Hungry? Grab a Snickers.

During the 6th inning of the Women’s College World Series Championship game in 2005, I drive five-and-a-half blocks to a new pizza place in downtown Flagstaff. It is 6:20 p.m. and I’m driving west directly into pure afternoon sunlight. I notice that there are several people out and about on Phoenix Avenue, which is unusual; I am only able to see their silhouettes in the blinding sun. An extremely mellow (and dare I say perfect) Letters to Cleo song is playing. I slowly cross San Francisco, Leroux and Beaver Streets. In the glaring sunlight, I am unable to see which storefront is the pizza place; they have apparently retired their 7” by 5” plastic banner for a permanent and more refined sign that reads “Old World Pizza.” I make a U-turn in defiance of the sun; as the mellow LTC song ends, I roll into a parking spot near the curb just in front of the door. Perfect timing.

One of those sunlit figures on Phoenix had a mohawk, and I notice that he was walking to the same destination as I when I passed him. He enters first and I set my car alarm, immediately feeling like a Yippie.

Upon walking in, I see that the old Italian owner is talking to Mohawk-Man. They seem to know each other. I suppose Mohawk-Man is a “regular.” I quietly wait until he calls on me to tell him I am there for my house-specialty. The owner notices that I am paying with a five and several ones. He comments that I must be a waitress. I state that I drive a cab. Both men pause to look at me and consider what I have revealed.

I sit next to Mohawk-Man as he crosses one tattooed leg over the other and reads a magazine. The owner then quizzes me on my cab-driving profession; how long have I been driving, do I like it and so on. I am stoned and a little buzzed off Fat Tire and begin talking…a lot. Mohawk-Man agrees with me at some point on some issue and puts his magazine down to utter a few simple words of agreement. I look outside to my left at all of the objects beyond the windows shrouded in a golden afternoon. I hear DaRude’s “Sandstorm” playing from a radio in the kitchen and smile to myself, recalling an early Sunday afternoon several years back when four friends and I crashed through a chain-link fence in downtown Houston in a brand new Ford Mustang while dancing to that particular song.

The owner brings me my pizza and at the last minute smiles, placing a free Snickers candy bar atop the steaming box. It is our free dessert. I am happy.

I walk out the door and into the soft glow of a warm Summer Flagstaff afternoon. (Flagstafternoon?) I turn the key in the ignition and smile as a new LTC song comes on and the aromas of fresh pizza dance around me.

A Party

The setting: a dingy old kitchen with a bunch of hippies – genuine hippies, the real deal: San Francisco in the ‘60s, opium, crystals and later, Dungeons and Dragons. One of them (who always wears cut off denim shorts, tie-dyed shirts and water-shoes) has a snake wrapped around his neck; the snake’s name is Atrocha – she’s beautiful and shiny and looks like she’s been oiled in the light. The stale smells of smoke, patchouli, and body odor linger in the air, tickling your nostrils and clogging your pores. You are attending a birthday party, where 10 or 12 people have convened to discuss the ways in which they are each better than the others. Pomp and Circumstance would fit in with this crowd much more appropriately than any graduation. The birthday boy has turned 53 and comments that no one has touched the box of wine he brought. You notice a box of Bergundy sitting atop the non-functioning dishwasher on which you are leaning. A smart-but-insanely-insecure hippie to your left remarks that no one has touched his champagne either. The tall dark and skinny hippie with the snake exclaims (in an attempt at humor) that no one has touched the heroine either. This comment is followed by silence but eventually yields uncomfortable laughter. After a few quiet seconds, the smart-but-insanely-insecure hippie, who does not care for snake-man, counters with his rebuttal: But has anyone touched the hero?

Hippie Gear

One early Saturday afternoon I found myself in a peculiar setting in the corner room of a rental house with an older hippie woman who had hairy legs and armpits and wore a long skirt, a tank top and no bra. I had met her and her husband at our favorite pub the night before and offered to help them move the following day. In the midst of packing boxes into a U-Haul, she and I later shared a smoke while a big, fluffy black cat played in a pile of shredded paper stuffed into a black trash-bag nearby. Sunlight streamed through the east- and south-facing windows, and healthy green sprigs of a hanging plant danced in the rays of light. I sat on top of a pillow, surrounded by boxes of crystals. We smoked as she talked about chakras and blessing her new house, calling in the “Goddess” to come whenever she wants and make herself comfortable.

Among a pile of books I spied a worn paperback called “The Tales of Neveryon,” the cover of which depicted a tall, dark and handsome male, scantily clad and wielding his “dagger” to save a young mistress. It was a book I knew I would never read.

Other fat cats with names like Rufus and Gandolf lazily sauntered through the nearly empty halls of the house they were about to vacate. I felt high and a little odd as this woman began to show me the costumes she has created for various festivals celebrating science fiction, fantasy and the Renaissance. The costumes, I daresay, were lovely, made of flowing fabrics that must feel like Heaven when wrapped around the female form. She has made skirts, petticoats, tunics, bustiers, headdresses and staffs covered with velvet, crystals, metallic fabrics and silks. She was very excited to show each piece to me and I was happy to see each new installment.

She became increasingly excited as she went to a closet in the back room and brought down a large box, roughly 24”x18”x8”. She opened the lid to a top layer of egg-crate foam, which she gingerly lifted to reveal an ornate black and silver headdress; its width spanned the entire box. It was marvelous – a black mask with dangly silver beads, a quartz crystal in the center of the forehead, black feathers and gemstones. She was so proud, so delicate with it, and proceeded to hold it to her face and dance a little from side to side. It was a strange moment, yet I soaked in every silent detail.

She then tucked the headdress away, back in the box, kissed her finger and touched it in a last goodbye, muttering “Bye baby.” She replaced the green egg-crate foam and closed the box and placed it into the closet.

Though I could identify with few, if any, of these things that brought her such joy, I felt connected to her willingness to be herself so boldly and wholeheartedly.

On a cold and rainy winter morning I walk to the post office in downtown Flagstaff. It’s only about a four-block walk from “the Brothel,” which we’ve amiably coined our 123-year-old apartment house located just shy of the “right” side of the tracks. Milky clouds hang low in the gray sky, masking the Peaks just north of town. Streets and sidewalks glisten as though freshly painted with a clear polish; raindrops descend from the awnings of shops and restaurants still asleep. As usual, shady characters loiter near the mission and outside of the hostels. I walk alone on the sidewalk, stepping around puddles and patches of sludgy ice.

Damp cigarette butts and orange peels litter the tracks, which smell of grease and metal. I step over the slick tracks, this “I-Spy” wonderland full of bloated and rusty objects.

Downtown is awakening: shopkeepers step out for last cigarettes before unmasking OPEN signs; it’s difficult to discern between the plumes of smoke and frosty condensation expelled from their mouths. None of them makes eye contact with me; I am invisible to them in the last precious moments before the workday begins. I clutch my letters and stare at the sidewalk, inhaling deep breaths of fresh, damp air, and admire the beautiful decay hidden in the gutters and alleyways.

The post office is unusually still and quiet for a Saturday morning. I admire the vintage post boxes and wonder how many tired, grubby hands have worked their combinations over the years. I collect the usual bills, a package, a catalogue and a bona fide letter from a college friend in anticipation for my walk back through the chilly, wet comfort of this little mountain town I’ve come to call home.

Neo-hippies emerge from beater cars splattered with political bumper stickers; two bleary-eyed Native Americans stumble across Route 66 and San Francisco Street. Both are wearing black athletic pants and faded black hoodies, bloodshot eyes staring through me as we pass on the polished walkway. Two others go separate ways further down the street, one shouting obscenities to no one as the other panhandles a large white man in a blaze orange ski jacket.

A train charges past, its horn loud and abrasive yet comforting. A rush of air washes over my face, my cold cheeks. My thighs burn from the frigid air and exercise as I patiently wait for the train to pass. My senses are alive and I feel refreshed. I grasp my armful of mail, carefully tracing a finger over the brown paper package in anticipation of its surprises.

“The only thing greater than the unimaginative soul's capacity for doling out criticism is his fervent desire to be taken seriously in doing so.”


I can’t help but see him idling in the left lane; the bright light blazes into my eyes through a hole in his shattered brake light. Snow flurries slow the morning traffic along Route 66 – the sky is low with plump gray clouds sprinkling large flakes of frozen matter onto the faded hood of my ‘97 Corolla.

Today is Monday.

He is to my left, one car-length ahead. The red light freezes our mutually exclusive lives in this unique moment in time. My eyelids are sandpaper; I peer at the outside world, yearning for the warmth of bed. I gaze far into a world of surreal make believe. No one can tear me from my delusion. No euphoria thieves permitted! Ah, but I am thinking this as I am pulled away from a world with fuzzy edges and warm kisses. The soft, inviting bed at which I am gazing slowly becomes the lower-half of a 1978 white-on-brown Chevy Blazer. The puffy white blankets that beckon me to sleep become the Blazer’s dingy top-half. I peer at the windows; the glass is smudged and cold. Through them, I now see the frozen train-tracks and the trees beyond. Reality.

I stare at his silhouette in the driver’s seat. He is white, possibly in his late 40s and slightly overweight. His long thin hair is oily and unkempt; a cigarette dangles from his lower lip as he frantically searches for something next to him, a race against time before the green arrow protects his left turn. Trapped smoke curls and becomes stagnant, frozen in the timelessness of my thoughts.

I imagine his existence as I await my own green light. He lives on the east side of town in a one room apartment illuminated by a single 60-watt bulb. A full-size mattress lies on the floor under a tangle of worn, mismatched sheets. Next to the mattress, a bag of stale Chee-tos and an empty Dr Pepper can he uses as an ashtray. He is divorced and has never spoken to his son, who must be nearly 20 by now. He is alone but refuses to admit this to himself. He is disorganized. He smells of tobacco and sweat. A prominent scar, which he does not discuss, traverses the apple of his cheek. He has a slight beer-belly and wears baggy jeans below its lower circumference. In my mind, his name is Roy and I yearn to experience his simple, lonely life for just one day- this cold, grey day in northern Arizona. Life couldn't be better in a small mountain town in a hidden corner of the American grid.

Our lights turn green and we never meet again.

I saw my dead Great-Grandmother’s face today. I saw it on a lady at the old-fashioned post office in downtown Flagstaff. Small beady eyes set deep into apple cheeks. Thin lips sank into her toothless gums; she had that look of smelling her top lip at all times. She did not speak. Those small, glassy eyes stared forward while her bottom lip opened slightly and closed, opened slightly and closed. How did her gums feel on the velvet of her lips?

I crashed into every memory I have of Hazel Holbrook Lester a.k.a Great-Mom. There aren’t many: the metallic zebra wallpaper in her bathroom under the stairs- the ceiling sloped and it was always cold; the fine crystal sherry glass she gave me at the age of 8– how it fit my little hand so perfectly as I pretended to drink wine at my tea parties with imaginary friends; the smell of mothballs and old skin, iron skillets and pickled beets; the bright polyester pant-suits and shirts hanging in her coat closet; her story about riding across the river to Huntington, West Virginia in a horse-drawn carriage; the one time I recall eating her homemade cornbread and drinking water from the tap; Cousin Heather tattling on me for writing on the wall with a crayon and hiding under the table in the ultimate escape. I remembered these moments in a flash as I stood in line watching a strange woman in the post office gnaw at the lips of my dead Great-Grandmother.

The line was almost out the door; at Christmas time the crowds were anxious to get their brown paper packages in the mail to loved ones in places like St. Petersburg, Florida, where I imagined they would “Christmas” this year in khaki shorts and golf shirts. I found myself in that line kicking snow and ice from my boots, longing for sunshine.

The post office is second only to airports for people-watching. It is the poor man’s chance to travel the minds and lives of strangers. I began to watch those around me, taking in each and every minute detail that had managed to displace me from that moment in my own life.

Great-Mom was at the second window with a man who was probably her son- he didn’t understand what he was supposed to do to get his Christmas packages out.

An abrasive woman several people in front of me caught up with an old friend several people behind me; her voice was loud and I suspect that we all listened inconspicuously. She had moved away a while back but found herself with a job offer that she couldn’t refuse back here in Flagstaff. She and her husband will stop by to see this old friend’s house and daughter, who is already 3 ½ if you can believe it. It is obvious that she does not remember his daughter’s name. I now do not remember her face.

A family had walked in the door only seconds before I had- there were three of them: a medium-height man with light olive skin, black hair and a five-o’clock shadow even at 11:23 a.m., a delicate Asian woman with hair perfectly styled hair, tiny legs in tapered jeans and gold jewelry, and a dark, middle-eastern looking girl with large bright eyes and questions; she was probably four or five. They brought with them about eight or nine packages, all perfectly wrapped in brown paper and carefully addressed with a Sharpie marker.

“Who is Carmen?” the little girl asked.

“Charmin’ Carmen,” both of her parents responded in unison. (Carmen’s the one in St. Petersburg, Florida). The man and woman spoke only to the child and not to each other; had they argued before venturing into the postal madhouse with all of those brown paper packages?

A lone white man with a Cro-Magnon forehead and remarkably meticulous hairstyle stood in front of me. His oddly-placed part created a cranial cross-section. The hair on the lower cranium had been combed straight down; the hair on the upper cranium had been violently brushed forward while it was still wet. A glossy salon product had transformed that upper cranial region into perfect rows of corn destroyed in a crop circle. His short bangs were stalagmites separating the upper-cranial region from his Cro-Magnon forehead. I noticed several small pieces of earwax caught in the cilia of his right ear.

The older woman behind me sucked on a cherry-flavored Hall’s; the smell made me nauseous and angry.

The tall guy behind her had known the woman up front who bestowed upon us her entire life to us in a matter of seconds.

Behind him the line continued, blurry in my memory. I waited in line with all of these people who had a day ahead of them. These people had probably all looked in the mirror this morning with puffed and sleepy eyes while formulating a mental to-do list on this first-of-two-consecutive-days-off. Somewhere in all those lists was this unforeseen moment, time shared with nameless people who love and are loved in return.

Nothing sets me apart from these people; we are a mass, a herd - alike in more ways than we recognize or admit. I noticed things about these people that I identify most with myself. I am annoyed by this revelation, angered at these people for human discrepancies that they cannot control.

Then one by one they disappeared from the moment. I too disappeared from the moment. In the end, crisp mountain air met me at the door and social anxiety abated for a moment.

I walked to my car with a box in my arms. It was nice to see Great-Mom again.