“Vultures.”
My eyes stopped surveying the tiny office and swung toward the young man just as he grimaced and shook his head, still tapping at the computer, trying to get it to move faster. I raised my eyebrows and he waved his hand toward the phone his coworker had just hung up. “That's what I call 'em. Vultures, picking at people's lives. It's disgusting.”
Ah. The phone call had been an inquiry about that day's auction at 11 AM. On any other day I would probably have thought of those seekers as people just trying to make a living, or find a deal. Not this day, though, the day I'd been standing at the gates 15 minutes before they were unlocked. Just to make sure.
I nodded, “Yep. Vultures.” Had it not been for the kindness of some old friends and new, all kosfolk, you see, I would have been out in the streets, as my landlady could wait no longer than this day for the rent. And this day, too, all my stuff from my unpaid storage unit would have been spread out there for the picking, at 11AM.
My spring green couch and loveseat, old but lightly worn. Paintings I did when I was in my artistic period, which came and went and stayed away. Half of my clothing, which for some reason wound up there instead of here. My books. Toys that belonged to my daughter, and then to my grandchildren.
And, of course, the photos. History.
Louise, in the early 1920s. My mom's cousin, she is posing in an amazing dress, a confection of sequins, pearls and chiffon that her mother had made entirely by hand. Louise's mother was called a seamstress back then; these days I think she'd be called a haute couture designer.
Clara, in a long flowing gown, white and hanging off of one shoulder. Late 1920s, early 30s. No relation to us, but a friend of my mother's when she was young and an exclamation mark in Black/White history and relations. Clara and her younger brother were white; their adoptive parents were black. Apparently, on a family trip through some Southern region, the successful Black doctor and his wife somehow came across the two children working in the fields with their sharecropper family and decided to adopt them to give them a better life.
Aunt Sadie, stern, middle-aged, with thoroughly disciplined hair and falsely blushed cheeks. A preacher's wife. My mom laughed when she told me about her. Aunt Sadie loved to go to the track and gamble, and to party and laugh and have a good time. Looks, definitely, can be deceiving.
Easter, mid-1960s. My mom, me and my brother, posing and smiling in the garden. At least, they were posing and smiling; me, I thought it was far more important that the tiny bug on my mom's shoe did not get into the picture, so I am bending down and brushing it off. A happy little scene, except my mom's face is pasty and haggard. She was visiting us in the foster home we were in while she recovered from her “nervous breakdown.” One brought about by the absence of the brother who is not in the picture, one we never saw again until he was an adult. By then the brother in the picture was dead. But all that is a different tale.
So many more memories were in there, records of my and my sibling’s childhood, records of my mom's life, and the collection of a pictures of family that my mom had gathered from here and there over the past 60 or 70 years. And that were nowhere else, many of them. Irreplaceable—but, thankfully, saved from the “vultures.”
I left the storage place, my possessions safely removed from the auction's maw, and scanned the street, looking for a bus stop. Then thought... why not just keep walking? Suddenly, a 10 block walk to the mall where I'd have to change buses anyway seemed like the most wonderful thing ever. The weather was cool and overcast with just a hint of rain in the air and, for the first time in weeks, I didn't have to rush to be anywhere. Sure I still needed to work, but my world wasn't teetering on any edges, at least not this day. I'd still have a place to stay when I got home. I could take a little time.
After a few blocks I saw a Carl's Jr and splurged on a bad cup of coffee, my first cup of the day. I started to hurry out but stopped myself and sat at a booth by a window as I sipped the bitter brew. I watched a bus stop outside and disgorge its passengers and pick up new ones as I sat. A few minutes later, I got up and started walking again.
I finally wandered into the parking lot of the mall and then over to the bus corral. I finished my coffee just as my bus pulled in, and stepped on and found a seat. The ride went smoothly, but only a couple of stops later a teenaged girl hopped on, put a dollar into the till, and sat down.
The bus driver called her back up, told her she still owed money as the fare had been raised to $1.25. She started searching her pockets and her purse, all the while arguing and pleading with the driver. She wasn't getting off, and he wasn't letting her on so it was getting a bit heated and none of us were going anywhere. I was toward the back but I finally figured out what was happening and stood up, digging in my pocket. I made my way to the front of the bus, said, “Here's a quarter, I'll pay the rest of her fare.” Both of them thanked me, relieved.
I got back to my seat, sat down, and the bus took off again. I smiled a bit and thought of kosfolk. Sure it was just a quarter but, as far as “paying it forward” goes, it was a start.
Thanks, again, to Daily Kos, to everyone who helped, who left a kind thought, even if not in print, who gently gave me lessons on accepting help and allowing other people their chance to give back, who offered to shake me for not coming to friends sooner, who offered hugs, and who were just there, being steadfast and encouraging.
It was an amazing experience and not one I will soon forget. Thank you.