A PAY IT FORWARD CHRISTMAS TALE

So I get this email saying my package from Kohl's was delivered. Only, I hadn't ordered anything from Kohl's. So I trudge down to the lobby, and it's this giant box, I had ordered the hot kitchen gadget du jour three months before that went missing- the store sent out the replacement that week and I'd been enjoying it for months. Seemed the lost unit suddenly got unlost and showed up at my door - 3 months later. It's a beast - it weighs like 30 pounds. So I hauled it upstairs and got on the phone to Kohl's. I explained the situation, the sweet customer service rep said "thank you for calling us!!" and told me they would have it picked up the next day - but suddenly put me on hold, came back on and said - "just keep it". Seems the no-longer-missing unit confused their system - it didn't exist so they couldn't take it back. She told me to donate it then suggested that Christmas was coming and maybe someone on my list would love to have it which made me sad because I don't really "do" Christmas anymore and have no people on a list. I offered to gift it to her, she laughed and said she'd love it but couldn't accept it. So I had this giant box sitting in the middle of my living room. I told a couple of friends about the duplicate culinary device and begged them to take it off my hands. They found it intriguing, but when push came to shove they declined. No one was having the "must-have" item of the season. They all suggested that I sell it, which felt weird because I'd gotten it for free, but my attempts to "pay it forward" had not payed off. So I listed it on a couple of selling apps and Facebook. "Sealed in box! You register it in your name!" - less than half price -seemed like a great deal to me. But the time wasters came out in droves. I'd almost resigned myself to using the giant box as a coffee table when a nice lady on Facebook messaged me and said, "I'd like to make an appointment to pick up the item today, thank you!" She got off work at 4PM and would drive right over. Her name was "Tijuana" - like the border town, she confirmed. She was maybe 4 feet tall - wide as she was tall. She had on a long down-filled puffy coat which came down to her ankles, making her look like she was scooting around in a sleeping bag. Cornrows, a cute little smile, a warm, festive demeanor. She handed over the money and asked me to count it to make sure it was all there. I was worried about her carrying this hulk of a box out to her car and offered to help her, but the little dynamo picked it up like it was a shoebox. She paused, turned to me and said, "thanks for selling it to me for such a good price, I know these things cost a lot more." It kinda got me, I had gotten it for free, but I took the nod, listened to her say she was gonna break it out that weekend and go to town - and with that the stout caterpillar scooted into the night. Her spirit really touched me, her generous comment and pixie smile stuck with me long after I got back into my apartment. I could breathe again with that box gone. It felt good - so I looked around to find my next victim. And there is was - another over-sized, must-have gadget that NASA undoubtedly had a hand in designing. Space shuttle-sized, it had to go to. And in that moment I knew where it had to go to: Tijuana. I sent her a message that next morning, she cheerfully accepted my gift and showed up that night- in her de rigeuer caterpillar duster jacket, tiny sneakers peaking out. She noticed the cardboard pet food box I brought the contraption down in - she asked me how many pets I had - she had several small dogs, seemed everyone counted on her to take their puppies after the novelty wore off, but she didn't mind, Tijuana didn't have a cynical bone in her beach ball body. Suddenly her phone went off, bursting into song -a glorious gospel ringtone explosion- the spirit moved me into some jack-ass raise-the-roof dance. She giggled and put it on silent- "aww, that's just my nephew, he calls me all day long" we laughed again, the spirit still with me, I gathered up the smiley, plump caterpillar into my arms and squeezed her with all my might. We said our goodbyes, Tijuana snapped up her gift wrapped casually in an old cardboard box, exclaiming, "God Bless you!!" and rolled out into the night. It was a nice way to enter the season - a chill in the air, a spirited ringtone salutation, and that makeshift special someone to check off my Christmas list.

HALLOWEEN TALE

So there was this family dressed up for Halloween, taking their young boy out for Trick or Treating. The dad was wearing oversized pumpkin glasses, the mom - rocking a witch's hat. Their little boy was dressed to the nines as a wizard. Only thing is, it's the day after Halloween. The family walked solemnly down the quaint, deserted Carroll Gardens block - the boy dragging his deflated Halloween sack - muttering to his sneakers in French which was indecipherable to me, save for the occasional utterance of the phrase "Trick or Treat" - for which there is no translation.

NOWHERE CHER

I was friends with this girl in either Junior High or High School - very briefly. She lived near me and I would walk over to her house - they had a lot of white shag carpeting and a dog to match - a beautiful Samoyad - perfectly coifed. In the living room they had a glossy white grand piano and I would sometimes accompany her - doing her best impression of Cher. She would wear a halter top and hold her arms just like Cher, hands dropping, belting out those A side and B side tunes. She had a nice voice which she disfigured singing through her nose to get those Cher-like tones. The few times I was over I never saw an adult anywhere. The house was silent, almost padded (due to the sea of shag) until she filled it song. I still remember how soft that dog was, perfectly coifed - I had no idea who was tending to the animal. The whole thing had a kind of Grey Gardens effect - although the inhabitant was 14 and everything was white and brand new. Just last year I got a friend request from her - some forty-plus years later, now seemingly transformed into a tragic figure. Seems she was living on the fringes of society, the posts had a distinct victim voice. Now Cher is no one's victim - so it was surprising - plus she had been a smart, kind of "with it" teen - so I was wondering how this world-view had come to be. Her son had joined the military and it soon became apparent that her lodging might be in question. She started posting items for sale - only those you part with when times are dire. A mattress, a worn coffee table, and old washer dryer all on Facebook marketplace. I could tell by her posts that she would be un-hirable - her state-of-mind would not present well at any interview. Friends would post potential job opportunities - but were always met by crickets by my old friend. One day I had posted some light-hearted thing on my page which she responded to with a "me too" comment about a near miss experience involving almost-assault and possible rape, it was really out of place and awful. I sent her a private message saying she had misunderstood - and some sorry attempt at being sympathetic around her trials which obviously fell short -she read it and never responded back. It wasn't long after that - that her posts came to a sudden halt. Weeks and months went by, her friends would post "where are you - I'm so worried about you" posts. I couldn't have been the only one who was wondering if she was living in a car, on the street, or worse. The posts from friends kept coming, people would give them a thumbs up or the crying emoji. Cher was nowhere, I assumed something horrible had happened. Until today. I saw a profile of a guy I knew in high school. He was the first guy I kissed. I was in the basement of his house, I had followed his cute, popular friend there after school - but the cute friend proposed that I kiss his shy friend and it was terrible. How could I know it was terrible, it was my first kiss, but it was. He was nervous, and trembling horribly, an icky memory - so naturally, I wanted to see what had become of him so I clicked on his Facebook profile. The guy was still "shy" - he had like 40 Facebook friends, and one of them appeared to be Cher. Only she had created a new profile, a new version of her name, stating she had moved to a new town as a Facebook event. Her old profile photo was blurred as though looking at someone through punch-drunk eyes - it was now replaced by a new, crisp photo. I wasn't sure it was her, I hadn't seen her since her teenage make-shift lounge act - but I was sure, in the end. Now, I can't claim to understand depression, or severe mental health issues but lord knows I've tried. I understand wanting to re-invent yourself, to start fresh - but what I don't understand is wanting people to think that you're homeless, living on the streets, or have perhaps committed suicide. All these friends reaching out to her on her page - and I imagine in Private Message - which she clearly got but left each and every one of them hanging while she tweaked her new/improved profile. Maybe if I tried a little harder, gave it a bit more thought I'd get there. Do I lack empathy, see it as just another story? But it's this ending I can't quite grasp - the disappearing act, the studied air of mystery, the silent reinvention - all Cher-like traits come to think of it, sans tragedy.

THE TENATIOUS WOULD-BE TENANT

Well, it's been a long, interesting journey finding a tenant for my rental. Perhaps people looking to secure housing aren't their "best selves" - the last gentleman put me through the ringer. Sixty-plus, fastidious, with great sensitivity to noise. Although he owned a condo just 2 blocks away, he was seeking a nest with "zero noise". Now my rental is off the street, facing a quiet courtyard, he checked out the windows and inquired about installing "sound proof" windows. He nervously scoured the 600 square food space, scanning for evidence of annoyances. I suggested he look at unattached housing, to which he did not respond. He asked if he could come back at 9PM to garner findings about noise levels when neighbors would be home. I needed an out. I did allow him to return, and spent most of the time coming up with reasons why he would not find the place to his liking. Still, later that evening, he sent me a lengthy text - asking to return at 9AM to "make more notes". Now, I'm a person who doesn't suffer fools gladly. Yet, I couldn't find a way to extricate myself from this nervous gent. I turned down his request for a 9AM, then he sent another two lengthy texts about his schedules, appointments, and his next available window which would be 9:30 the following morning. I spoke to fellow landlords that gave me an out - but I created my own, a response to his inquiry to purchase the unit after a "trial" period. Told him it would be unlikely that I would part with the unit, to which he responded, "I would be happy to be your life-long tenant." So push-over here let him back in. He began nervously scanning the apartment again, but this time busying himself with a tape measure and copious notes, asking me for exact measurements for ceiling height of closets, I could get back to him that afternoon. I started jabbering away at why he would never be happy in such a space, but he was in the zone. He only spoke up to report he had looked into "sound proofing" - he had a plan that involved staplegunning a double layer of towels to my freshly painted walls. But soon after he determined that he could "never be satisfied" living in a studio apartment; that he couldn't sleep unless he had a closed bedroom door. Although I had suggested this from the very beginning, and he assuring me that this was the perfect fix for his "downsizing" plan, he finally determined after much handwringing and note-taking that my apartment would not meet his rigorous requirements. After he left, I engaged a realtor to sell the apartment. The steady stream of apartment seekers had worn me down. The realtor was eager to see the pad, he brought an associate over the very next morning. We discussed what they would offer, and came up with a price. Yet, the next morning I was filled with doubt. I still loved the space, and it had served me well as a rental, albeit with some drama, for almost the last 30 years. But my inquiries had slowed to a halt. It had been on the market for 9 days, which qualifies it as a stale listing in this desirable Brooklyn 'hood'. As I mulled over what to do - lower the price, hire a realtor to handle the rental, or perhaps a property manager to deal with the drama both before and after move-in, I got a lone inquiry. She showed up the next day, a young advertising gal, very polite. She and her mother walked in, within 30 seconds she turned to me and said, "I love it!!! - I can't believe it's still available!!!" We signed a lease within the hour. This isn't a tale about faith, about the universe, although I don't discount that. I did put my hands together, looking up at the sky - and thanked, well, the sky - but it was most likely just blind luck. As I like to say to myself, "it only takes one." But that can be broad, as I got a doozy of "ones" - until the "right" one appeared.

THE WIDOWER

There's a man in my building, his wife had suffered from MS long before her untimely death a couple of years ago. She was a real cool woman, funny, ironic, really open about her "situation" and life in general. They had two kids, the girl in high school - an incredibly talented singer, super smart, a "big girl", spent a lot of time in therapists' offices. The son who was in college was a gifted athlete who was considering playing pro baseball, he, too had his own demons which may or may not have been fast-tracked due to his mother's illness or the fact that he broke his arm a week before training season. Anyway, this man who lost his wife - he was frumpy, shy, introverted and gentle. I felt so sorry for him and I thought perhaps I should invite him to the movies or something, just to get him out - I knew he dearly loved his wife. So one day I engaged him in the elevator and asked him how he was doing. He said he was doing okay, that he had started dating but he wasn't looking for anything serious. I guess he immediately started dating a close family friend and it was going well but he had "cut her loose" because there were "so many options". I guess a lot of women wanted to "take him to the movies" - and not in the innocent way I had considered. Cut to a couple years later - he's hot n heavy with a woman in the building who wears a lot of leopard print - I see them dining in the window in a few of a local eateries. His kids - I haven't seen either of then in the building for over a year. Today I passed him on the street on my way home from a walk in the 'hood - he was wearing a Burberry jacket, dad-jeans replaced by something less ill-fitting (he had dropped quite a few pounds), aviators hid his eyes although the sun was sinking fast into the Fall sky - yet, I could feel that horny gaze of a 50-something feeling seventeen. Perhaps it was his pursed lips or the way he insisted on getting my attention on a day I wanted to remain invisible. This, his new life, seems awkward - because he's still a huge dork behind those Foster Grants. I have to give him credit, though - still, I wonder if in those quiet moments he ever thinks of his wife, her wit, her courage, her fabulosity, and remembers their life fondly.

THE ROCKSTAR AND FOUR BOTTLES OF MOBIL 1

I was at Pep Boys yesterday morning, under somewhat embarrassing circumstances. They had gone out of their way to procure me 4 bottles of motorcycle oil on the day I needed it, getting someone to drive it over from the Queens location. After a couple of my friendly mechanic friends fell through, it was clear that I would need to go to a storefront mechanic, and they would have no interest in helping out a customer who "cheaped out" by bringing their own fluids and filter. So I now had a total of 5 containers, way too much to hold on to, so I headed in to Pep Boys and the guy that had gone above and beyond was at the register. "Domingo" had a broad smile on his face and a warm welcome. I plopped all the containers down and said, "you're gonna kill me" - plus, I could only find the receipt for two of the four bottles as I had purchased them at different times during that day. He said, "no problem, let me see what we can do." And as my mother used to say - we got to talking. He asked me about my ride and told me his dream was to one day own a Harley Fat Boy with saddlebags. He had such a nice way about him, and I told him so - he said he had just requested a raise from the 13 dollars he was making - to 20 dollars, which he was told was manager's pay, but they would see what they could do. I mean, this guy was a rockstar- before and after my sale. I said something like, "good for you, I appreciate people who know their worth." He told me he always worked hard, working as a dishwasher at Peter Luger, and a lot of the restaurants on Court Street. This was his first job with some growth potential, and he was doing everything in his power to be at his best. He went on, "you know, I was homeless." I was stunned, it was like one of those stop-you-in-your-tracks moments you see on Undercover Boss. He told me he had gotten a divorce, lost his job, his home, and before he knew it he was on the streets, going from restaurant to restaurant looking to wash dishes, never asking for a cent from passerby's. He finally earned enough to get himself an apartment, and one day, he told me, he was coming off the subway and recognized a homeless man who was asking for help. It was a friend of his from high school who had fallen into crack addiction. What did Domingo do? He said, "come live with me". He took his drugs and paraphernalia, brought him home. and back into the world. Domingo showed me his pictures on Instagram - the once homeless friend now living in Florida, with a wife and two kids, his drug addiction, history. I was blown away and told him so, "What a complete privilege to meet you, I heart you, Domingo!, you're an amazing man" He had managed to refund all of my money, and told me to come by anytime, he was there most days. I said, jokingly, "I'll prolly be back tomorrow to re-buy all this oil, ha!," which is exactly what happened. See, the biker who had offered to help me texted me this morning saying, "I just woke up and realized I left you hanging! When do you want to do this?" I didn't want to admit that I had lost faith in him and had returned the oil to Pep Boys. It would be my secret, so I headed back to the auto supply store to re-purchase the 4 bottles of Mobil 1, counting all my blessings along the way.

THE PROPHECY

I asked him if he would care to exchange photos. His letter to me was generic, but I could feel the holiday weekend fast approaching. I had solid plans with my best friend solitude; so I found myself exchanging concise, uninspired emails with Robert. We swapped photos and I found his to fall squarely into my demographic: bald, with a red beard. Excited, I shot a photo of myself back to him which he responded with brief prose, “you look good”. It was strange in that he didn't know me, perhaps me meant in relation to the age I had posted on my profile, or perhaps he meant simply, “good enough”. Solitude persisted so I hit the reply button again. I asked, where do you reside? He said, “I reside in Manhattan”. I told him I lived in Brooklyn, he responded, “never been”. Did his cellular plan charge by the word? Perhaps he wasn’t a morning person, or had never learned to type. I noticed myself making excuses for him, before I’d even met him. Still, the red beard intrigued me, with such great facial hair there had to be substance. I needed to know more. So I turned to the web with promising results, I’d matched his picture to his name. Now we were getting somewhere. Beers and burgers on the water, an evening walk down a secluded path. I clicked on a link and there was my Robert, a US Army veteran. He had almost no friends on Facedbook, he had started a GoFundMe in his own name that had later been removed. Robert said he suffered PTSD, he had reached out for others to help get his life back on track. He qualified as 100% disabled, no wonder he had been reticent to share the details of his life. Perhaps he was wheelchair bound. I’d had a dream the night before; an epic love scene with a man in a wheelchair.

Had that dream been a prophecy? I reached out to Robert again, telling him my passions, asking him about his, the memory of my dream-state wheelchair make-out session filling me with anticipation about what his answers might be.

His response was expedient. “Do you like oral, “ he queried - my prince hadn't bothered to answer any of my questions, or even bothered with adding a question mark. My wheelchair dream had, in fact been a prophecy, a sure-bet indicator that I would once again seek out damage, sit in his lap, and attempt to save him just in time for the next holiday weekend.