I don’t know why, or what it is about the old white women around here, but when they see me walking around, they think I am the help.
It’s strange how they go about asking me for help. It’s as if they think that they know I want to help them, that I was standing where I was for them and them alone.
Last week, I walked into Mount Kisco’s new public library. It’s bright, it’s clean, it has lots of windows. As soon as I walked in an old white woman ran right past me, said “oh there you are, come with me” and I followed. As I followed I tried to explain to her that I wasn’t who she thought I was. She then ordered me to take down a painting in the library to see what kind of backing it had. Behind the painting was a wire for hanging. She inspected it. I then, per her request, hung it back onto the wall.
She said, “Thank you, that is all” as I confusingly walked away.
I left the library.
***
The other day, on my way to my first job interview (for a server position at a fancy restaurant) I bumped into a woman who lives in my building.
I locked my door, she stepped off of the elevator, and said, “Follow me. I need your help, Jon.” I’m not sure how she knew my name, maybe from the pool party. I wasn’t running late for the job yet, but I still had to walk down the steps, across the parking lot to my car, and drive there, which was the next town over. I followed her into the laundry room.
“I just want you to stand there and make sure I do this right.” She proceeded to empty all of her whites out of the washer, one by one, into a basket. She then took that basket, and placed the whites one by one into the dryer. She started the dryer, looked at me and said thank you. I smiled and ran to my car.
I made it on time.
***
Today, while staring at beer in a grocery store, a frail old white woman yelled to me from down the aisle. There were lots of other people around her, but she yelled for me.
“Sonny boy, could you be a dear and reach that yogurt for me? You are taller than I am and I can’t seem to reach it,” she said, in her old white woman voice.
“How many would you like?” Before she could answer, I hand her two, which sufficed.
***
I don’t know what it is about me and old white women. Maybe I have kind eyes, maybe it’s my ability to reach things that they cannot, maybe they have a thing for me, or maybe I just look like the help. Which, I don’t know how they could think that; I look like most every other white person in this neighborhood, I think.
But whenever they do ask, I smile gladly, ask them if there is anything else I can do for them, as if I am being paid, and walk away cheerfully. That’s what I’m projecting. Internally, I’m cursing and wondering if anyone could catch me, or if they’d even notice, if I punched an old lady in the face.
Now let me be clear: I’m not a supporter of violence against women, or the elderly, or anyone for that matter. But sometimes you just got to wonder if you could get away with something like that, and what would happen. Would she cry and blood fall out of her nose? Would she fall down and break a hip? This is New York, would she just shrug and say, “thanks anyways?” I don’t intend on finding out, not this week. I’m still new to the area and my façade of being overly nice to every stranger I meet has yet to wear off.
***
This post is dedicated to the memory of Gary Wilpizeski. He's still alive, and so, like his memory, he lives on. Why dedicated to Gary? Because he won last week's contest of being the 15th blog follower. He got to choose today's post topic. Unfortunately, he chose, "surprise me." I've decided that every fifth person who joins the blog can pick a topic for me to write about. So, who's going to be lucky number twenty?
It’s strange how they go about asking me for help. It’s as if they think that they know I want to help them, that I was standing where I was for them and them alone.
Last week, I walked into Mount Kisco’s new public library. It’s bright, it’s clean, it has lots of windows. As soon as I walked in an old white woman ran right past me, said “oh there you are, come with me” and I followed. As I followed I tried to explain to her that I wasn’t who she thought I was. She then ordered me to take down a painting in the library to see what kind of backing it had. Behind the painting was a wire for hanging. She inspected it. I then, per her request, hung it back onto the wall.
She said, “Thank you, that is all” as I confusingly walked away.
I left the library.
***
The other day, on my way to my first job interview (for a server position at a fancy restaurant) I bumped into a woman who lives in my building.
I locked my door, she stepped off of the elevator, and said, “Follow me. I need your help, Jon.” I’m not sure how she knew my name, maybe from the pool party. I wasn’t running late for the job yet, but I still had to walk down the steps, across the parking lot to my car, and drive there, which was the next town over. I followed her into the laundry room.
“I just want you to stand there and make sure I do this right.” She proceeded to empty all of her whites out of the washer, one by one, into a basket. She then took that basket, and placed the whites one by one into the dryer. She started the dryer, looked at me and said thank you. I smiled and ran to my car.
I made it on time.
***
Today, while staring at beer in a grocery store, a frail old white woman yelled to me from down the aisle. There were lots of other people around her, but she yelled for me.
“Sonny boy, could you be a dear and reach that yogurt for me? You are taller than I am and I can’t seem to reach it,” she said, in her old white woman voice.
“How many would you like?” Before she could answer, I hand her two, which sufficed.
***
I don’t know what it is about me and old white women. Maybe I have kind eyes, maybe it’s my ability to reach things that they cannot, maybe they have a thing for me, or maybe I just look like the help. Which, I don’t know how they could think that; I look like most every other white person in this neighborhood, I think.
But whenever they do ask, I smile gladly, ask them if there is anything else I can do for them, as if I am being paid, and walk away cheerfully. That’s what I’m projecting. Internally, I’m cursing and wondering if anyone could catch me, or if they’d even notice, if I punched an old lady in the face.
Now let me be clear: I’m not a supporter of violence against women, or the elderly, or anyone for that matter. But sometimes you just got to wonder if you could get away with something like that, and what would happen. Would she cry and blood fall out of her nose? Would she fall down and break a hip? This is New York, would she just shrug and say, “thanks anyways?” I don’t intend on finding out, not this week. I’m still new to the area and my façade of being overly nice to every stranger I meet has yet to wear off.
***
This post is dedicated to the memory of Gary Wilpizeski. He's still alive, and so, like his memory, he lives on. Why dedicated to Gary? Because he won last week's contest of being the 15th blog follower. He got to choose today's post topic. Unfortunately, he chose, "surprise me." I've decided that every fifth person who joins the blog can pick a topic for me to write about. So, who's going to be lucky number twenty?
I think it's your height. Old white women are always asking Trevor for help, too, even if it's not to reach something up high. They must think height equals skill and power. I feel discriminated against because of my short stature. I can help (almost) just as well as you tall people!
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