I was wearing my gray sweats and a yellow T-shirt protesting the closure of clinics, making a quick dash inside the market, low on eggs and coffee, before a 4pm Zoom. He sat behind a rickety bridge table outside in the parking lot, a man probably in his early thirties without a trace of stubble, his shoes polished to a mirror shine, his tie in a smart knot. From all I could tell, he was collecting signatures on a petition and waved for me to come closer. I waved back. It was that time of year for ballot propositions, and California elections are nothing without at least twenty of them. I figured him to be someone who traveled around the country getting paid by the signature. My cousin Regina used to make a lot of money doing that, a great way to travel from the redwood forests to the gulf stream waters. I admired his dedication, but wasn’t prepared for what came next. He got out a bullhorn. “Lookie here, folks,” like I was a carnival attraction. “She believes in killing babies,” and waved a pen with a flower on its end. Actually, my shirt was protesting the closure of several community clinics. It’s where I got all three of my immunizations. I held a vinyl shopping bag, the kind you bring to the check-out counter, and was about to cut in front of him. All I wanted was coffee and eggs. He stopped to ask a passer-by if he was registered. I couldn’t help myself, still angry about his bullhorn. “Registered for what? Like a registered sex offender?” He gave me a snarky look, and pointed to my shirt, claimed that the clinics were a drain on the local economy and he had the support of five councilmembers to revoke their licenses. I rose to the bait. “And I suppose you don’t care dingo about fish swimming in the ocean. Do you realize how many dead dolphins there are for every one of those little tuna cans sitting inside on the shelf?” He said he didn’t, but took out his cellphone to check. I suggested he shouldn’t act like some authority when he didn’t know the first thing about any of it. Which is when he got pumped up and started holding up photos of fish with their guts torn out. I wondered what else he had in his leather briefcase. Not a pretty sight. “What’s your problem?” I asked. “Once upon a time we were all fish.” The guy nearly levitated from behind his card table “And I bet the next thing you’ll be telling me is that we’re related to the apes. I told him only the Great Ones and kept walking. He got red in the face and started to call me names. I won’t repeat them here, except it sounded a lot like “Watch out for that crazy cunt.” I turned around, and at the same time, gave him the evil eye and the straight finger. “I’d rather have sex with a dolphin or a toothbrush than ever get within two feet of you.” It seemed as though we had reached agreement. I couldn’t wait to tell Jerry.
