MYRA

I came home that night. I drove straight through. Somehow I drove, was still alive and had not killed anyone in the process. I sat in the car for awhile, motor still running, thanking god, and being overcome by the fumes of exhaust in stale air-conditioning, swirling with the aroma of urine in my 'travel latrine', and the cold, old, greasy food wrappers abandoned on the passenger floor. I shutdown, fell out the door, and stumbled to the middle of the lawn, where I finally drew a cleansing breath, only to be overcome by the heady smell of  the night's warm valley bouquet -the orange blossom, jasmine, Bermuda blend pungent in the light mist drifting from the neighbor's sprinklers, when it finally hit me, and I dropped to my knees, there on the front lawn, the steady swish of traffic slipping by the boulevard behind me. I caved, I crumbled and I wept. Whatever it was that needed releasing, finally released. He was dead and I was dying. Men younger than I were dying, and I was mortal. Young and invincible, both of us, so cock sure and arrogant, crumbling now. My pride shattered…He...gone to Dust.

A woman approached. I had routinely seen her on the street walking her dog. She had seemed kind…her smile. She was polite and always said hello, no matter my state or mood. But now she knelt beside me and put her arm around me, and when I lurched at her touch, she held me tighter, refusing to release me.

“You are in pain. It’s okay,” she whispered, but did not try to shush me, rather she seemed to encourage the tears, which now sprung from fissures in the deep bedrock of my soul.

“I know,” she whispered, “I know.”

“You never knew him, he…” I blubbered.

“This isn’t about him. This is about you. This is your pain, and it is not a singular pain, this is life’s pain and it has caught up with you and it is having it’s day. Let it. Don’t bother trying to stop it.”

“Not here, ‘ I said ashamed at the show I was providing the passing parade, their headlights, prying eyes in the night. How would this scene play out in their heads?

“Let me help you. Let me open your gate, and get you to your door. It is okay, really it is.” I could not resist her kindness, her encompassing warmth. She helped lift me, first to a knee, then upright and she steadied me while I found balance over legs that seemed no longer willing to support me. We stumbled forward.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Mac…Mac Bivens.”

"Hello, Mac Bivens….Myra Kleinman.”

“I am so sorry about this Myra…I…”

I told her the code and she opened the security gate. I leaned against the post for a bit of a rest.

“You are a broken man. It happens to each of us. It has happened to me. The epiphany. My husband, died…It’s the epiphany isn’t it, Mac?”

“It’s all so overwhelming and so very hopeless…”

“It is if you let it, but I know you had a reason to be here. We all have some worth. Draw upon that, know in your heart you made…”

“Ha! I made sitcoms. There’s no worth to my work. No real worth to my life. I fucked that u…I’m sorry, Myra. I apologize for my language. I think I can make it from here.” Then I noticed her bundles lying on the grass nearby where I had folded. She must have been heading home from the market when she found me. “Here, let me get straight for a second, and I’ll walk you home. You have things to carry, and you can’t leave them out here on the street…somebody…swoop‘em up”

“You are in no shape, Mac. Let me…”

“This very second I need a purpose. I need to move, to do something, even something mundane like lugging groceries. C’mon, Myra, be a friend and let me tote your bags. I was pretty good at it in the old days.”

“Well, if the bottle of wine is still intact …”

“Think I have met my quota tonight, dear, Myra.”

“Yes, of course. I understand. ” she said, and I sense she did know it well. She stepped away, letting me lean only on the post. I gathered myself and found I could walk with some minor integrity.

Her building, was one of the faux grand hotel styles, with the cold, austere, and uninviting lobby. As we waited for the elevator, apparently being held on a floor above, a couple approached from another lobby door marked Parking Garage.

“Oh, Mac. I want you to meet Imogene and Lester.”

“Hello.”

“Mac was so kind as to carry my bags home from the market…”

I was pretty sure I was reading distain on their faces and wondered what they thought might be going on between Myra and I, even though she was probably twenty years my senior.

“Did you take a tumble, ‘Mac’?”

“Hu..uhmm?” I followed her gaze down to grass and dirt stained pants, a result of my recent defeat.

“Oh, no, that….I tripped on the curb and..I guess you’re right. Myra came to my aid, and I am trying to return the favor”

I was overplaying my part, I held up the grocery bags as if I had just bagged her dinner. “…just bringin home the bacon.”

“So you were stumbling down the street...?” he asked.

"If that’s an inference to the fact that I am inebriated, then you are correct, however, I wasn’t stumbling at all. I was driving. From Palm Springs. I got here okay...”

“Jackass!”

“Jerk.”
"Oh!" Myra responded to their criticism.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Lester was a career LAPD officer, and Imogene worked in the DA’s office, so you best be careful who you confess to, Mac. And, Imogene, Lester?…Mac, here is a troubled young man in a lot of pain, he deserves some compassion…”

“Sorry, Myra, no compassion for drunk drivers, never…ever.”

“None,” he agreed. "I've seen too many victims, and I spare my compassion for their loved ones, not the killer behind the wheel."

The doors opened, we stepped in, and the rest of the ride was uncomfortably quiet. Did that transpire in just three floors? When the doors opened, Lester held them and allowed Myra to exit and for me to sheepishly tag behind, before Imogene and he did the same, turning down the hall in the opposite direction.

“Good night, Myra, you sure you’ll be okay? You have our number!” they called back, I'm sure for my benefit as well as hers. Their door opened and closed.

Myra was obviously rattled by the what had transpired. She had no way to prepare for it, and had discovered her attempt at being a good Samaritan had rudely backfired, to her own great embarrassment.

“Myra I apologize from the bottom of my heart. You are a dear soul and I’d like to make it up to you. To Imogene and Lester…this isn’t who I am…”

“Draw upon your own worth, Mac. Be better than this…I’m sorry for adding to your pain.”

“No it was I, who …Goodnight Myra”.

I set the groceries down next to the door, sensing her hesitation to open it and invite in more trouble. 

I rode down and stumbled home disgusted with the fool I had become.