Essays 2004-11-14T03:35:03Z tag:www.olganunes.com,2005:/essays//2 Movable Type Copyright (c) 2004, Olga Observations 2004-11-14T03:35:03Z 2004-11-13T19:27:54-08:00 tag:www.olganunes.com,2004:/essays//2.28 2004-11-14T03:27:54Z i.             I am walking down the street at a brisk pace, sure of my destination. I fly by a man who reaches out to me, catches my arm.            “There you are! Come here a second,” he beckons from his wheel chair, his... Olga olga@olganunes.com i. 

           I am walking down the street at a brisk pace, sure of my destination. I fly by a man who reaches out to me, catches my arm.

           “There you are! Come here a second,” he beckons from his wheel chair, his voice warm and full. 

           “I can’t—really. I’m on my way—somewhere.” I say, walking backwards, apologetic. 

           “Just a second. Please.” He holds my hand. The light turns red, but my feet are pointing away from him. “I saw your friend the other night. I asked about you.” His lap is full of a tray of wrigleys gum, tic-tacs, and a change jar. “You’re so-pretty. I’ve got a little bit of a crush on you,” he confides, giddy. He pulls my curled hand to his lips, the alcohol on his breath grazing my knuckles.

           “I’m sorry,” I say, sugarcoated, pulling away. “I’m taken.”

           “Oh… that’s too bad, honey. I would take such good care of you. I would never have any arguments with you,” he says solemnly, as if this will tip my favor in his direction.

           “That’s sweet… I really can’t,” I smile awkwardly, hurrying into the crosswalk, the small white walk-man blinking at me.

 

ii.

           My sweatshirt skirt is too short for my frame, and every few steps my hands nervously tug at the back of the fabric, pulling it past the backs of my thighs. My grey tangle-of-yarn coat hangs limply over one arm. A large bush of morning glories is erupting petals, electric purple and blue hues drenching the sidewalk. I stop to study their violent shades and a car turns the corner in front of me, braking suddenly.

           A weathered Mexican man stares me down from the window of a faded blue pick-up truck. “Where you heading?” He asks thickly, his consonants straining awkwardly under the weight of his Spanish accent.

           I cock my head sideways at him. “The promenade.” Less than a block ahead of me, I can see it from where I stand.  

           He leans down into the cab of his truck, unlocking the passenger door with one hand, waving me into his car with the other. He looks back at me and sees that I have not moved. “Where you going?” He asks again.

           “The promenade,” I say loudly, pronouncing the syllables more clearly, in case he misheard the first time.

           “…”

           He shoots back a string of words that I cannot make out, pulling out only the words “how” and “much,” “you” and “I”.

           “Excuse me?”

           “How….much…you…I?” He says again. The sentence is garbled by his accent, but it is clear it is a question.

           “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” 

           He shrugs. He drives away. I realize only moments later he was asking how much I charged.

 

iii.

           I am standing next to a man, several years younger than I, in the lobby of a movie theatre. I don’t know his name, but his pheromones can clear-cut six city blocks with a word. I am glamorous, I am wearing my rhinestone glasses at night and I sparkle. But for him.

            My every nerve is pricked by his movement, his breath. I am pulled taut against the anticipation of him brushing my arm, sliding against my knee. Whether by accident or design.

           He is unaware of me. I picture his body under mine, my knees clasped to his waist. How would he respond? What expression would cross his face?

           My skin itches, and I run my fingers along the flesh of my cheek, feeling a recent outbreak of blemishes nesting there. My belly pooches uncomfortably against the waistband of my too-short-skirt. I am not his type. I feel too old, and too weathered under too much make-up. 

           I am too self-conscious for my own good.

           I want to eat this man alive.

           He is looking in the other direction.

 

iv.

           I am laying naked in my own bed, makeup rubbed away by sleepy hands. Glitter has traveled into the creases of my eyes, between my breasts. Stretch marks are erased in the softness of my bedroom light, unshaven hairs become invisible.

           My foot is caught between a man’s muscled hands, his familiar fingers kneading the flesh between my toes. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” He murmurs, his lips resting against my knee, his hands working the tension from my calves.

           I stretch, absentmindedly unbraiding my blue-green hair, my head swimming on the edge of slumber. I reach down and caress the back of his neck; a familiar loving gesture before sleep.

           “No,” I say truthfully. “I don’t.”

 

]]> Homeless For the Holidays 2004-06-11T21:34:40Z 2004-06-11T12:59:53-08:00 tag:www.olganunes.com,2004:/essays//2.6 2004-06-11T20:59:53Z I am walking down the street. A hispanic man approaches me in front of Walgreens. His matted hair is pulled back in a black bandana, and his face is scruffy from too many nights spent on the street. Decked out... Olga olga@olganunes.com I am walking down the street. A hispanic man approaches me in front of Walgreens. His matted hair is pulled back in a black bandana, and his face is scruffy from too many nights spent on the street. Decked out in dirty denim, he looks more like a caricature of himself than a real person. "Got any money for a starving artist? You look like an artist, I can tell. You're an artist, you got style." His words fly out into the air, rolling fast like dice. I am wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, not exactly proclaiming 'artist.'

I take him to Starbucks and buy him a coffee, ask him about his life. He is overpolite, shifting his weight as if he knows he is taking up too much space. He tells me the usual stories: his wife left him, he has a problem with alcohol, went through rehab. His gaze intermittently shifts around the room as if memorizing the exits, unaccustomed to the yuppie confines of the coffee mecca. He tells me he used to live in London, when he had a place to stay and steady pay. They treat people good there, don't humiliate them like they do here. While he says this, the woman behind the counter sternly rattles off a warning in her clipped spanish, Don't go harassing people asking for coffee, you can't keep coming in here like this. I reassure her he's here on my dime, but she doesn't hear me. "He does this all the time," she tells me, offering an apology while glaring at him through narrow slits.

I hand him his coffee, and he thanks me several times before bolting outside into the winter air, where he feels warmer.

I walk out into the cold, clasping the coffee in my hands and warming myself in the steam. I think about the all the homeless people who are on Robertson Boulevard, that greet me hungrily on my lunch break. They are the invisible people, identifiable only by grubby hands reaching in the periphery.

They are human.

I don't have money to buy every man and woman coffee-- in Los Angeles, that would put me out on the street. But I can go out of my way to look people in the eye, say hello, acknowledge. You are human, I recognize that. Sometimes, that is worth more than a handful of pocket change.

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