On intentions

Around September I had finally settled into my new westside space. Two in the morning, coming home from Hip Pocket after an emotional shredder of a show, I was about to turn onto my street from Montgomery and a couple flagged me down desperately. Their smiles appeared honest, so, I stopped. The woman was friendly-faced, Latina, petite, pretty, the stories on her skin seemed to show her true age. She was with a white man, could be 30 -35? Apple pie, descent looking. Their approach seemed simple and familiar, "We are out of gas, could you help?"

They mentioned they left a wedding that was held at the Will Rogers center and needed money for gas or if they could get a lift to Horne St. Alright. Their story made me think for a second, but the nature of the show I was doing at the time had me in an omnipotent hold. I felt confident and really pushed the energy of a good intent against any harm. I accepted the task of taking them to Horne.

They introduced themselves as a married couple. Small talk ensued: they asked me what my name was, what I did for living, where I lived. None of what I told was true. I was polite clearly giving them a ride not building any bond. I started imagining the story of the assault on the news, the bruises and losing my newly, well-earned solitude because my parents lives would be on the line of they couldn't watch over me through trauma therapy. I lit a cigarette, blaming my generosity on the few wines I had, wondering if the essence of my intent was compromised with those ill thoughts.

My lighter flame cued relief and they where excited to know they could smoke along with me. I recalled stories of teams of two that prey on easy targets, me. Imagined her a prostitute and him, her pimp. Maybe they are a real couple into a questionable line of work. I was a alone, hoping I met the right people. It reminded me of the lady that warmly worked her way to my table at the Black Dog, angry at Big Time for disrespecting her and needed ride. Something told me to be diplomatic with my refusal.

The gentleman grew a little uneasy as I grew colder to the small talk. I stepped on the gas a bit to make the car a bit shaky down Camp Bowie's bricks. Maybe if they see that I am a bit unsafe the less likely they would want to mess with me. It was the best idea I could think of. My naive paranoia was not helping the situation...if there was really any situation to help at all. The man's eyes grew harder then he asked to stop in the middle of a residential area down Horne. The woman responded to his decision with a concern and suggested a gas station. He shook his head. "This is fine. Thank you", he said. They got out, I left them. Came home, relieved, but I felt the way it ended was not the ending to my wish. Somewhere it became two and the latter was selfish.

A couple of days later, I picked up the fweekly to see the cover story of Katrina victims in Fort Worth housed across the street. I attempted to blame my schedule for not knowing what was going on. After weeks of some serious disbelief, anger, horror, empathy -I had to turn it off. I had to save something for a play about a sex offender. I remember one afternon seeing a big long line outside the Amon Carter
Jr Hall. Last I had heard, Houston was waiting for them. Oh.

The next week I saw them again. We recgonized each other. His look was hard. A split second of contact as I drove down the same spot I met them. I wondered. I saw them later on the afternoon before the big freeze. She was just wearing a thin green windbreaker jacket with her hands tucked in the sleeves. He was wearing a polo, head down bracing the wind. Then tonight, I saw them. He was carrying something that looked like a bucket and a shirt that reminded me of Sardine's sign.

I only wonder because a couple like that doesn't seem common in westside, or is that me imagining again? My guilt and embarrassment can't seem to be enough for me face them without feeling unbearably vulnerable. I run around hoping my other little intentions can restore a karma I think I made. Hope so or I hope my imagination is responsible.