Freeouroboros

I had it in my mind to write a satirical piece. It’s all plotted out in my head, a few notes on a file in my Macbook in the folder “Blogs 101,” but something more important came up, so cleverness and satire will have to wait their turn behind matters of substance.

Mom wanted to get out of town for the evening, to drive up to Middlesboro, Kentucky to have dinner at the Pelancho’s there this past Friday, but wasn’t thrilled with the idea of riding with my dad. They’re in their early 70s and dad’s worked most of the day, plus his night vision isn’t what it was and Middlesboro is “over the mountain.”

So I took the hint and offered to do the driving. Mom seemed to be in a relatively benign mood and as long as we stayed away from the subjects of politics, religion, my father’s innumerable transgressions over the years, my numerous tragic flaws and my perfect sister I was willing to take a gamble on getting there, having a pleasant dinner and arriving home without any significant bloodletting.

Mid September in this part of the country is warm. As you cross the mountains into Kentucky it’s a little cooler, which makes it even more pleasant. We made it there without any skirmishes; I curbed my irritation at their insistence on running the air conditioner when there was perfectly lovely cool air rushing by the windows and over the moon roof, closed tighter than a spinster schoolteacher’s . . . you get the idea.

We pulled into Pelancho’s parking lot, oddly uncrowded for a Friday night; I remembered there was a high school football game in progress.

A Latino with earnest eyes and gracious demeanor led us to a booth by the windows. There were quite a few open, but he walked us directly to the third one from the beginning of the row. We ordered drinks, water, coke and tea; I asked if they had any salsa verde (they did) and we took our time pondering over the menu.

Once we placed our orders, I turned to look out of the window, wondering if there were any stars visible. A movement caught my eye and I focused instead on what was right in front of me.

I saw a woman and a shopping cart.

She was sitting on the low bench — maybe it was the edge of a planter, I’m not sure — eating sedately from an aluminum takeout dish. Her manner of putting food in her mouth was that of someone for whom table manners are second nature, not requiring effort or conscious thought. She was so thin; undernourished, rather than malnourished. Her thick, sterling hair,  clean, pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, smooth, with tidy ends.

Like so many people who exist beyond walls, she carried her personal treasures in that shopping cart. It was an older model, well maintained, not rusted or dented, transport and protection for what was most important to her.

In the top section, where children sit while their mothers browse market aisles, crouched a tiny black and grey tabby cat wearing a yellow collar and leash, working on a portion of the Mexican food. Fastidious and calm, the cat looked up every now and again at the woman without urgency or fear.

The basket of the cart carried an occupant as well, a small coppery brown and white, button eared Terrier wearing a red collar and leash sat placidly on a thin pad with a share of the meal in a dish. Neither animal was in any hurry to finish. They both had the same composure and genteel manners as their human companion. They were both beautifully clean and well kept, and at a perfect weight.

She got up, setting her plate down in the basket with her dog, and walked away for a moment. The Terrier never made any effort to so much as sniff her plate, but sat at attention, watching her, as did the cat, until she came back, retrieved her plate and sat down once more.

When she got up, I watched her too. She was a little stiff. So painfully thin. Her jeans and shirt were old and faded but looked freshly laundered. Her shirt was tucked in.

We sat on the other side of the window, the three of us, and perhaps rudely, wondered how she came to be living in those straits, my mother wishing she could believe the libretto she’d composed in her imagination that this implacable mite of humanity was merely eccentric and had a fine home to go to and a warm bed where the three of them would snuggle after their walk home. But it doesn’t work that way, and even my fertile and sometimes fevered imagination won’t buy that.

She finished and dissolved into the shadows and starkness of the small city night while we were still eating. I asked one of the men, on my way out, if she was a regular, if she came to the restaurant on certain days. He told me she was there when she had money to buy dinner, always sharing with the two animals, and they watch for her, to take ground beef and chicken out to the dog and cat at other times. He assured me that if someone were to bring a basket of supplies for her animals and leave them at the restaurant that she would get them.

I won’t say I envy her. I don’t. That’s a difficult, dangerous life, but I do feel something akin to envy — and awe — at the calm aura I saw about her, the assurance of a woman who knows, without doubt, what matters.