The Wake

My life has always been sheltered. I grew up in a safe neighborhood, went to a good school and always hung out with “good” people. Even after starting college, I never really left the bubble of suburbia. Of course there are those isolated instances where my personal safety has been compromised, but generally my life has been one big safety pin. As a result, when those few moments of unadulterated exposure occur, I relish every second. This isn’t to say that I seek them out, they just happen.

Earlier this year I was watching “Showgirls” with my roommate Tyler. After realizing I wasn’t the only one in the room with a raging hard-on, I looked for an excuse to make my way to the gas station. When I pulled up, I saw the silhouette of a body sitting near the far corner of the wall. I figured it was probably one of the countless Duluthian drifters and paid no attention, mimicking the way I believed any true suburbanite citizen would behave in the face of diversity. I even made a point to lock the car. I didn’t realize how shallow I was until I heard the bland double beeps produced by the car’s security system.

A buck-fifty lighter and a liter heavier, I was out to the car again. As I opened the driver-side door, a soft female voice asked if I might have any duct tape. I looked up to see the drifter sitting cross-legged with a guitar in her lap. Not tonight—plain out of the stuff. I asked if a string might work. In the same sweet voice she responded “Sure. Why the fuck not?” After sifting through my trunk, I discovered I was also out of string and had officially become an ass.

Looking down at the ground presented a remedy to the situation. As I brought over my shoelace, her features and ensemble became more visible; a purple patchwork leather jacket with a pink unicorn pin on the collar, a necklace with feathers, a small leather pouch around her neck, and a bag of dog poop next to her left knee.

The guitar was smashed to bits. The back panel was falling off, a few of the strings were missing and the front had numerous holes in it.

When she reached to take the shoelace from me, she grabbed my hand with both of hers and shook heartily, conveying more power than I would have expected from a small, weathered looking woman who’d obviously been sitting in the cold, fall drizzle for the last few hours. The spark jumped and sent a shiver up my spine. The shield of safety and security had gone down and I realized there was more warmth if I wanted it.

I asked what the string was for and she motioned for me to sit next to her. Pointing to a bike propped against the wall a few feet from us and then to the eye that seemed to be shooting off behind me, she explained she was visually impaired and couldn’t drive. “Could you afford a car even if you did have your license?” “How is biking safer than driving?” “Is that eye looking at me or the dumpster?” My mind started racing but all that came out of my mouth was a measly “ohhhhhh,” as if I understood exactly what the purpose of the string was, though I obviously didn’t.

“It’s for a sling, so I can carry my briefcase and my guitar while I bike. This guitar’s shit. Amy got stolen by Elara,” said the woman. I had no clue who Amy or Elara were but through the course of the conversation discovered that the drifter, named Meshia (May-Sha), named her guitars, and her ex-best friend Elara had stolen her last one.

Understanding that I would be there a while I offered Meshia a couple of cigarettes and took a few out for myself. After turning down some pot, which she smoked freely throughout the conversation despite police driving in and out of the gas station parking lot, I continued to listen to her relate her experiences. After eight years of college, she had decided that living on the shore of Lake Superior was the life for her.

Her visual impairment was the driving force influencing her choice of lifestyle.

After being purposely poked in the eye with an electrical cord as a small child, she discovered she could see two spectrums of light, both visual and ultraviolet. Since her undamaged eye only viewed the visual spectrum of light, her brain was forced to constantly switch between the two and try to create an image of whatever she happened to be looking at. Being inside caused her the greatest amount of trauma since, according to her, most lights inside are sharp lights and her brain has to work extra hard.

During her teenage years Meshia discovered she could somewhat medicate herself with daily doses of gingko biloba, vitamin C, and marijuana.

Throughout the entire conversation my brain was a blur, darting from question to question. “Do the two spectrums look cool when you’re high?” “What does it look like when you look at my cell phone?” “You have super hearing, too?”

As I sat there I started noticing interesting details I hadn’t seen before. The bag of dog poop was actually a bag of coffee grounds, which she kept pouring, unfiltered, into the coffee she was drinking from a gas station soft drink cup. There was also a samurai sword taped to the handlebars of her bike with different colors of electrical tape, and what appeared to be a long clump of hair hanging from the end of one of the handlebars.

After two hours had passed, I realized I should probably be on my way home and as luck would have it, my cell phone indicator made a noise due to a low battery that I passed off as a call to my beeper. As I got up, I asked Meshia if she would let me buy her some food. Her request was a single Little Debbie brownie from inside the gas station. I bought her 15 and a bag of Chex Mix. In exchange for the food I received one of the best hugs I’ve had in a long time and my choice of three seagull feathers from her necklace. With a goodbye, we parted.

Over the last few months, I´ve continued to bump into Meshia from time to time. One day while swimming down at the lake, some friends and I rounded a rocky point to discover a campsite situated in a cove beneath overhanging birch trees. It was a beautiful Indian-summer day, the kind brought to mind by paintings of Nantucket. Stretched out on the rocks and staring at the sun was smiling Meshia. We talked for a bit and left as the sun started to set.

Later I was at the gas station where I work when I turned around to see Meshia coming through the doors. For a woman who has lived as hard a life as she has, Meshia walks with a stoic gate, dressed in a style reminiscent of 1940s-era Russian infantry. She needed some copies and couldn’t afford the copier at the Walgreen’s a few blocks away. While I ran them through, we chatted as if we were old friends. When the copies were done, Meshia flicked through her papers and produced a blank Christmas card. In elegant handwriting, she jotted off a quick thank-you note, placed it in an envelope and handed it to me with the instructions that it be opened only after she left. The card is pinned in the center of my bulletin board.

When I think about Meshia, I can’t help but be amazed by the amount of joy she seems to have for life. It is as if she cherishes everything she encounters.

When customers came to pay for $50 worth of gas, Meshia chatted gently with them. It was obvious that most were put off by her ragged clothes and obvious homelessness. They looked to me for some sort of safe reassurance that they weren’t the only ones who felt uncomfortable in her presence, but all I could muster in return was a steely gaze harboring contempt for their callowness.

What threat does she pose to them? Maybe, for once, they’ll have to step outside their own safe haven and recognize that a person has more to offer than material objects. Maybe they feel a sense of helplessness and instead of abetting in even they smallest way—it’s easier for them to just ignore Meshia and return to their cars with leather, heated seats and six-disc CD players.

My challenge to anyone reading this article is leave your comfort zone and reach out in any way you can. It can be as small and seemingly insignificant as buying a hot coffee or sitting and listening to someone whose existence needs to be recognized from time to time. So many of the people who share Meshia’s plight face a lifetime of being snubbed and shooed away from society. But with even the smallest amount of patience and opening yourself to a stranger, you might learn something about yourself while warming the heart of someone who will appreciate your efforts more than you can comprehend.

Matthew Brown is a student at the University of Minnesota-Duluth. He welcomes comments at office@wakenews.org.