People Gazing

I saw a mother posted on the corner like a soldier waiting for the light to change. She took her Power Ranger backpack seriously as her son danced with the matching umbrella.

The man who waters the plants (these potted ivies and shrubs are rented by my company) says hello and asks me how I am doing. He has an apron with pockets that he puts the dead leaves in. “Busy,” I smile, eyeing his watering can. I am thankful for my job, the security, the pay increases, but I am jealous of him as he waters the plants, his thoughts are his to have.

Today I have been ruled by my stomach or rather the tastebuds on my tongue. The longings climb into my swampy heart chambers and whisper, “chocolate, sweets, crackers” in my ears. I ate an Almond Joy®, cereal, a piece of chocolate, dessert yogurt, salad, lentils, and a brownie. “That is enough,” I said. So I brushed my teeth and said no to the Cheetos, the Reese’s peanut butter cup, the pop corn and the graham crackers. I want my thoughts to be consumed with higher things, like the Holy Spirit and prayer.

“Adoro, what does that mean?” the Filipino man at the table next to me, as he reads the sign of the Mexican restaurant that is going to open next door. “To adore, I adore.” I reply. He asks me where I am from. I say here, Los Angeles. I love when I say that, it doesn’t really mean anything. He is trying to figure out my “ancestry” or “heritage” or “ethnicity”. In LA, one could be from anywhere. “You look Spanish.” I smile. I like when I am mistaken for who I am not, for who I could be. I can hear the Philippines in his voice. We converse about Manila, but don’t get past the weather. He likes me. When he goes to buy a lottery ticket, I put my book in my purse and leave.

She is a talker. I can tell by the aggressive way she asked the other girl at the bus stop where she got her bag that said, “BELIZE.” She is young and hip and looks some kind of mixed, curly hair, medium skin and freckles. (Belizean?). I check her out for a couple of mornings at the bus stop. The way she was not shy to move to the front of the bus, her mouth and nose covered with disgust, when the stinky homeless man boarded and sat mid bus. (His smell brought about community on the bus, as everyone made eye contact, eyes watering from the stench, wondering how long we could endure the putrid smell). I knew I just had to ask one question and we could become friends with the Belizean woman. One morning she came on the bus with a purse, which my friend also had. This was it. I turned to her and said, “Hey I like your purse, my friend has the same one. Where did you get it?” And we are launched into a conversation that dips into GAP, how to find bargains, Denzel Washington, insurance. I haven’t seen her since. But I look forward to our next bus ride.