Monday, December 7, 2009

The Sleep Consultant


“I’m looking for a twin bed,” I say, hesitating in the doorway, “… for my son,” I add, not wanting to signal ‘Given Up On Relationships’ (which my flat shoes and lack of make-up probably already have).

Before me stretch acres of showroom, empty except for the salesman who is bounding towards me in a lurid tie. I must be the only person who makes big-ticket purchases three days before Black Friday – but my error doesn’t hit me until later.

“We have these three models,” he gestures to the beds immediately in front of me, “and then there’s our own brand,” he says, pointing to a Papa, Mama and Baby Bear set up. He notes the look of confusion on my face that is introduced every time I have to make purchasing decisions. I hate shopping. I hate even more the decision-making process, which will ultimately result in a sleepless night wondering if I made the right choice. “Why don’t you try them?” he hints, like a kindergarten teacher giving gentle cues. I tentatively sit on the first bed. “No, you can’t test a bed that way,” he says, sounding a mite less patient but still smiling, “You have to lie down.”

Now I know that extras in Sit ‘n Sleep commercials do it all the time, the woman lying down in her high-heels and matching purse and the husband turning towards her, smiling and nodding as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to be replicating your moments of greatest privacy for the viewing public. But I’m all alone and the salesman is hovering over the end of the bed like a mad scientist getting ready to fit me with electrodes. “Very comfortable,” I say primly from my reclining position and spring back to my feet.
“But does he sleep on his back, or does he sleep on his side or his tummy?” the salesman asks, exasperated by my unwillingness to play the extra game.
“His side,” I admit warily, unready to assume the fetal position in a vast showroom like a babe burrowing under the dry leaves of the proverbial woods. He senses my hesitation.
“Well, I’ll leave you to try them out!” he says, plastering back the smile. “My name’s Douglas, Doug, and I’ll be right over there.” He points to a desk at the side of the showroom as if I’m a child who needs to be reassured. But wait! I’m about to be left floundering in a sea of beds with no discernible difference between them, and only unintelligible signs declaring things like ‘Hb&F extra’ to guide me.
“But what about all the other beds?” I ask, gesturing to the pillow tops stretching to the horizon.
“Oh, I showed you the three cheapest ones,” says Doug. “They get more expensive as you go further back in the showroom.”
“Well, you sure pegged my demographic quickly,” I joke.
“I’m a salesman, it’s what we do,” he says proudly.
I am suddenly incensed that a balding man with a badge that says ‘Sleep Consultant’ and a fat tie with the photograph of two children on it (probably not even his own) should have written me off so quickly.
“I come from a very wealthy family in England, you know!” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself. (A lie, but being the ancestral kings of Suffolk has to count for something.)
“And I’m a neurosurgeon,” he says with a straight face.
“Really?” Times are hard.
“No.”

I whip out my credit card. “I’ll take the most expensive of the three you showed me.” (It’s my mother’s money anyway. Compared to my own finances, I wasn’t lying about my family’s wealth.)

I leave the showroom a chastened woman. All my years in social programs, working hard to dispel the impression of being the privileged white woman, I’ve obviously become too good at it! But the saddest thing is that somewhere deep in my European psyche I believed that ‘good breeding will always show,’ that I can dress in clothes from discount stores and still retain an aura of ‘genteel poverty.’ Oh, how we deceive ourselves. Dissed by Doug the Sleep Consultant.


© 2009 Louise Godbold

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Rattlesnake Red


“Hungry, homeless, please help.” The crumpled cardboard sign belongs to a grizzled black man sitting on the post office steps. He’s been hungry and homeless for at least the fifteen years I’ve known him.

“Hello, my old friend!” I greet him, not knowing whether he’ll recognize me and certain that he won’t recognize my son.
“Is this…?” He asks, incredulous, smiling at Josh. Yes, the young man who towers over me is the baby I used to cart around in a car seat.

“You haven’t changed at all!” the homeless man tells me. A lie that my hairdresser and bright lighting could dispel. I wish I could say the same for him. His black hair is now tiny whorls of white, emphasizing the caramel color of his eyes and skin. Once upon a time he used to stop me outside Rite Aid and ask for money. My answer was always the same:
“I won’t give you money, but if you’re hungry I’ll buy you something to eat. Or maybe you’d like something to drink?”
He would ask for soda – Dr. Pepper’s – and sometimes a snack can of tuna with crackers.

As the years went by, Rite Aid changed hands and I migrated to other stores, but I would always see him pan-handling outside the post office, or standing in the middle of the street turning his smile on the drivers of cars stopped at the lights. In the last couple of years, I’ve noticed the genial demeanor has been replaced by drunken confusion, watched him staggering in the street and in danger of being sucked under by the passing cars. The last time I saw him, he was sitting on the pedestrian island in the middle of six lanes of traffic, cup extended but eyes unfocused. “He’s so out of it,” I remarked to Josh. “Poor old guy. He’s just getting worse and worse.”

Fortunately, today is a lucid day. “This is just until I get my retirement in November,” he tells me, nodding at the sign and cup perched on the steps. “I worked twenty years for the railroad – Southern Pacific.”
“Will you stay here?” I ask, meaning Los Angeles, but he interprets the question differently.
“Oh yes, otherwise how would I see all my friends? Not that,” he says, nodding again at the sign, "The people who talk to me, who give me a little bit of their heart.” He clasps a hand over his chest. “That means more to me than the money.” Suddenly his eyes brighten and he mimes holding a steering wheel. “When I get my retirement, I’ll take you in my limo to Hollywood and we’ll get us some Chinese food.” He looks at Josh. “You like Chinese food?”

We marvel about how long we’ve known each other – so long that I was hugely pregnant with Josh when we first met. “And my mother. Did you meet my mother?” (Her presence was a fixture of Josh’s early years and almost grounds for a divorce according to my father.)
“Yes, I remember your mother. Tell her Rattlesnake Red says hello.”

For a moment, I picture my mum among the rain and cow parsley of Normandy, her neat clothes and the tea trays lined with lace cloths, and cannot imagine a less likely pair of acquaintances.
“Yes, we will,” I say, glad that I at least now know his name.

When we get in the car Josh asks, “What kind of name is Rattlesnake Red?”
“I don’t know. Sounds like a poker player to me.”
Josh is quiet for a while.
“I wonder where he sleeps at night.”
We ponder this in silence. Finally Josh says, “Do you think he’ll still be there in ten years time? When I’m in the police force, I want to get to know the community like that.”
The community of the homeless and substance abusers. The ones the police usually move on or hassle because they make the neighborhood unsightly. Good for you, Josh, good for you. Rattlesnake Red must be a fairy godfather who gifted you with compassion at birth.


© Louise Godbold

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Sunday update


For those of you who didn't make it to the service tonight...

The Word was brought by Dib and her husband, Ellen (they're Australian), who revealed many things I hadn't known before, such as, the kingdom of heaven is like a knit and that Jesus went around healing lippers.

I got into a bit of trouble over dinner when I was questioned by one of the guests - an elderly lady dressed in hat, pearls and a white frilly dress.
"I overheard that you're a writer. What is the name of your book?"
I hadn't foreseen situations like this when my agent suggested the current title.
"Ahem. Our Lady of the Condoms."
Fortunately, it appears the old lady was deaf.
"Have you spent much time in the Congo, dear?"


© Louise Godbold

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Saint Louise


Sunday is the feast day of Saint Louise - patron saint of disappointing children and people rejected by religious orders. Well that would explain a few things!

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