The End is Near

That's it, we're thinking. All things are coming to a head.

Sure, sure -- wars and rumors of wars, earthquakes, mudslides, tsunamis, crazy happenings of biblical proportions, all of that. But that's not all.

Over the course of the last year -- and with increasing frequency in the last month or so -- Amy and I have experienced a number of strange occurrences that seem to be moments of closure, re-emergences of things and people from the past, or answers to long-unsolved mysteries.

People we haven't seen in years find us. People we haven't seen in years, and for whom we have been actively searching, suddenly appear in places we'd already thoroughly searched. And today...well, this one requires some backstory. Here's a little piece I wrote about a crazy lady by whom Amy and I are fascinated (and with whom we are, I'll say it, mildly obsessed):

***
September 2003

I'm sitting happily anonymous in the Koo Koo Roo at lunch today, next to the window, by myself, and wondering what to write about. From the numerous brief moments of eye contact I've had with the usual crowd of muscledudes, firefighters and junior suits, I consider writing about how it must be socially acceptable to stare openly at people who are eating unaccompanied at lunchtime in Southern California.

I glance outside at the people sitting around the umbrella-covered tables, and she catches my eye. Alice.

Alice is my favorite checker at the drug store. Small and mousy, probably in her mid-to-late forties, a little crazy in an "I'm trying desperately to hold it all together, but it's kinda leaking out of me" sort of way. She always mutters, laughs nervously. No eye contact. She announces the prices of things as she scans them:

"Dollar fifty -- that's a great price. Two-nineteen on sale this week, not bad. Seven ninety-nine, not bad, not bad. Not *good*...."

Amy and I have both, on separate occasions, seen her walking in our neighborhood or waiting at a bus stop at the bottom of the hill. We both have been more than tempted to offer her a ride somewhere, or just to follow her stealthily to satisfy our curiosity about her dwelling place and its proximity to ours. House? Apartment? Cardboard box on the bluff? Of course, our better judgment has ruled that doing either of those things would only fuel her skittishness, so we've refrained. But we talk about her as if someday, someday....

I always see Alice alone, and I wonder about her life. If she's lonely. If she has friends, or sisters. If she's ever been in love. If she works at Sav-on because she can get a good discount on her medications. If she knows what she's missing, or if she's missing anything at all.

I have these elaborate fantasies about befriending her. Somehow, though, I can never bring myself to do it. Once, at the very crowded Coffee Bean, I saw her standing in line to order as I was waiting for my ice-blended. Someone two people ahead of her answered his cell phone and began to have a conversation. This angered her. She began espousing her thoughts, full-volume to everyone and yet to no one in particular, on how rude it is to talk on a cell phone in public. How rude, how intrusive, how distasteful, how disrespectful!

How very semi-controlled she was, with little tributaries of the angry river just under her skin breaking through to the surface and dripping out of her. She walked over to where I was half-praying for a quick "here's your drink" and a hasty retreat, and half-curiously-hoping she would address me and sense who I was.

She stood next to me. There was little room anyplace else. And without looking at me, she continued her rant, seemingly expecting me to chime in and agree, though I couldn't possibly have inserted a single word into the stream of her opinion. Finally, someone distracted her just as the barista called my name, and I was able to escape. The whole time I had been wondering what she would have done had I said, "Isn't your name Alice? You're my favorite checker at Sav-on; I always choose your checkstand no matter how long the line is."

She would have freaked out and killed me with a knife, I'm almost sure of it.

But there she is again today, looking different. Almost normal. She must just be out running errands, because she's dressed up, wearing a long beige-and-white plaid skirt and a sweater, instead of the telltale blue smock.

Could it be she's with other people for once? I see her talking to someone, even happily. Smiling, still somehow with that slight dullness behind her eyes. Who's she talking to?

Some...*guys*...Hollywood hunk-types. Then I see they have a German Shepherd on a leash next to their umbrella-shaded table, and it all makes unfortunate sense. Alice and I have talked about dogs at Sav-on; she loves them.

I was so rooting for her, so genuinely hoping Alice had some good-looking actor friends, perhaps admirers. But she was talking to the dog. Smiling at him. Gently stroking his head.

She's still alone.

But so am I, today, and I wonder what the difference is.

***

So, guess who I met on the street today? That's right. Alice. She was walking in my direction with a big dog, and I saw my opportunity for conversation. "Beautiful dog."

"Thank you. Want to meet him?"

Door open, foot in. I said I recognized her from Sav-on. She said this 125-pound Rottweiler/Australian Shepherd mix named Milo is the dog she always talks about. When I mentioned my involvement with Guide Dogs of America, and that I sometimes puppysit for other people, she asked me if I might be interested in watching Milo for her when she goes on vacation in July.

Hi, total stranger. Please come into my house and take care of my dog four months from now. HUH?!?!?

So, of course, I said it was a possibility. How can I resist looking into this window of her life, at her invitation? She now has my cell phone number. Am I playing a dangerous game? We shall see. I hope she calls; I want to see where she lives.

I'll bet she collects Hummels.

Of course, I immediately called Amy (far enough out of Alice's range to avoid any unwanted cell phone rant on her part). "The end is near," I said. "I just talked to the Sav-on Lady."