The Old Woman and Me
Erin Douglass
1.
One morning several months ago, an elderly woman flagged down the bus one stop after I had boarded. She wasn't traveling light. Surrounding her on the sidewalk were a briefcase, an overstuffed rollerbag, two bulging grocery bags and a sleeping bag wrapped in plastic.
I'd seen this woman before. That time, she'd carried only one bag and seemed flighty — a forgetful senior on her way home from the store. The months hadn't been kind. Now she appeared distant and disturbed.
In two awkward, heaving trips, she lugged herself and her belongings up the steps. She wore several coats, a flurry of patterns and a scarf wrapped around her gray, flying hair. It took her about a minute to board.
After nodding at the driver, she dumped her things on the front and side rows of seats. It didn't seem to matter that a woman in a suit already sat there. Our new arrival arranged her possessions around the suited one and then stood inches from her knees, boxing her in.
Rather than grumble or glare, the seated woman smiled graciously and stayed put. I was impressed. Others would have probably moved.
The bus pulled from the curb and lumbered toward a red light.
As we slowed, I heard a low growling. It was part snarl and part gurgle, like a German shepherd underwater. It was coming from the elderly woman.
"Fucking asshole!" she suddenly shouted.
I jumped in my seat. The seated woman blinked several times and stared straight ahead. The driver didn't flinch, but I caught her eye sweeping the bus in her rear-view mirror.
Gripping the closest pole and staring straight ahead, the elderly woman resumed her growling. It was louder now and throatier. Occasionally she interjected a sharp, unintelligible yell. I couldn't make out what she was saying, but it was clearly a diatribe against someone or something.
As Fairfax Avenue approached, the seated woman, still poised and unruffled, pulled the cord. "Stop requested!" rang the computerized voice, drowning out the growling and sputtering. After we lurched to a stop, she stood, slid gently by the elderly woman and clacked down the steps.
Now it was just the three of us — driver, woman and me in the back.
With fresh fury, she renewed her noises. She kicked up the volume a notch, spitting words at the windshield. All I could make out was "you bastard."
From my seat in the third-to-last row, I watched and wondered.
The driver, so calm and professional, had clearly been down this road before. Shoulders squared, she piloted the bus at a smooth, steady pace, yelling and fuming be damned.
And what about the woman? What had driven her off the ledge of sanity this early morning? Had an event blindsided her already fragile self? Or had there been a slow sinking into confusion over many months?
It didn't matter. Here we all were. I silently wrapped her and the driver in my prayers.
Finally, near La Brea Avenue, she grabbed the yellow cord and yanked. Swaying as the bus slowed, she hung the sleeping bag from her shoulder, like an executive with her purse. Then she stacked the sacks against the handle of her rollerbag and grabbed the briefcase. Muttering, she thudded down the steps to the curb.
"You have a good day," the driver said to her back.
The silence that followed was full of relief.
And sadness.
2.
The following Saturday I headed to a neighborhood cafe to meet a friend for breakfast. The morning was cool and bright and when I arrived — first — it felt wonderful to step inside.
Once my friend slid into the seat across from me, we dove into the pleasures of ordering food and catching up. We talked about our jobs, favorite new movies and current writing projects. As we chatted and sipped coffee, I glanced over her shoulder to the view outside.
Standing in the middle of the empty sidewalk was the woman from the bus.
She was dressed pretty much the same — colorful, heavy coat; scarf-wrapped head; a skirt or two; oversized black-rimmed glasses. Bags in tow, she was staring at a row of newspaper boxes and talking to herself.
Surprised, but not wanting to stare, I returned to the conversation with my friend. Toast and eggs arrived. I tried to focus on eating and chatting, but my gaze wandered to the woman, who had turned from the newspapers to eyeball the cafe's outdoor chairs.
She didn't immediately sit. Murmuring to herself, she peered into the cafe's plate-glass window, squinting to determine, perhaps, if anyone inside was paying attention. After several minutes, still quietly talking, she settled into a chair and dragged her possessions closer.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," I said to my friend. "There's this woman outside..."
My friend turned to look.
"...I saw her on the bus last week. She was yelling and growling. And I've seen her before. I've started writing about her."
Our talk detoured to homeless women and where they go. The gentrification of Venice Beach and Los Angeles' other once-funky, homeless-friendly locales. But then films and relationships pulled us back into their warmer conversation waters.
As we finished our food, I looked up to see our waiter step outside. He approached the woman and said something, gripping his towel as he spoke. Then he turned and came inside.
The woman slowly stood, grabbed the handles and straps of her bags, and trudged out of view.
3.
My childhood neighborhood — an overgrown, potholed place without sidewalks or streetlights in Poughkeepsie, New York — had its share of eccentrics.
Across the street was Mr. Smith, a kind, unassuming man who could repair anything and had shipwrecked treasure in his living room. Behind us, in the woods, was Mr. McGinnis, a seventy-year-old who skied and drove a Model T in good weather. Up on Kingwood Drive, there were the loud and unruly Andersons, whose daughter, Heidi, had a skunk named Perfume.
By far the oddest neighbor was Captain Miller. He and his chatty wife Edith lived in a large white house on several acres of land. Whenever we had occasion to knock — Halloween, Girl Scout cookie season —, Edith would answer, welcome us in, and then bore us with stories of antiques and grown-up children. The Captain would never appear. Instead, we'd hear him rummaging around upstairs, or spot him out the window walking between barn and garage. A tall man with tousled white hair, he usually wore leather bomber jackets and rumpled khakis.
I'd heard stories about the Captain. He'd been a pilot in a faraway war. He'd once landed a plane in the backyard. And he liked to dress up like a woman.
This last detail fascinated us neighborhood kids. We whispered it when we walked past the Miller house and wondered aloud who, exactly, wore Edith's dresses.
Our parents, when pressed about the Captain, would laugh and say, "He's a bit strange." But that was all.
One afternoon, during a trip to Stop & Shop when I was 11 or 12, my mother suddenly slowed the cart and whispered, "There's Captain Miller." I looked down the aisle. At the end, a tall man in a pink dress, pink sweater and white pumps stood, studying the cake mixes. He wore a curly white wig and a string of very long pearls.
I bit my lip to keep from laughing and looked at my mother.
"Yep, that's the Captain," she said. "That's how he usually looks when I see him here." I couldn't wait to run home and call my best friend Jen, who lived up the hill from me.
These days, when the Captain comes up in conversation, words like "transvestite" and "cross dresser" are tossed around. He's no longer so weird or crazy; he has a preference, with a name and support groups. There's something sad about this. Gone is the shroud of mystery — and individuality — that clung to him. Sure we snickered a bit at his expense, but we also, unconsciously, never forgot the all of him that our neighborhood knew. He was a pilot, a soldier, a neighbor, a father, a story.
Who happened to like wearing a dress.
4.
One evening, about a week later, I was on the bus heading home. Even though I was exhausted, I decided I should still work out. So I pulled the cord and got off in East West Hollywood (as opposed to West West Hollywood, where I live) and entered my busy gym.
It was the evening rush. When I'd joined this gym the owner had assured me that the vast majority of the membership — actors, producers and other Industry types — worked out during the day. The evenings would be mine, he'd assured with a smile.
This has yet to be true.
In I trudged, bag scraping the ground. I wrestled my bent membership card into the fickle bar-code reader. "Welcome," the computerized voice purred once I'd successfully swiped.
I slid by a personal trainer counting aloud as his sweaty charge did sit-ups. I edged around the drinking fountain line. Then, rounding the corner into the women's dressing room, I headed to my favorite locker at the end of the row near the showers.
As I started to unpack my bag, I heard a rustling. I looked up and spotted a person emerging from the shower stall.
It was her.
She was dressed, although her hair wasn't covered and appeared damp. She had her rollerbag and the briefcase. Muttering, she steered herself around a bench and out of the dressing room.
Stunned, I stared after her, sneakers in hand. Who'd let her in? I wondered. Or had she slipped in? Is she local? Heck, of course she's local. I'd seen her three times in the last two weeks.
Once I was dressed, I grabbed my towel, New Yorker and water bottle. In the loud main room, I found a free elliptical machine and dutifully punched in weight, course, duration. As my legs started to step in exaggerated loops, my thoughts wandered. I couldn't focus on the article I'd opened to or even the others in the room. I kept thinking about the woman with her bags and flying hair.
Who is she? Where did she come from? Has she traveled far? Where is her family? Is there a neighbor who rolls his eyes when she yells in the night? Or have those ties been cut, worn thin by the strain of mental illness?
Her face loomed before me. It was a gypsy face — wrinkled, brown from the sun, accustomed to staring into the distance.
5.
My family loved to travel. In part, I imagine this was because my parents loved to travel and weren't about to let two children put a damper on things.
I seemed to have adapted fairly rapidly. Family lore has it that before I turned one my parents embarked on a week-long camping trip. I was left with family friends and didn't cry once.
Not long after, I started accompanying them on these outings — biking in Victoria, Canada; ferrying about the San Juan Islands; hiking in the San Gabriel Mountains. My sister's arrival a year later just meant the packing took longer.
6.
Several weeks later, she boarded the 7:23 at Fairfax Avenue.
I almost missed her. I hadn't been sleeping well, and recent mornings had degenerated into an unwholesome blend of snooze-button tapping and frantic scrambling. Once seated on the late bus, my adrenaline rush faded and I could barely keep my eyes open.
But something roused me as we swooped toward the curb that morning and I looked up. Which is why I found myself, once again, staring over rows of empty seats as she heaved self and bags up the stairs. This time she was wearing large hoop earrings and swishy pants, along with her usual headscarf and draping layers. She looked clean — she certainly didn't smell — and her clothes, while wrinkled, didn't have the grime associated with many homeless people.
After balancing her bags on the first row of seats, she pulled a piece of bright yellow paper from her pocket. It was a flyer from a telephone pole, complete with phone-numbered fringe. Shaking it like a dust rag, she held it out to the bus driver. This, I gathered, was her pass for the day.
Saying nothing, the driver guided the bus back into traffic. I watched, more awake now, as the woman stashed the flyer and then swiveled to stare out the windshield.
Several quiet blocks blurred by. Clusters of men waiting near the paint store watched us pass.
As Martel Avenue approached, she reached up and pulled the cord. The bus slowed and the doors slapped open. But she didn't budge.
The driver waited a few moments and then glanced over his shoulder. Stifling a giggle, I looked out the window, afraid the driver would think I'd been the one to cry wolf.
The woman, meanwhile, stared straight ahead. What was going on? Had she made a mistake? Was she playing a joke? Or was she delusional, unaware that she'd pulled the cord? Last time I'd seen her, she'd demonstrated that she knew how — and when — to ask the bus to stop.
Silently, the driver closed the bus doors and pulled from the curb.
Another block passed.
Then, without warning, she made a loud humming noise and announced, "Here!"
The bus stopped. And the woman and her stuff rolled off.
7.
When I was seven, my father announced that we were moving from our little house in Altadena, California, to New York. I was surprised and a bit sad — I think I even cried at a friend's party after blurting out the news. I had no idea what New York meant, other than cold, snow and far.
My parents, not surprisingly, saw the move as an excuse for a road trip. We packed our house for the movers and our Volvo for the long haul. It was 1977. We had a week before I'd start second grade.
That cross-country trip, a hot, crowded time of which I remember little, got us hooked. From that year forward, each summer we'd pack up our car, pick a new route, and drive west to see family and friends.
At least family and friends were the excuse. The real fun was in the wide, unbelted middle of the country: magnificent national parks, shabby resort towns, quirky local monuments, farming town cafes and, at the end of the night if we could help it, a swimming pool at the motel.
8.
A month later I was heading home on the evening bus, chilled to the bone by the roaring AC. Only a few other passengers were on board.
Ahead of us by less than a block, another westbound bus crept along. We kept catching up to it, but the driver seemed reluctant to pass. Like a yo-yo, we'd speed up, then slow down, then speed up again. After many minutes of this herky-jerky driving, our driver finally swooped around the lead bus and accelerated down the street.
From my front-row seat, I watched the long, wide boulevard unfurl through the windshield. It was dusk and the interiors of stores gleamed, making me want to step inside.
Down the street, I spotted a figure waiting at the next stop. As we sped closer, I realized it was her. I was certain our driver saw the waiting passenger, too, but we didn't seem to be slowing down.
Worried we'd pass her by, I stammered, "Wait..." Then I remembered the bus behind us. Maybe our driver, feeling generous, was sharing the rider load.
With less than 20 feet between our bus and her, someone pulled the cord. "Stop requested!" blared the nasal female voice.
The driver glanced in his mirror and frowned. Without saying a word, he gunned by the stop — and the woman, now open-mouthed, hands dangling at her sides, possessions tucked around her feet.
We slowed to a stop halfway into the next block.
As we did so, the bus behind us sailed by.
Leaning back in my seat, I wondered if these drivers knew her. Had they had run-ins with her? Or was she just another homeless face they didn't feel like picking up?
As we pulled back into traffic, I tried to imagine what she was thinking.
9.
I didn't stop traveling with my family until college. Our last trip together was a rambling excursion through England and Scotland a week before I flew to India for a semester abroad.
I remember feeling oddly quiet during that British tour. I knew it was likely our final fling and didn't want to ruin it with bickering about which way to turn or where to eat lunch.
I also knew months of challenging travel were ahead of me. Having parents at the helm before diving into Third World living was a comfort.
These days, travel is with my husband, and a bit harder to come by. My gypsy soul, used to long summer trips and thin excuses to jump on a plane, hibernates.
10.
The next morning I climbed up the steps of the early bus and there she was. She wore a floppy black hat and a pink, filmy skirt that on second glance turned out to be a nightgown. As usual, she and the clothes looked clean.
Well someone must have picked her up last night, I thought, taking my seat. That, or she walked.
My bags stashed, I tried to offer a morning smile. But her gaze was fixed on the road and she never looked my way.
As we rounded the curve to San Vicente Boulevard, she pulled the stop cord. The bus sidled up to the curb. She gathered her things — the rollerbag, the sleeping bag, the single shopping bag this time — and started down the front steps.
At the same time, another woman, gray-haired and compact, who'd been waiting at the stop, started to step aboard.
"No! No!" the old woman yelled struggling to hold on to her things.
The other woman refused to give up. She forged ahead, knocking the floppy hat off-kilter as she squeezed by. Then she flashed her bus pass at the driver and looked at me with a shrug.
On the curb, the old woman ranted.
11.
Two nights later, as my husband and I drove home from dinner at a local restaurant, I spotted her.
It was 9. Rather than perched at a stop, she was trudging down the empty, dark sidewalk, two rollerbags behind her.
"You were saying?" said my husband looking over.
I shook my head and stared out the window.
12.
A few weeks later, I caught a late bus into work.
Behind the yellow line, in the middle of the aisle, stood the woman. She wore a black tunic with a jangly gold belt. Her arms were bare.
"Good morning," I said, scooting around her to take a seat. She said nothing.
As the bus accelerated, one of the two rollerbags behind her toppled over. Another passenger — a woman on the facing bench — threw out her arm with a big "Whoops!" and smiled.
The old woman, ignoring the bag and the passenger, sat down with a thunk.
A block passed.
Suddenly, she started shrieking.
"Ma'am?" The driver craned his head to look at her. "Ma'am, are you all right?"
She continued to shriek. Other passengers shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
As La Cienega Boulevard approached, she switched to yelling. "Stop! Stop!" Then she stood up, turned to the window and pounded on it.
"Ma'am! Do you want to get off?" the driver asked, alarmed. She said nothing, and continued to pound the window.
The bus slowed before stopping abruptly at the garbage-strewn curb. She grew quiet and deliberately gathered her things.
Then, with a scowl at the driver, she thumped down the steps to the street.
13.
During my first two years of college, my family lived in Southern Germany — a work assignment through my father's company.
Perched in a California college dorm thousands of miles away, I enjoyed the fruits of their overseas post: care packages of kindereggs and coffee, exotic "mit luftpost" mail, and visits home twice a year.
Germany's central location made it an ideal launch pad for travel. Accompanied by friends and cousins, my sister and I grabbed our Eurail passes and joined the mobs of students criss-crossing the Continent by train.
This was travel at its most spontaneous. Low-budget and free-wheeling, sweaty and social.
And, surprisingly, quite clean.
In fact, I'm amazed that we managed to keep so clean as we trained and bused and hiked our way around Sorrento, Corfu, Zurich and Amsterdam.
The secret, I think, was in the sinks. Every night, no matter where we were, we'd dutifully scrub underwear and T-shirts in the tiny hostel bathroom. These dripping cottons were then hung from bedposts or backpacks like dishrags, before being plucked — damp and chilled — during the morning rush to get on the road.
14.
This evening as I leave my gym, I see her. She's waiting at the bus stop across the street, loaded rollerbag beside her.
I walk to my usual spot behind the bus bench to wait for my ride. I stare at the back of her head. This is ridiculous, I think. Here's your opportunity. I pick up my things and move to the front of the bench, several feet from her bag.
I glance over. She's wearing a purple scarf tied around her head, gypsy-style; glasses and some jewelry. The rest of her is clad in billowing, black and purple artist-lady clothes.
"Good evening," I say to her profile.
She turns to me with a start. "Good evening!" Her voice is nasal and scratchy.
"How are you?"
"I just did all of my laundry," she says warmly, nodding to her rollerbag.
I look at the stuffed bag. Perched on its top is a neat pile of dry cleaning, still in its plastic wrapping. Beneath that, layers of folded pants, or maybe shirts. It's hard to tell.
"That's a good feeling, isn't it," I say to her with a smile.
"Oh yes." She smiles back.
"It feels good to be in clean clothes," I say. I remember my own waiting pile of dirty laundry at home and feel jealous of her recent accomplishment.
"Yes, it does," she says. Then she stares across the street. The fancy restaurant on the corner is closed up Monday-tight. I wonder what she's looking at.
I peer up at the deepening blue, post-sunset sky.
"I love the sky like this," I say.
"Yes, it is, it is, where's the big moon? Is it up there tonight?" The pitch of her voice rises and she looks over my head into the sky.
Muttering to herself, she turns back to her things. Then, she marches into the street about six feet from the curb and stares hard at the fast-approaching traffic. I assume she's searching for the bus.
I almost say something — "Careful there...those cars don't always notice us pedestrians" — but I hold back.
"Do you see the bus?" I finally ask.
But she doesn't answer. She's muttering louder, staring down the road, then back at her bag.
"Any sign?" I try again.
No response.
I look over my shoulder just in time to see my husband pulling up to the curb behind me. I grab my bags.
She continues to stand in the street, hands on her hips, shaking her head at the cars and the world.
I say a silent good night and walk to the car.
15.
I sit at my desk this evening thinking of the old woman and me.
Why do I keep seeing her? Is she a cautionary tale? A teacher or muse? An alter ego?
Perhaps she is all those things. And none, because she is herself. Unknown, but observed. Witnessed. And quietly worried over.
I have no idea how she landed on the street. Is she schizophrenic? Bi-polar? Delusional? Those names have such a cold, hard bite. I wonder if she gets help, if there are others besides me watching — even cheering — from the sidelines. She must. Otherwise how would she get into the gym for a shower? Or have money for dry cleaning?
She has reminded me of obvious, sad things. That the elderly in our society are too often cut off, left to wander aimlessly. That the mentally ill scare us with their unpredictability and messy, complex ways. And that living in the streets can happen to anyone, at any time.
She has taught me a few surprising things, too. Most of all: that there is community in movement.
I've often thought we need places — cafes, parks, the grocery store — to serve as the backdrop for our connection to others. We head to restaurants not simply because we don't like to cook or have nothing in the fridge, but to rub shoulders with strangers, feed off the energy of a crowd and experience ourselves in community.
Yet it is the going itself that gives me community. This is because my going, my regular means of travel in this sprawl of a city, is public rather than private. As I commute to work, head home and leave the gym, I cross paths with thousands of others doing much the same. Yet it is the old woman — confused and untethered — I keep seeing. The looping paths of our days overlap again and again.
Would I have ever noticed her from my car? I might have seen her, but I wouldn't have had the opportunity to talk to her or take in her flair, her moments of lucidity. The blur of passing would have turned her into landscape.
I'm reminded of the Krzysztof Kieslowski film, The Double Life of Veronique. The story involves two women, Veronika and Veronique, who live in Poland and Paris, respectively. Born on the same day, struggling with the same health problems, they are both musical and they look exactly alike. Although they never meet, their paths cross at one point — as one walks on the street, confused in a crowd, and the other departs on a bus, staring out the window.