Tea Party Members Shout Racial and Gay Slurs and Spit on a Black Lawmaker

Can we now dismiss the Tea Party “movement” as a poisonous cocktail of angry xenophobes, homophobes and racists spewing hate under the guise of tax protests? And yet this fringe group still has plenty of supporters. I was reading some right wing, conservative blogs trying to spin the shameful event from this weekend and cannot believe their laughable excuses:

1) The MSM made up this confrontation with lawmakers. I know many of you probably think as I did that MSM stands for “men who have sex with men”. I kept seeing this code language showing up in conservative blogs and I wondered, “why are they always blaming us gays”. For those of us who need translation from Nazi-speak, MSM means the “main stream media”, which is any news organization that they don’t agree with. Anyway, many in the conservative movement believe that this unfortunate event didn’t even happen, that it was manufactured by the MSM to discredit the TP movement. So much like global warming and Darwinism, they choose to ignore reality and the facts and simply say, “Everyone is lying because no one likes me”. My eight year old neighbor tried this excuse when he accidentally threw a rock and broke another neighbor’s window.

2) The Congressmen are lying. The next excuse they use is to blame the victims. They say these Black and gay congressmen are lying about the harassment because that is what gay and Black people do. One blogger even went so far as to cite the Tawana Brawley case as proof that Black lawmakers lie. I’m sure they were dying to tie this episode to O J Simpson somehow. This excuse most conveniently plays into their pre-existing stereotypes, so it is probably the one that they believe.

3) The confrontation did happen but it was conducted NOT by TP members but by infiltrators to the TP whose purpose was to discredit the movement. This is the most fascinating and entertaining excuse but again it plays into the conservative’s wide-eyed belief in conspiracies. I, for one, think that this is once again the work of Mossad, stealthily sneaking into our country and masquerading as TP members only to create bad public relations by yelling disparaging remarks at lawmakers…uh huh….that’s what it was.

As long as we’re making up BS excuses, here’s another creative one they can use: the Congressman only misunderstood the TP protesters, they were actually shouting (if you listen closely) “Snigger” and “Saggot”. The were only encouraging the men to laugh along with the irresistible humor of Bob Saget. What's wrong with that?

The most rational, mature response would have been to acknowledge that any political movement has an extreme, fringe element and apologize for their actions. But I don’t think they can say that because this type of behavior does not represent only small, part of their movement and instead is a predominate theme. ________________________________________________

One of my favorite writers, Junot Diaz, a Domincan American, has a short story in this week’s New Yorker. I encourage you to check out his work. He is an amazing writer.

March Madness Indeed

Today, we sit on the verge of passing national health care reform and there is more name-calling, threats, and abuse in Washington than I’ve seen outside of a lesbian break-up. The legislation will come too late to help the vast amount of people whose lives have been ruined or lost because of a devastating illness. Working in HIV prevention and care for more than twenty years, I have seen many, many bankruptcies and financial ruin resulting from lack of access to health insurance. Even worse, I’ve seen those with health insurance come to an early, bitter end because of inadequate care and “cost savings” from health insurance companies. My hope is that in the future we won’t have to base decisions in our life (whether to take a better job, move to another state, etc.) based on whether we will be guaranteed access to health care.

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The chosen winners in my NCAA basketball bracket are once again doing poorly. This year I went for very conservative choices and still TEN wrong games. Damn Georgetown.

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Massa Harina

I gonna miss New York Congressman Eric Massa, now that he is fading from the media spotlight. He had so many entertaining, not-so-subtle, homoerotic comments, there is no way this guy can be straight:

"I am showering, naked as a jaybird, and here comes Rahm Emmanuel, not even with a towel wrapped around his 'tush,' poking his finger in my chest, yelling at me."

That's hot. I have had the same sexual fantasy about Rahm, as well. Get out of my head, Massa!!

"They're saying I groped a male staffer. Yeah, I did. Not only did I grope him, I tickled him until he couldn't breathe."

Rochester, NY, Classified Ads: Older GWM, kinky, abusive and into inappropriate horseplay, ISO young male staffer, must like watching Fox News and obliviously blaming others for your actions.

“I should never have allowed myself to be as familiar with my staff as I was," said Massa, who shared a townhouse with bachelors on his staff. "I never translated from my days in the Navy to being a congressman."

And finally from Larry King Show (3/10/10):

KING: “It may be silly, but I guess we have to ask it, --- are you gay?”

MASSA: “Well, here's that answer, I'm not going to answer that. Why don't you … ask the 10,000 sailors I served with in the Navy?”

*Sigh* I am going to miss you, Eric. You have a promising career writing gay porn.

Gay Award Winning Performances

As one of the unique rites of passage for lesbians and gays, “coming out” has become more celebrated, more common, but unfortunately has not become any easier. Most of the humor that accompanies “coming out” to our parents is not fully appreciated until years later. My mother, who has not had any theatrical training, presented one of her best performances the day I told her I was gay. All of the intense drama, the ranting and raving, the cursing and swearing, I am still in awe that she was never nominated for such a performance. 

Maybe awards should be presented for “coming out” performances, some examples of honors that could be bestowed on parents: Most Threatening “You’re Not My Son/Daughter Anymore” Speech, Most Creative Use of Biblical Curses and/or Religious Props, Record for Consecutive Days Without Sleeping/Eating, Best Impromptu Exorcism, Best Un-Supporting Role, and finally, Most Perverse Explanation of Homosexuality. 

Of course there would also be awards given to the courageous individuals who came out to their parents: Longest “Its Not a Phase” Explanation, Best Incorporation of Words from a Drag Song, Best Effort to Remain in the Family Will, and a Pink Heart to any physical injury incurred while coming out. The Best Use of a Recreational Drug award must go to my friend Gary. 

After Gary told his mom he was gay, she began to flail her arms in the air, as if shooing an invisible fly, then made the obligatory gesture of putting her hand on her forehead, and finally fell to the floor in a heap. Gary, who was inebriated and had just returned from the bars, revived her by waving under her nose his handy bottle of “poppers”. 

One of my favorite “coming out” stories is from my roommate Troy, who, at the tender age of seven, sort of “came out” to his second grade classmates and his Cub Scout Troop. He was at an age when many of us were stealing our sister’s Teen Beat magazine and secretly wishing we would grow up to be Marlo Thomas (okay, so maybe I was the only one who wanted to grow up to be That Girl). A time when we had hidden crushes on other boys that looked like Peter Brady. The year was 1968. 

“Mrs. Asbury was my second grade teacher,” Troy explained, “a large amorphous woman in my seven-year-old eyes. Our classes were held in those old barracks and I don’t remember much about my teacher only that the loose floor boards always squeaked and complained whenever Mrs. Asbury walked by. “We had just finished some tedious story about a girl and a handsome prince. I can’t remember the whole story, or even the plot. I can only remember the heroine was a young delicate thing, with long, curly blond hair, large, dark eyes, a mole on her chin, and she wore a lot of rings.” 

Oddly enough, this description could describe Troy, as well. 

“The teacher wanted to congratulate us for getting through such a lengthy story,” he continued, “so a party was planned and she brought some various items from home in order for us to dress up as characters from the story.” “I quickly raised my hand and went up to the front of the room. I surveyed all of the the items: an axe, a stick horse, bunny ears, a blond wig and some other bits and pieces from old costumes. Since the girl was the heroine and was rescued by the handsome prince, I wanted to be the princess, so I carefully placed the blond wig on my head.” Perhaps he was reacting to some kind of primal drag queen instinct long suppressed by some of us. 

Mrs. Asbury was probably terrified that Troy would break out into a drag song like “This Is My Life” and start taking his classmates’ chocolate milk money for tips. Troy remembered his teacher shaking her bouffant hair form side to side and trying to persuade him into choosing another character, but he was adamant. To the dismay of Mrs. Asbury, Troy refused to take off the wig and, to the horror of his Scout Master, he wore his new ‘do to his Cub Scout meeting after school. 

Troy remembered his fellow troop members purposely ignoring the wig. A nervous Scout Master made it one of their shortest meetings ever. My friend’s fledgling career as a female impersonator was cut short when his mother drove up in their blue Impala station wagon, shaking and white as a sheet. 

For that performance, he was awarded several years of therapy and he didn’t even earn a merit badge. Compared to other stories, my “coming out” story was fairly routine. 

It was 1980, I can’t remember the day or date or even the type of bell bottom jeans I was wearing. The day seemed predestined; every piece seemed to fall into place. Earlier that fateful day, my mother had asked to borrow my car to run some errands since her car was in the shop being repaired (if only she had bought a dependable foreign car instead of a Dodge). I had a love letter that was written to me stashed in the sun visor (if only I had hid the letter in the glove compartment, if only I hadn’t been such a sentimental fool). When my mom went to position the visor to shield her from the sun, the letter fell right into her lap (if only the day had been cloudy, if only her lap wasn’t so big). 

She read the letter addressed to me, as any mother naturally would, and it was signed by my lover – another male. She entered my bedroom just as I turned down Donna Summer on the eight track tape player. She questioned me about the letter. She said she knew the author of the letter was “that way” and then asked if I was also “that way”. I could have lied, I could have pretended to lose my hearing, I could have started singing the nonsensical lyrics to “MacArthur Park” or created any number of simple diversions, instead I looked at her straight in the eye and said, “yes”. 

She stared at me for a second, waiting for me to follow it up with something…anything like…"but I’ll change," or "I’m only kidding," or "but now I’m celibate, I’ve decided to become a priest…", anything to keep the facade alive. Instead, there was complete and awful silence. 

Suddenly, she didn’t know how to react. She became very animated, I believe she muttered a faint, “oh no”, walked a couple of steps to the bedroom door, then stopped, then walked a couple of steps closer to me. All of this incredibly fast, as if she were a wind-up toy. Next, she started crying and pleading to every saint she knew, and some names I’m sure she was making up. I then found her in the hallway, clutching some religious icons and squirting holy water at me from a plastic bottle. Then she let out this huge wail, dropped all of the religious items and darted towards the living room. I never knew my mother was so agile or athletic. 

My father was sitting in the living room and she went to tell him. I had to pass through the living room leave the house. They were both sitting in the living room, staring at me silently, as I slithered through the room. The door felt like an eternity away. My parents looked at me as if I were an alien from another planet, as if a stranger now inhabited the body of their son. 

Later that evening, I returned home ready to pick up my belongings and build my new life around those few possessions: a few polyester disco shirts, disco records and my blow dryer. To my surprise, my mom was miraculously over her seizure. In fact, both my parents seemed to be over the initial shock. She came over, held my hand and said, “I just want you to know that we still love you and we will always be here for you.” 

Years after this incident, karmic justice gave me the unique experience of having a close family member come out to me. I was out to my family for about six years when my youngest sister decided to tell me she was a lesbian. When she told me, I had to stop myself before I said the same lines I had heard others use: "Are you sure?" "Are you just trying to be trendy?" "How do you know it’s just not PMS?" I felt so awkward. I felt like putting by my hand on my forehead and pretending to faint! 

The problem was that I honestly did not feel happy for her. Instead, I felt apprehensive and concerned. After living a gay lifestyle for eight years, I had first-hand experience on how difficult this lifestyle could be. I knew that homophobia and prejudice still presented a real danger to any gay or lesbian. I worried about her safety from an ever menacing straight world. 

And honestly, it seemed fellow members of the gay community were not always supportive either. I’ve seen some of the most horrendous deeds committed against gays and lesbians perpetrated by others in our community. The gay world can be very superficial, leaving many of us struggling with low self-esteem. As a lesbian of color, she would have to face even more obstacles than I did. What about the high rates of substance abuse in our community? And the high suicide rates? As well as the other health and socioeconomic issues that disproportionately affect our community? 

No, I was not happy she was a lesbian, life would be easier for her if she were straight. Ultimately, I knew none of what I thought mattered. I knew she was destined to live her life as a lesbian regardless of my concerns. I held her hand and said, “I just want you to know I still love you and I will always be here for you.” Maybe not an award winning performance but definitely one worth repeating.

Refuge of Tolerance

Originally in the Austin-American Statesman, February 2007

In 1984, I moved to Austin from a socially oppressive land, a desolate place, void of any freedom to question authority and inhabited by dogmatic conformists. This place is known as the Texas Panhandle.

My move was really more akin to a ''pressured relocation.'' My suspicious neighbors in Amarillo had become more brazen. The glares and whispers I had become accustomed to had turned to name-calling and veiled threats. I wasn't flamboyantly open about my sexual orientation, but my reluctance to fully embrace Reaganomics, the Dallas Cowboys and, well, women, made me highly conspicuous.

In the 1980s, the Austin City Council passed an ordinance providing health benefits to domestic partners of city employees, including those in same-sex relationships. I remember a grim-faced TV anchorman in Amarillo announcing the item on the 6 o'clock news. I half-expected to hear, ‘‘coming up next, a perspective from Anita Bryant regarding a city here in Texas that has chosen to defy God and create a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah.''

That was when I seriously started to consider making Austin my new home. I had thought about moving to Dallas or Houston, both of which have large, visible gay communities. However, Houston's Montrose and Dallas' Oak Lawn areas are confined to only one section of the city. I didn't want to move to a gay ghetto, where acceptance was guaranteed only within certain street boundaries.

After all, choosing a new city was more than a matter of just counting the number of gay bars - it was a safety and security issue. I wanted to live in a place in Texas that would be tolerant to folks of my persuasion, a place where I wouldn't wake up in the middle of the night greeted by narrow-minded villagers wielding pitchforks and carrying torches. Or so it seemed to me at the time.

Upon moving to Austin, I discovered that it is not the queer community that draws gays to Austin, but instead the larger, accepting heterosexual community. The lack of an identifiable gay ghetto in Austin means that we can roam almost anywhere and don't have to confine ourselves to certain neighborhoods.

However, I had to make some serious adjustments to my ''gaydar'' in order to detect other gay men in Austin. It seemed that very handsome, well-dressed, slightly effeminate, cosmetic-wearing men (what we now call metrosexuals) were more likely to be heterosexual. And the T-shirt, Levis- and boots-wearing men were more often homosexual.

It was a ratio almost inverse to what I was accustomed to in the Panhandle. So when I met a guy, I had a hard time deciding: Is he really gay or did he just get here from Lubbock?

In Amarillo, I had tried to keep my homosexuality a well-guarded secret, to be shared only with family and close friends. Once I moved to Austin, I felt comfortable enough to begin sharing my sexual orientation with my new fellow citizens. Maybe too comfortable.

At first, I found myself coming out to just about everyone I met: the postman, bank tellers, employees at drive-up windows of fast-food restaurants, H-E-B grocery sackers. There were a few surprised or bewildered looks, but most responded by saying, in effect, ''OK we get it, you're gay.We don't care.''

Austinites, I learned, are a pretty jaded breed. It takes someone really bizarre or scandalous to get their attention, like a panhandling, bikini-clad cross-dresser or a state senator soliciting sex on Congress Avenue.

I, however, am just a run-of-the-mill, garden-variety gay man, homosexualus familiaris. To be viewed as unremarkable, really. Which is exactly what I was seeking: to be treated by my fellow neighbors as normal and ordinary.

Once I settled in, I reported my findings to friends in the Panhandle, and soon my Austin apartment had become a terminus on a gay underground railroad for queers who wanted to relocate here. Feeling safer in this environment, most decided to ''come out'' to their friends and family back home. Once, a straight friend of mine still living in Amarillo asked, ''Just what is it about that city? It seems like everyone who moves to Austin turns gay.''

I wanted to tell him that the his former Amarilloans were already gay and that they only felt comfortable enough in our city to express who they really are. I wanted to tell him that with given the opportunity to live in a place that tries not to judge you, you have permission to become whoever you want. But the cultural divide between us was too vast; I didn't think he would grasp what I was saying.

So instead I made a joke: ''It's the cedar pollen, the cedar pollen is what turns you gay.''

I had planned to move to Austin with my best friend from high school. For years, we had dreamed about living in a different place and wondered what it would be like to wake up in the morning and not smell cattle feedlots or the oil refinery. But when the time finally came for us to move, she abruptly did an about-face and decided to stay in Amarillo.

I wasn't really surprised, having sensed her apprehension days before. ''Not now, someday I'll move,'' she said.

It's been almost 25 years, and she still lives in the Panhandle. She visits me at least once a year, and every time she comes, she marvels at what a wonderful place Austin is and swears she's going to move here.

I like her annual visits - they serve as affirmations of my decision to relocate. Because despite the long lines of traffic, the increasingly high cost of living and the messy, loud scavenging invaders (the grackles, not Californians), this is still the best place in Texas to live.

Take it from a former Panhandle boy, happily living his own unremarkable life.

The Messenger of Windsor Park

My quiet, perfect Sunday morning is interrupted by an unexpected knock on the door, which I ignore. Sunday mornings are sacred to me; perhaps it’s my Catholic upbringing, observing years of rituals on Sundays. However, these days, instead of spending Sunday mornings munching on communion wafers and contemplating the “sacred mysteries”, you’re more likely to find me munching on “migas” and trying to figure out the mystery of the Sunday crossword puzzle.

Hmmm, a three letter word for ‘a person of habit’”, I am close to an answer when my visitor becomes even more insistent and knocks even louder and more urgently.

I leave my crossword to look out the peephole in the front door and I see a twentysomething slender woman in sunglasses and shorts, nervously milling around my front porch. She’s dressed too casual to be Mormon and looks too rational to be a Jehovah’s Witness. So, I open the door and she immediately asks, “Hi, I hate to bother you, but do you know whose cat that is?” and she points to a black and white pile of fur in the middle of the road in front of my house.” “No”, I say, “I don’t know”.

At this point, I’m presented with two options: I can return to the comfort of my Sunday crossword or I can choose to inject myself in this unfolding tragedy. However, I like to think of myself as good, caring and involved neighbor. During the last electrical outage, wasn’t it me who stumbled in the dark, going door to door to my surrounding neighbors to ask, “Is everyone okay? Can I get you a candle? ” And isn’t it me who is usually the first to call 9-1-1 once a noisy party in our block really gets going past two a.m? However, my partner Andy would describe my neighborly role as a cross between a Nazi and Gladys Kravitz. He is hidden from our visitor behind the door, currently mouthing “close the door” to me, while shaking his head.

But I am unable to resist and I am out my front door and I follow my overly concerned neighbor to the pile of fur in the middle of the road.

We stare at the small, motionless body in street. There is no blood, no gore, just a cat lying in the middle of the road. It’s as if the cat suddenly grew tired in the middle of crossing the street and decided to take a nap.

“Is it dead?” it’s a stupid question, but I have to ask.

“It’s not breathing,” she answers.

Well, thank goodness for that, I think. Not that I wish the cat dead, but if we had found the animal badly injured or close to death, there would have been difficult and hasty decisions to be made regarding transportation to a vet or animal hospital and payment for treatment. Instead, the cat was thoughtful and considerate enough to die quickly.

“There’s a collar but it doesn’t have a tag”, the overly concerned neighbor offers, “Who do you think it belongs to?”

I look around the surrounding houses and try to remember who owns or rather owned a cat: Linda next door has a cat, but I can’t remember what it looked like. Across the street, Maria also owns a cat.

The overly concerned neighbor looks at me as if I am supposed to do something.

“I’ll ask Linda if this is her cat.” I volunteer, as if the overly concerned neighbor even knows who Linda is.

I walk over to Linda’s house and knock on the door. After few minutes of fumbling noises, she comes to the door. “Hi Linda”, I say, “is that your cat in the middle of the road?” And it suddenly occurs to me that I was way too cheerful when I asked this question.

Linda looks over my shoulder and says, “No, that’s not my cat, I think it belongs to Maria across the street, but I’m not sure”.

“Okay, thanks”, I say and I start to make my way to Maria’s house, but first I have to stop and give an update to the overly concerned neighbor. She has become a human pylon, waving her arms while standing in the middle of the road, motioning cars to drive around her and the dead cat.

I knock on Maria’s door and begin rehearsing the same question in my head, trying to sound more somber this time. No answer. I knock again. Nothing.

I go back to the cat and the human pylon and tell her that Maria works late and may not be up yet.

My overly concerned neighbor looks at me like I’m supposed to something.

“I’ll go inside and see if I can find a box to put him in”, I offer.

I go into the house and start to give Andy an update on what is going on.

“Did the cat get hit by a car?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer, “probably, but it doesn’t look like it. It looks like it just died in the middle of the road. It’s as if there were a “kitty rapture” and the cat’s soul was suddenly taken in mid-stride. Can you help me find a box?”

“A box?” he asks, “Why don’t we call animal control to come pick it up.”

“Well, we can’t just leave it in the road. What if belongs to a neighbor?” I answer. Out of the closet, I pull out a long, brightly colored pink and white-stripped box.

“Oh no, that box won’t work.” He rummages around the closet and pulls out a smaller black box. “Here, this is more appropriate.”

“What’s wrong with my box?” I ask. “My box is larger and more sturdy. I don’t want to stuff the cat in that small box you have. And I don’t want the bottom to fall out when I pick the box up.”

“Given the circumstances”, he says,”I think the black box is a little more appropriate. Your box is too loud and colorful for a dead cat. And, I think your box is a little gay.”

“Well, that’s who we are, aren’t we? What kind of box would you expect? Gay people have gay boxes.”

“But gay people don’t have gay boxes sitting on their lawn for everyone to see.”

"I think our neighbors have figured us out.”

Well you don’t have to be so obvious about it. If your going to set that box in front of our house, I might as well parade around the front lawn, dressed like Liza Minelli, waving the rainbow flag!”

What a dated and trite overreaction I think to myself. Liza Minelli? Are we that old? Surely there is a more contemporary gay icon he could have used, maybe Lady Gaga?

I am about to suggest a more appropriate analogy, when I remember the anxious, overly concerned neighbor is waiting for me in the street. I grab a pair of latex gloves and my “gay” box hoping I won’t find two dead carcasses in the street.

Luckily, she is still playing traffic cop and I join her in the street.

I gently lift the limp body of the cat and the fretful neighbor lets out a sad “oooh” as I lay the poor creature in the box. I pick up the box and put it on the curb, out of the street. This seems to satisfy the worried neighbor, as she sighs and appears ready to get on with the rest of her day.

“Thank you”, she says, “I’ll make up some flyers to post, maybe the owner will see one of them.”

“Okay,” I answer as I walk toward my house. Did I hear her right? Make up some flyers? What exactly would these flyers say, “Dead cat found in the road, please claim him in the gay box at the front of 1213 Brentwood Street.” Would she go so far as to post a picture of the dead cat in the flyers?

“Well, Entrometido”, Andy says as I come in, “what are we supposed to do with that dead cat in a box on our lawn?”

Growing up, my family would refer to me as an “entrometido”. “Entro” meaning to enter or to insert, “metido” meaning the middle, therefore “entremetido” is someone who purposely injects themselves into the middle of things.

“I don’t know”, I answer Andy’s question, “I guess we have to wait for Maria to come home”.

“What if she’s gone all weekend? I saw someone pick her up this morning”.

“I don’t know”, I repeat, “I don’t suppose they have an animal morgue somewhere that can keep the cat until it can be identified by its owner.”

“Why don’t you just leave the box by her door?”

“Right, can you imagine the shock she would face if she came home and found her dead cat in a box at her front door? A queer box at that! What if it isn’t even her cat?”

“Well, maybe you could leave a note with the box.”

“And what exactly would it say? ‘Sorry about your cat, we found it in the street, no need to return the box. P.S. Disregard if you are not the owner’. That seems rather cruel. Let’s just wait and hope she comes home sometime this afternoon”.

I go back to my crossword puzzle, but can’t really concentrate. What exactly will I tell Maria? She is obviously going to be upset. I start going over the conversation in my head. I am getting nervous and start thinking that maybe a well-written note would be a better idea.

I periodically look out the window to see if Maria has returned. I soon start to feel resentful that my afternoon now had to be spent keeping vigil over Maria’s dead cat in our gay box. And that I was somehow stuck with having to go over to her place and give her some rotten news that will, no doubt, ruin her weekend.

Luckily or unluckily, about two hours after we found the cat, I notice the patio door is open at Maria’s house. I want to get this over with quickly so I start over to her place, not really knowing what I am going to say.

I knock on the door and Maria answers while talking on the phone. She tells the person on the other end, “Hold on a minute”. A white cat pokes its head out the door, for a moment I think

“Whew, it's not her cat, so now what do I do?”

“Hi, Maria”, I start, “Someone…um…knocked on my door to tell me that….um…they had found a cat in the middle of the road…and um…it looks like it got hit by a car and…” The last part I say real fast, like I was ripping off a band-aid, “do you know if the cat belongs to you?” It’s a stupid question. Of course she would know.

She tells the person on the other end of the phone, “Hold on, I’ll have to call you back”.

“I put it in a box in front of my house”, I say and motion for her to follow me.

“Was it black and white?” she asks.

“Yes”, I answer.

We are not fully over the box when she starts sobbing. She is sure that it’s her cat.

“I’m sorry”, I say and really mean it.

She doesn’t answer, she keeps crying, wiping the tears from her eyes.

“Do you want me to take the box over to your place?”

“Yes, thank you.” And I can tell she really means it.

I pick up the box and we walk over to her house.

I feel sorry for Maria. I can tell this unexpected loss has shaken and jarred her being. She’s no doubt feeling vulnerable. It becomes painfully obvious to me that I hardly know anything about her. Does she have close friends? A boyfriend? A girlfriend? Is there someone she can share her grief with?

Maybe I am reading too much into this incident, as I place the box on her patio.

“Thank you”, she sobs again and picks up her phone to speed dial a friend or family member.

“No problem,” I say, walking slowly back to my house.

I sit down with my crossword but don’t feel like completing my crossword puzzle anymore.