If I'm Not Here...

In honor of today being Tuesday, I am posting a story about an amazing ministry that takes place in the Mission every Tuesday. It's been a huge part of my life here in San Francisco.

I'd be lying if I said I always kept my composure during this event. I've cried, hugged strangers, held conversations in my broken Spanish, and felt the heaviness of others' heartaches. It's been a crazy ride, for sure.

Love,

Lisa

If I’m Not Here

 

“If I’m not here next week, it’s because I killed myself,” he says with a straight face.

                I grab two bottles of Tapatio from the center of the table, pretending to clean them with my anti-bacterial wipes. Fingers slide over glass, but it’s just for show.

Sunlight filters in through the windows overhead. There are beams of gold dipping all the way to the ground, as though someone is offering a silky yellow lifeline. Unfortunately, the man isn’t interested in reaching for it.

His voice grows progressively more somber as he delivers his own eulogy.

“Life don’t have nothin’ for me anymore,” he says. “What’s this world got to offer? I ain’t had my own bed for ten years. No job, no family, not a dollar to my name. For me, life ended a long time ago.”

My eyes flick toward the man, whose hair is caked with debris. He smells like beer and sewage. Blood trickles from one ear, a parade of little red dots marching down his neck.

                “Don’t do it,” Jose tells the man. Although his accent is thick, his words are clear as day. “Suicide won’t solve your problems, brother.”

                “Yes it will,” the man swears, his tone combative. “You’ll never understand! You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

                Jose pauses for a second. “You know something?”

                The man shrugs. “Huh?”

                Jose places a hand on his dirt-encrusted arm. “It’s ok to be angry and upset. The hurt, the loss…it’s all real. But even in the worst of it, you are loved.”

                “Ha!” the man scoffs. He pushes his plate across the table; it slides down the wooden surface, landing right in front of me. I pick up the grimy dish, knowing I’ll have to wash my hands twice after touching this thing.

                “God can carry you through anything,” Jose says. “He didn’t promise an easy life, but He did promise to remain by our side throughout all of it.”

                “You can’t be serious,” the man spits. He looks Jose in the eye, then quickly shifts his gaze toward the windows. “That’s just lies they feed you in this church. Where was God when I needed Him? Where was He when I lost my family?”

                The man releases a sigh, which echoes off the walls and causes a shrill ringing in my ears. It’s the loneliest sound I’ve ever heard.

“I don’t want to talk no more,” the man says. He rises from his chair.

“Where are you going? We have time,” Jose insists.

Whirling around, I check the giant clock on the wall. It’s nearly one o’clock. The room was supposed to be emptied and cleaned half an hour ago.

                I hurry to the last table, grabbing the bottles of hot sauce in the center. I scrub them rigorously.

                “We’re running behind today,” someone notes.

I whirl around, coming face-to-face with Sheila, the volunteer coordinator. A mass of blond hair frames her porcelain skin; it might be summer in San Francisco, but Sheila’s as pale as she was in the dead of winter. Which was when we met, in fact.

“Yeah. I guess everyone lost track of time,” I say.

Abandoning my sanitized rags, I help her fold chairs.

                “Are you ok?” she asks.

I bite my lip. “Yeah. It’s just really…sad.”

Sheila leans over and whispers directly into my ear. “He does this every week.”

                “He does?”

                Sheila nods, jutting her chin in the direction of the homeless man. He doesn’t appear to be at all comforted by the words Jose is offering. In fact, the man looks like he’s damaged beyond repair.

                “Every week, he swears he’s going to commit suicide,” Sheila clarifies. “It’s a cry for attention. But that’s the case with most of the guys who come here. They’re not mentally stable.”

                “It’s a shame,” I note, unable to make sense of the brokenness I’ve seen today.

                “It certainly is. But we’re not here to save the world,” Sheila continues. “We’re here to love our neighbors. Simple as that. Keep your head up, Lisa. Don’t let the chaos deter you.”

                “I won’t,” I promise.

                She winks, then wraps an arm around my shoulders. “I started helping with this ministry ten years ago. You were, what, in high school?”
                “The tail end of it,” I tell her with a chuckle.

                “Of course! Me too,” she jokes. “Ah, the good ol’ days. Anyway, I’ve been helping every Tuesday for a decade. And you know something?”

                “Hmm?”

                “I’ve seen some crazy stuff,” Sheila declares. “But I don’t regret any of it.”

                I glance at the homeless man, who’s reaching for things. He has a jacket, a bottle of liquor, and several old newspapers.

As he gathers his pitiful belongings, Jose offers to pray for him.

                “I should sanitize that chair, huh?” I ask Sheila. From halfway across the room, I can see the streaks of mud that on the metal seat.

                She nods. “Yeah. This is the glamorous life. Welcome to the Tuesday lunch ministry, Lisa.”

                “Happy to be here,” I say with a firm nod.

Truth be Told...

This is not a true story. Unless you define true as "a figment of one's imagination, with tiny glimpses of reality tossed in." In which case, we would get along really well...because I'm always looking to blur the lines between fact and fiction. As a writer and habitual daydreamer, I suppose that's just my natural tendency.

Anyway, today is about as warm and perfect as it gets. So I'm glad I finished writing this strange little story because, to be honest, I just want to go play in the sunshine.

Love,

Lisa

 

 

I’m left wiping at my eyes instead,

And swearing that I’m better yet

While waiting for time to pass by

 

The lyrics float through my head in a circular pattern: they appear, then disappear, then return to sight. Just like the piles of debris littering this side of Steiner Street.

Stepping over a stack of half-eaten Starbucks sandwiches, I sigh. There will be another decaying pile of food in a block or two. It’s part of life in this section of town.

A bell chimes from the Catholic church down the street, signaling that it’s noon.

Like a bolt of lightning, an idea strikes me.

“And watching the minute hand fly,” I murmur aloud. My chest fills with excitement over this small accomplishment.

“Lisa!” someone shouts.

I immediately turn toward the sound.

My escape-artist roommate, who’s become quite skilled at disappearing for days and then magically reappearing to do a single load of laundry, waves at me. She’s standing directly in front of the park; a bunch of teenage boys pause their soccer game to glance at her. Iris has the most perfect smile and this lush, vibrant hair that belongs in a commercial. She’s gorgeous.

I lift a hand, waving back.

“You look so happy,” she calls out as we continue in opposite directions.

“That’s ‘cause I just finished the chorus,” I shout, even though we’re too far apart to hear each other at this point.

My phone buzzes with a text from Iris. Good to see ya, roomie! Can I reserve the laundry machine tomorrow night?

Sure thing, I write back. I’ll be in SOMA anyways.

There’s an open mic tomorrow in SOMA and one on Wednesday in North Beach. I’ll sing my newest original song to a ragtag group of daydreamers who may or may not be able to pay rent this month.

Angry shouts stir me from my thoughts. “Outta the way! C’mon, move over! What’re ya doing?”

The sound of metal grinding against cement makes me cringe.

Just ahead, there’s an old lady in a wheelchair. She’s blocking the sidewalk, which has elicited unkind words from passersby.

Usually I ignore these awkward situations, but this woman catches my attention for some reason. Her gray hair is disheveled, tied up with a single elastic. The grooves on her face indicate she’s somewhere in her mid-seventies, or perhaps older. But certainly not younger.

Sagging skin dangles from her arms and mascara slides down her weathered cheeks.

What a mess, I think.

The wheelchair rests beside the curb, right in the flow of traffic. Her arms shake as she tries to propel herself over the curb. Clearly, the incline is too steep; she breathes loudly, exerting every ounce of force she possibly can.

She doesn’t ask for my help, doesn’t utter a word. I get behind her wheelchair anyway, though. With one effortless push, the wheels slide over the two-inch cement hurdle.

She glances up at me. Her eyes are brown like mine, except faded around the corners. One glance in those irises is enough to take my breath away; startled, I gasp for air.

I know who you are, I reflect. In all the strange novels and short stories I’ve written, I created scenarios like this one. But I never envisioned myself in the story, and I certainly didn’t predict the coldness that would sweep across my skin.

“Oh, dear,” she says, each word as shaky as the skin hanging beneath her chin. “You’re the only one who was willing to help me. Thank you.”

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek so hard that I almost draw blood. “Um…you’re welcome?”

“You remind me of myself, years ago. I used to be quite lovely, you know,” she says with a wink. Then she spins her wheels, jutting forward.

I watch the lady cruise down the street.

“While waiting for the time to pass me by,” she sings as she approaches Fillmore Street. “And watching the minute hand fly…”

She has no wedding ring, no companions or even friends to help her along. She looks haggard and used-up, like she’s outstayed her welcome in this world. Just another weird lady singing a weird song that nobody else knows.

The woman embodies every fear of mine, every foolish insecurity that keeps me awake at night.

But there was one vestige of hope, one glimmer of inspiration in those gray-brown eyes of hers. In spite of the loneliness, there was love in those irises. It shined brightly.

I continue down Steiner with shaky hands. I only look back once; by then, the wheelchair has vanished. But I don’t doubt what I experienced this afternoon, nor do I doubt its meaning. Not for a second.

 

Escapade Kids

Last Sunday at midnight, I found out that all Harper Collins submissions are required to be 70,000 words.

How did I discover this? By attempting to send them my manuscript, which was promptly rejected because it was 51,000 words. Bummer, right?

A normal person would've given up. It's irrational to try to compose 19,000 words in just a few short days, right?

Wrong. I went at it, typing until my fingers (and eyes) felt like they were about to fall off. Currently, the book has 65,000 words. My goal is to reach the 70,000 mark by Monday.

Game on.

So, the excerpt below is one I worked on this morning. Krista Contessa and her sister Talia are about to meet the lead singer of a huge, nationally-known band. This is all thanks to Ethan Carlson, the guitarist who used to be Krista's arch-enemy but recently became her friend. Mostly, that happened because Ethan agreed to use his superpowers to help Krista.

I think that's enough background info to make the excerpt readable. Enjoy!

Love,
Lisa

“I can’t believe it! Ethan, we’re gonna meet them? As in, talk to them?” Talia cries, leaping forward to pull him into a hug. “I think I love you.”

                “Don’t say that just yet. They might be in a hurry, setting up,” he warns. “But hopefully you’ll get to see them, at the very least. Up-close.”

                “Oh! This is the best belated birthday gift ever,” she says dreamily as we walk around the side of the building. “Aside from the guitar you gave me, Krista.”

                “I was involved in that gift too,” Ethan points out. “So I guess I’m your hero?”

                “Absolutely. That’s what we’ve always secretly thought,” I say, rolling my eyes dramatically.

                Ethan uses one finger to push me to the side. I’m laughing hard enough to stumble, but not hard enough to fall over. Instead, I just reach over and shove him back. He turns toward me, feigning shock.

                “It’s so on,” he declares, rolling up the sleeves of his black hoodie.

                “Enough, you two! Do I have to separate you?” Talia teases.

We continue down a narrow alley, sidestepping stones and cracks in the pavement. I’ve never been inside The Tabernacle before. From this perspective, it looks antique. The building towers above us, a stone structure with menacing appeal. It’s old-fashioned and rustic.

Very hard-core.

                The alley eventually leads to a clearing. Tour buses are parked in a semi-circle. Fire Starters has this massive black bus that could probably fit the entire population of Georgia inside. Escapade Kids’ bus, on the other hand, is downsized and far less showy. But Ethan doesn’t seem to mind; his green eyes are fixed on the vehicle. For a few seconds, he stares with this look of amazement on his face. Clearly, he approves of the bus.

“So that’s your new apartment, huh?” I say quietly, envisioning Ethan on the tour bus all summer long. It’s not something I want to think about, but I can’t avoid the subject forever. Summer is only a few weeks away.

“Hopefully,” he responds. Brown hair blows around his defined, angular chin as he gazes at his potential home. It might not be spacious, but it offers a chance at a dizzying, action-packed life. Which is Ethan’s dream. “That’s the goal, Krista.”

                The boys in the band are hanging out by the trailer, grabbing equipment as they discuss tonight’s setlist. I’ve seen these guys on posters and occasionally on MTV clips. I heard them play in Six Flags just a few days ago. I know exactly what each band member looks like, but it’s still weird seeing them in person. They’re standing no more than ten feet from me. It’s surreal.

                Jared, the lead singer, could pass for an older version of Ethan. Jared’s got long, dark hair and light eyes. His hair is practically black, though, as opposed to Ethan’s chocolate hue. And Jared’s a bit shorter. More muscular, too, as though he spends most days swimming or biking. Both, possibly.

Benny, the drummer, has medium-dark hair that’s significantly shorter than Jared’s. In every poster, concert, and tv snippet I’ve seen, he always has a laid-back grin slapped across his face. Even now, as he helps lift heavy musical gear off the trailer, he is smiling. It seems the kid is incapable of being unhappy.

                Not a bad thing, I note internally.

                Elijah and Scotty are carrying guitars very carefully. Scotty’s the bassist. His artsy glasses outline almond-shaped eyes. Elijah, on the other hand, is built like a surfer. He’s as toned and athletic as they come.

                Overall, the band is incredibly good-looking. It’s undeniable that their talent got them this far; Jared’s original songs are really heartfelt and catchy. But being attractive didn’t exactly hurt their case. Every one of these guys could’ve gone into modeling if the music career hadn’t worked out. Not that they need to worry about that anymore; Escapade Kids has just reached the level of stardom, and their massive fan base continues to grow daily.

                “Tyler looks different in real life,” I whisper, jutting my chin toward the bus.

                “In what way?” Ethan asks.

                I pause. “Blonder. Is that a word? And more fun. In photos, he usually has a serious expression.”

The guitarist, Tyler, leans against one side of the van. He’s grinning like a kid on Christmas. In front of him stands a pretty girl with light brown hair. She’s got a rock on her finger the size of a grapefruit. I remember, briefly, reading online that one of the guys in the band was married.

It must be Tyler, I reflect, searching his left hand for a ring. He doesn’t seem much older than Ethan or me. But, judging by the look on his face, it was a smart decision to marry young; there’s no question he’s 100% in love with this girl. Sometimes age is really irrelevant.

                “Tyler’s the married one, right?” I whisper to Ethan.

He nods. “Yeah, to Julie. She’s probably the nicest person I’ve ever met. They’re only two years older than me, which I thought was weird at first. Julie was seventeen when they got married.”

I let out a low whistle. “Shoot. Still in high school, huh? I can’t even imagine.”

“Me neither,” Ethan admits. “But it’s working. They’re so good for each other, Krista. The band took me to dinner a few nights ago; I just couldn’t believe how perfect Tyler and Julie are together. It was…I don’t know, inspiring.”

From behind us, Talia lets out a happy sigh. I’d almost forgotten she was here.

I whirl around, facing my baby sister. She’s got this star-struck stance; her feet rest lightly on the ground, as though held there only by gravity. Talia’s always been obsessed with celebrities, but this runs much deeper. She’s got big dreams as a musician, after all. To see people who have made it, guys who have taken the music scene by storm…well, I can only imagine how that must feel. I’d be in the same boat if I got to meet one of the professional artists and graphic designers at SCAD.

“No fainting,” I instruct Talia. “Got it? Mom will kill me if you come home with so much as a scratch.”

“I’ll try my hardest not to pass out,” Talia agrees sweetly. “Can’t make any promises, though.”

                “Ok ladies, here we go,” Ethan says softly. “I think they’ve got a lot to do, so I’m just going to grab Jared for a second.”

He clutches my hand and moves forward.

                It’s so incredible, the way his fingers just find mine. I wasn’t expecting Ethan to reach for me. His skin is warm. Smooth, too. For someone with such a tough image, Ethan is much gentler than I would’ve imagined.

                “Hey Jared,” Ethan says when we approach the band’s frontman.

                Jared looks up from the pile of equipment. He breaks out into a huge grin at the sight of Ethan, offering a handshake. With his free hand, Ethan accepts.

                “Dude, we’re so happy to have you here,” Jared says. “Welcome to the circus, bro. I know you’ll do great tonight.”

                “Thanks. I’m excited to be here,” Ethan tells him. “Hey, I wanted to introduce my friends really fast. Before we start setting up and doing soundchecks.”

                “Yeah, sure. No problem. I’m Jared,” he tells me and Talia. As though we were unaware of this.

                “Krista Contessa,” I wave.

                “And I’m Talia. I just want to say that I’m so thrilled to see y’all tonight. I love your music and Fire Starters are awesome, too,” Talia gushes, her cheeks flushed from all the excitement. “This is really unbelievable. You guys are some of my favorite musicians in the world.”

                 “Thank you. That means a lot to me. We’ve been working really hard since we put out a new record, so it’s always nice to get compliments from people,” Jared says. His voice is totally sincere. The kid is humble; he could easily have an inflated ego, considering the recent success of the band. But he’s not cocky. In fact, he seems down-to-earth and genuine. “Keeps us motivated to churn out more songs, you know?”

                Talia nods. “Quickly, I hope. Can’t wait for your next album.”

                “It’ll be a little while, since we’ve got the tour to focus on right now,” Jared admits. “But I promise we’ll hit the studio as soon as that’s done. Hopefully with Ethan this time.”

                “The newest member of the band,” I reflect, still amazed that Ethan’s associated with this nationally-known band.

“Alright man, we should let you get back to work,” Ethan says. “I’ll come help out in a minute.”

                He walks me and Talia toward the alley. I glance back one time, watching the bandmates buzz around the van like flies. They’re on a mission.  

It’s crazy to think I just stood beside the lead singer of Escapade Kids, I reflect. I’m shocked that he took the time to meet me and Talia. On top of that, he was really nice. Talia’s heart is probably fluttering like a hummingbird’s.

“Ok, I’ll come find y’all after we play,” Ethan assures us.

                “Sounds good. Text me before you step on stage,” I remind him.

He nods in understanding. Talia stares straight ahead, a dazed look on her face. I elbow her side, trying to stir her back to reality. It’s a lost cause; she’s off in dreamland. I know my sister well enough to know that she’s already planning her children with Jared.

                “He’s got a girlfriend,” Ethan points out. The comment seemingly comes out of nowhere, but I know that he is reading Talia’s memories. She probably has a detailed, vivid picture of Jared’s smile. Or maybe his eyes…he did have striking eyes. Nearly as unique as Ethan’s.

                “Huh?” Talia asks innocently.

                “Jared. He’s dating this chick named Violet,” Ethan says with a shrug.

                “He’s too old for Talia anyway,” I point out. I wrap an arm around my baby sister protectively.  The guys in Escapade Kids are nineteen or twenty. Even though she doesn’t act like it, Talia’s only thirteen. Barely.

Sometimes I forget that.

                She wiggles out from beneath my arm. “Whatever, Krista. I’m way more mature than my actual age. Aren’t I, Ethan?”

                He nods hesitantly. I laugh.

                “Besides, Krista…five years’ age difference isn’t so different than two,” Talia points out. It takes me a minute to figure out what she’s talking about. Once the realization sets in, I clamp a hand over her mouth. Then I turn toward Ethan with a smile.

                “Ok, you’ve probably got a bazillion things to do. See you in a while, Ethan. Break a leg,” I say.

I smile and blink furiously, trying my hardest not to recall Talia’s comment. Ethan will surely see it in my memories, and I can’t take that chance. 

                He nods. If he caught onto my sister’s joke, he gives no indication of it. I watch him make his way back to the van. He slaps Scotty on the back, as though they’ve been friends forever. Ben and Elijah look up. They both nod in approval. Clearly, Ethan’s already one of the guys.

He grabs an amp and hauls it inside the building.

 “Can you take your hand off my mouth now?” Talia laughs, her words muffled by my fingers.

                “Oh,” I note. “Sorry. You’re ridiculous, by the way. Ethan and I are not dating, Talia.”

                “Hmm. If that’s true, then why are you blushing?” she teases.

                I shake my head as we walk around toward the entrance. They’ve started to let people inside, so the line no longer winds all the way around the building. I scan the crowd for a tall blond girl, but there are too many to weed through. I’m not even sure I would recognize her immediately. My memories are so scattered and fuzzy.

But that’s why I enlisted Ethan’s help, I think, trying to stay positive. He can confirm my cousin’s identity. I could only make an educated guess. At best.

“You’re insane,” I note, wrapping an arm around Talia’s tiny neck.  “No more awkward comments, ok? Please?”

She nods hesitantly. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, if you insist. But it won’t change the chemistry between you two…”

“There’s no chemistry,” I insist. “C’mon, let’s go find our seats.”