Purple Haze

Yesterday was the first day in I don’t know how long that I had all to myself. No employer to please, no friends to entertain, no family to visit, not even a sweetie with whom to coordinate activities, as mine had his own agenda. I slept in until 8 am, and the day stretched out before me like a vast, unfamiliar landscape.

So unaccustomed was I to a day without obligations, I spent the morning cleaning house. Around noon, I came to my senses. “What am I doing?!” I thought. “I’m freeeeee!” And with that revelation, I grabbed my coat and beat feet to my spiritual second home: the bookstore.

Being a true extrovert, I find long stretches of time by myself rather draining. As Anne Lamott would say, my mind is not an altogether safe place; I shouldn’t go there alone. But I’m never alone in a bookstore. The most scintillating, witty, moving, funny, astonishing company beckons there, literally (ha ha) every few feet. After a day in a bookstore, I return home as refreshed and energized as if I’d spent a day being pampered at a spa.

As much as it fills my soul, however, a bookstore also typically empties my wallet. I do tend to hemorrhage money at bookstores, but for the most part, it doesn’t bother me. Can we really put a price on knowledge? (Kevin, don’t answer that.)

So yesterday I spent a blissful six hours browsing Barnes & Noble. When I got peckish, I went to the adjoining Starbucks and sat down at a table with a soy latte to read one of my treasures. It was a book on the paranormal, with which I have had some experience (but that’s another blog post).

As I read, people came in and out of the little café and eventually I was doing more people-watching than reading.

This particular Saturday the Starbucks was full of families. Parents herded their children in for hot chocolate while they drank their own cup of strength to help them make it through the remainder of the Christmas vacation.

One couple came in with a baby, just on the cusp of toddlerhood, sitting bolt upright in a stroller. The baby’s big, round eyes in his big, round head seemed to be taking in everything - which, judging by his facial expression, he did not find terribly impressive.

Now as everyone knows, babies are the most psychic creatures on earth. I wondered if he saw my aura, and if so, did it sparkle in a divinely purplish-gold haze like my book said, or was it brackish and in need of a good cleaning?

I decided to do an experiment. As the baby sat silently surveying the café, I projected my aura. Not my unsightly blemishes, but the good stuff: the energy from my god-center, the white, gold and purple light that, according to my book, hugs my body like a celestial glove. I projected the shit out of it, all the while watching for the baby’s gaze to rivet upon me, the Glowing Gal of Goodness.

Nada. The baby ignored me, apparently the least interesting aura in the room.

So much for that, I thought, as the mommy, her caffeinated sustenance in hand, rolled the baby away.

I went back to reading my book. It wasn’t long, however, before I was once again distracted by another kind of stroller. This one contained an old woman. I couldn’t stop looking at her: imagine Cruella DeVille with a change of heart. She had bright red, rather wild short hair, a big leopard-print coat, moon boots, and a wide, painted mouth. Even hunched in her wheelchair, this broad stood tall.

As I sat trying not to stare, Cruella rolled her wheelchair slowly across the floor. Old people in wheelchairs – really, anyone disabled - have always made me nervous. They seem so fragile. I never know what to say to them; how to relate, even less. In essence, I’m always afraid I will accidentally hurt them.

So it was inevitable that Cruella would roll herself right next to me.

There wasn’t a lot of space between my table and the one next to me, but Cruella wheeled through there anyway and stopped right in the middle. Her leopard-print shoulder brushed mine. She was so close to me I could smell her: fresh fruit.

“My doctor says I have to leave the dressing on for a whole week!” she fretted to someone sitting behind me.

I stared unseeing at my book. Cruella and her wheelchair had completely blocked me in to my corner of the café. I felt the panic of someone trapped. What if I had to go to the bathroom? What if I spilled my drink and needed a napkin? What if she tried to talk to me?!

It didn’t take long for Cruella to become bored with the subjects of injuries and dressings and home nurses. “I want to go to the art books.” Slowly, she began wheeling herself backwards.

She stopped briefly and said, “I’ll do this carefully so as not to disturb you. I am so sorry.”

I murmured something about not at all, no trouble, no worries.

She rolled herself to the doorway between the café and the bookstore, and stopped. The doorway is rigged with one of those detectors designed to prevent shoplifting, and the wheels of her chair had gotten stuck between the metal rods bolted into the floor. Cruella rocked back and forth, trying to build enough momentum to roll over them.

It’s an annoying cliché, but it really was before I knew what I was doing. I found myself behind Cruella’s wheelchair pushing her over the threshold. “I’ll just give you a boost,” I half-apologized.

Cruella didn’t look at me, but said, “Oh, thank you so much.”

This is where I woke up, and instantly wanted to flee back to the safe haven of my corner.

“I want to go to the art books,” she said and started to wheel away.

“Art is over on the back wall,” I heard myself say, and off we were, navigating the pathways full of people, displays, and tables, both of us propelled by something other than ourselves.

“You seem to know right where they are!” she said.

“Uh, I’ve been here a lot,” I answered sheepishly.

Every now and then, I had to pause for people to get out of our way, and Cruella would put her moonboot down, as if she half expected me to abort the mission. Her foot caught on the carpet as we started up again and I would wince, sure my worst fear was coming true. But she would only say, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” and we continued on our way.

We arrived at the large display of art books on the back wall. “These are the big ones,” I stammered, “and the regular ones are on those shelves there.”

Cruella smiled up at me. “Why thank you so much,” she said.

I said you’re welcome and turned, walking away more quickly than perhaps was polite.

“You’re so sweet!” she called after me, but I was too far away to answer and too shy to look back.

In my mind’s eye, though, I could have sworn I saw a little bit of purple shimmering in my wake.

This post is dedicated to Eric, with many thanks.

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