maps, and planned a route with my friends the night before.

They were very helpful, telling me about things I shouldn’t miss, as well as things I should. And I had some of my own ideas, like visiting Charing Cross Road. There was a wonderful book I’d read called “84 Charing Cross Road” about a bookstore there and a woman from New York who grew to love the store and all of the people in it as they exchanged letters about books she wanted to buy during World War II.

Neville thought I was crazy to go there. “You must see the Tower and you have to see St. Paul’s. Really Charing Cross Road is only a shadow of what it was. I don’t think you should waste your time.” Right. We marked out an itinerary that included as many of the tourist attractions as we could fit. If I kept very tightly to the schedule I’d have a full experience of London.

Morning, and I boarded the train. I was used to the whole commuter scene and tried to look very nonchalant as we whizzed by buildings and gardens and signs that were all totally different from home. All of the other people were bored and going to work, while I wanted to yell, “Yippee! I’m in London!”

First stop was Leicester Square to buy discounted same day theater tickets. I was standing on line and began chatting with the lady in front of me. We introduced ourselves, her name was Margie. We slowly began to suspect that we were in line for one of the “fake” booths, which don’t really offer the wonderful tickets to the smaller plays, but only slightly discounted tickets to the “Cats” variety. While she held my place I began to walk around and found the famous Leicester Square booth. I waved Margie over and she and I were having a fine time celebrating that we had avoided a tourist trap, talking and waiting for the booth to open.

In a few minutes, a man from Kentucky named Tony joined in. We compared notes about theater in general and what we would see that evening and in the end all got tickets for the same show. We said our goodbyes and agreed to meet again that evening at the theater.

Almost immediately on leaving them I started to feel very woozy. Enough to sit down on a park bench. Enough to start to worry about what to do. Down the bench from me was a man I hadn’t noticed.

Had I seen a tourist in trouble in Chicago, I’m quite sure that I would have helped. I see myself doing so in a very take-charge way. What was so different about this fellow was how he just sort of leaned in and very casually mentioned what a great day it was. This gave me the opportunity to say something about suddenly not feeling well.

He pointed out a “chemist” as they call drug stores, and suggested that perhaps I had a bit of a sinus problem. So after sitting for abit, he walked me there. Again, very understated, not Chicago style at all.

The chemist recommended a powder that you were to put into hot water. My next step was to find a café so I could order tea. Soon I was in a lovely little restaurant where I could sit outside and enjoy the weather and concentrate on feeling better.

Mentally I was cursing myself for wasting so much time. There went the tour at St. Paul’s Cathedral, and if I caught the next one, I would miss the Tower. But there wasn’t an alternative. I had to sit there and let the medicine do its work in order to salvage any of my day.

I’d brought along my travel journal, and so I dug it out and started to write about what I’d experienced so far, about Margie and Tony and the lovely Scotsman.

Then suddenly I saw myself sitting in the sun on a brilliant spring morning in a small café, sipping this medicine that tasted like peppermint tea, and munching on a lovely pastry. I was watching people go by, hearing snippets of conversation and writing as the inspiration hit.

This was my dream of being in London. Not the crazy rush to see attractions so that I could tick them off a list. But time to actually experience the city and feel its heartbeat. How had it happened? If I hadn’t gotten ill, I would have missed it all - trying to see it all.

After awhile I felt much better. I looked at my map, and realized that I was just a few blocks from Charing Cross Road. I saw the day stretch out in front of me – browsing for books, getting on a double decker bus and sitting upstairs while I watched the city go by, eating dinner in a pub and talking to and laughing with the bartender and then meeting my new friends for a lovely play.

The Tower of London would have to wait, today I wasn’t ready for prison. Today I wanted nothing more than the freedom to find this city on my own terms.

And so I did.

Walking Her Home

Remember walking someone home?

It is a sweet old concept that you don’t hear much anymore. Now we drive, drop off on our way, or catch a lift.

Walking someone home was a softer, gentler activity. First of all, you walked, so the pace of the leave-taking was slower. When you got to their home, you left your companion and make the return trip alone, giving you time to reflect. There weren’t cell phones, so the walk back wasn’t disturbed. You thought about your friend, of things you’d both said, and things you wanted to say when you met again.

When I was young, I walked people home frequently. Many times it was my brothers and sisters and I was picking them up from a ball game or swimming lesson, or a friend’s house. Picking up isn’t the same as walking home. I had to pick up my siblings to keep them safe and make sure they didn’t get distracted and end up at a friend’s house or stop to play in the park. Walking someone home is a choice, and in a way, a silly one. Because, after dropping off your friend, you had to walk home alone.

The walks I remember best were with my friends. They would come to my house after school, and when it got close to supper time I would walk them home.

Because these walks were the end of our visit, we dragged our feet. We didn’t want the afternoon to end and be forced to go on to our homework and chores and the like.

I remember walking my friend Mary home. She used to live a few blocks away from me but had moved across town. I would usually walk her half way home. Looking back on it now I think we argued a lot on our walks. I think we didn’t want the day to end, and the arguing gave us an excuse to stand on a streetcorner half way between where we’d been and where we were going and postpone the goodbyes.

I thought of this recently when my sister-in-law’s mother passed. Leane’s mom wasn’t an easy person and theirs wasn’t an easy relationship. But I watched Leane care for her mother during her long last illness. Sometimes she would be understandably frustrated and angry at her mother. It seemed like whatever she did wasn’t enough for her mother and they argued, or they sat in silence.

And, at the end, she never left her mother’s side. That’s when I had the image.

Leane had walked her mother home. Their time together was over, and they knew it. They’d fought on the streetcorner, not wanting it to end. And finally, they had to part.

Now, and for awhile, Leane will be walking alone and reflecting on her mom, on their relationship, and remembering things she wanted to say.

But always she will be able to remember that in the end, she gave her mother that sweet, loving gift. She walked her home.

Father Pfleger

Ok, let me say from the beginning that I know I come at this Father Pfleger controversy from a different place than a lot of people. I was married to an African American, my son is African American, and I have many friends –real friends, not just acquaintances – and family members who are African American. I have worshipped at churches, ate at BBQs and danced at clubs where I was the only white person in attendance. Most white people I know haven’t had those experiences, which isn’t a problem.

But I do think my experiences give me a vantage point from which I see things differently. I think there is something important going on here that goes beyond what we are seeing in the media.

I look at the Father Pfleger video and I do see him making fun of Hillary. I do. And as he started his comments, he indicated that this was probably not the place to do that.

If you look at the video of that morning, there was a context that had nothing to do with Presidential politics. He was talking about white entitlement. The fact that being white in our society is an advantage is very clear to anyone who is not white.

But here is the disconnect that keeps us talking and arguing about the wrong thing. Most white people would not agree that they are entitled, that their color gives them any special privileges.

If Father Pfleger had simply made fun of Hillary, or George Bush, or Barack Obama for that matter, this would have been a matter between Father and his congregation and his pastor. But he broached the subject we dare not speak of, he did it in public, and he told the truth.

Before he talked about Hillary, he talked about facing “the one who says ‘Don’t hold me responsible for what my ancestors did.’ But you have enjoyed the benefits of what your ancestors did, and unless you are ready to give up the benefits…then you must be responsible for what was done in your generation because you are the beneficiary of this insurance policy.”

I think that many whites feel that since all laws discriminating against minorities, and African Americans in specific, have been struck down, everyone is equal. And in some cases like Affirmative Action, some folks may even feel that they have been victims of reverse racism.

Most white folks I know are not trying to hold anyone else back and are not conscious of any benefits due to color. We are too busy living, trying to hang on to our job or find another one, send our kids to school and keep them out of trouble, fighting to put something together that we can leave when we are gone, too busy with all of that to consider what life is like on the other side of the street.

There is, however, another side of the street.

When my son was small and we would walk to school, I would point to the policeman on the corner and tell him that if anything was wrong or if anyone tried to hurt him he should go to the policeman. The policeman would help, I told him.

When his tall, well-built, well-dressed African American father walked him to school, they passed the same policeman. His father would tighten his hold on my son’s hand, walk a bit faster and try not to attract any attention. His father has never been accused of any criminal activity greater than a speeding ticket, but, even so, he had been made to assume the position many times while on his own northside block, keys to his apartment in his hand.

Which one of us gave my son the right message?

This is where I think the entitlement disconnect comes in to play. A tall, well-built, well-dressed white man walking to his northside home will not be ordered to assume the position for no apparent reason. The possibility would never occur to him.

So he gets two entitlement points. He won’t be stopped. And he doesn’t have to worry about it.

My son’s father on the other hand, loses three points. He may be stopped. He does have to think about it. And he knows that there are other men walking in the same neighborhood who never have to worry about it.

Everyone is equal under the law. But clearly we are not all having the same experience.

One thing I can tell you about attending African American church services. They tell the truth. And when appropriate, there is lots of laughter. Father Pfleger was ministering to a congregation who deal with the their lack of entitlement points every day. He was talking about it loud and clear and he was telling the truth.

He may have used poor judgment in bringing Presidential politics to the pulpit. But he is being punished by the white media for something else entirely.

Spring in January

Spring weather in January does strange things to Chicagoans. It’s not just odd, it’s wrong and we all know it. We know we will pay for it sometime when we are least expecting it, like a bad check we are writing to weather central. We use up any extra energy we might gain from the unseasonable warmth fighting the seductive idea that winter is not coming at all, that it just passed us by this year. Denial is much more dangerous than the cold.

So, even tho we are enjoying the weather, we are irritated at the same time. I wouldn’t be surprised to find the crime rate goes up. Usually even the criminals stay indoors this time of year.

Anyway, one fine January spring day, I was driving along Wabash Avenue, underneath the el tracks. I was headed to the Washington Library to do more research on my family tree. Parking can be difficult there because of the el train supports. The city has done away with all free parking anywhere downtown, and people are now fighting for the few $6 spots on the street rather than the $15 – 20 spots in the parking lots.

I remember when you put a nickel in one of the meters that lined the streets and that was that. You’d stay too long, get a ticket and paper your bathroom with it. No one ever actually paid their parking tickets. That was before computers and databases. I just got a letter the other day for a ticket from 3 cars and seven years ago. I really can’t remember owning a 4x4 truck and I lived out of state that year, but hey, no problem, I’ll pay it! I’ll pay it twice to avoid that lovely little item of footwear they can now attach to your tire. It’s Dante’s fourth level of hell you enter then, my friend. And no one can help you. It’s just you and the parking gods at the junk yard.

Back on the street, the guy in front of me suddenly pulled over, he’d found an empty spot. I was happy for him. “Good eyes,” I thought. “I have to start watching over here.” Just then, two things happened at the same time. A man who was panhandling on the street began waving at the man to warn him that the spot he’d found was illegal. And I saw another spot a few yards ahead.

I pulled over to the right and put the car in reverse. Suddenly, the other car pulls up alongside my spot. He is trying to take my spot - now that he knows his original spot is illegal.

The panhandling guy has moved back onto the sidewalk to watch. I’m looking in my rear view mirror. I put both hands in the air, palms up in the universal sign for “Whaddya think you’re doing?” He has an intense look on his face, and indicates that he is now the owner of this spot. Only problem is that he is right next to the spot and unless his car has a gear called SlideOver, he needs to move up in order to back into it.

I quickly decide I am not driving away. Now, this is the kind of thing that used to drive my ex nuts. I would take these stands and he would feel that he had to back them up. I never looked at it that way. If I took a stand, it was because I was ready to defend it myself. (Evidently, according to my mother, this basic misunderstanding of the male ego may have contributed to the reasons why he is my ex. Another story for another day.)

Sitting alone in the car that day I did actually think to myself, “I wonder if this guy is dangerous?” This is why I stayed in the car, rather than giving in to my impulse to storm over to his window and wag my finger right in his face.

The whole wagging of the finger thing? As I write it now I can see that it doesn’t sound very threatening. But if your face has ever caught the full force of a wagging finger that belonged to either an old nun, your grandmother or anyone who has just put you on a scale, you know that a simple finger wag can stay with you for years.

Wagging is different than pointing. Pointing indicates that the pointer has made a judgment and the pointee has been found guilty. The pointee then has the opportunity to point back. The conversation goes like this:

Pointer: “YOU! YOU are wrong!!”
Pointee: “NO, YOU, YOU are wrong!!”

These conversations usually do not end well; in fact, in many cases they do not end at all but repeat into infinity.

Wagging means that not only has a judgment been made, but also that the sentence is shame. The conversation goes like this:

Wagger: “SHAME ON YOU!! Is this the way your mother brought you up?”
Waggee:

In this case it doesn’t matter what the response is because the waggee is now thinking about their mother, who would surely not approve of stealing a parking space. You see? The Republicans have taught me something.

Anyway, this is all moot, because I didn’t get out of my car or wag any fingers. (By the way, this is the correct spelling of the word moot. It is not mute. Mute means one cannot speak. Moot means one doesn’t have to speak. One may remain mute. I’m just sayin’.)

We are now both fuming in our respective cars. He is sending really tough looks my way and I am shaking my head. So I turn around in my seat and wave my hands around. I am thinking “Hey! You had the other spot!” Just as I realize there is no way he is going to understand my psychotic sign language, he suddenly points to the panhandling guy. I understand that he is saying, “Yeah, but he told me it is illegal! And I still need to park!”

Since we seem to have a telepathy thing going, I shrug and point back to the original spot, thinking at him, “How does that give you permission to take MY spot?” And I have to admit it, I am wagging a mental finger at him and saying, “What would your mother say?”

He ducks his head, and a small guilty smile plays on his lips for just a second. And then he does the miraculous. He puts his car in reverse. I won! He has to wait for me to clear the lane before he can move, so I begin to back up. But of course, this is when I crack. I hit the curb 326 times before I am safely parked. I think I will wave at him; gracious in victory, but when I look up he is gone.

I get out of the car and walk around to feed the meter my credit card. The panhandling guy looks nervous. He starts to stammer, “I didn’t tell him to take that spot…I only told him the other one was illegal…I didn’t see you…”

For a minute I think about using my telepathic wagging power to suggest that he get a job. After all, what would his mother think?

But then I change my mind. I walk over and smile, stuff a dollar in his cup, and ask him to watch my car. There are a lot of crazy people walking around in this warm January city.