Garrulous

Someone recognized the Hand of God on me in a Taco Bell.

I know, I know: a Taco Bell. I should be more careful about what goes into my body, after everything that’s happened. And I think I am, most of the time, but this one evening, a few weeks ago – Taco Bell. After a long day of errands and housecleaning, I finally took notice of the hollow gurgling in my gut, and to quiet it, took the path of least resistance: out my door and around the tall hedge separating my garden apartment from the fast food restaurant on the other side.

Two middle-aged black women got out of an old sedan and stepped into the restaurant ahead of me. They didn’t appear dressed for church – one in a plain white t-shirt and jeans and the other in a purple tracksuit, neither with a frilly hat to cover their beaded cornrows – but apparently they had just come from a religious service of some sort, where, I learned, the reverend was in fine form, Deborah (scandalously!) did not show up, but fortunately Levon, one fine specimen of manhood, did. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t avoid it either. Every word of the conversation rang out across the parking lot, and then bounced against the walls of the restaurant once the women were inside, where they made no volume adjustments whatsoever.

We were the only customers in the place. The real action took place just outside, a long line of cars in the drive-through lane, and all the employees, the few of them on duty that night, hung back by the window, taking and relaying orders, or in the kitchen, furiously scooping and squirting and wrapping. No one stood at the front counter.

“Hey!” the woman in the tracksuit hollered. “Anybody working in here? Huh?”

All the workers’ heads swiveled towards her, and behind the pair of women, I bristled. “Oh boy,” I thought, “here we go.” I’ve endured plenty of impatience and exaggeration over the years from certain sorts of customers, the kind who claim their order has taken an hour when only five minutes have passed, who thump on the bar when they want a drink, who snap fingers and shout. People who can’t see past their own desires and give no thought to how they make others feel. I imagined tapping the woman on the shoulder: “Hey, excuse me. You’ve only been up here a second, and, contrary to what you might think, you’re not the only person here. They’re working hard. Can’t you see that?” But I didn’t tap. I considered her broad stomach and hips and how I have shrunk in the last year. I recalled the blast radius of her words, and how I tend to keep my own quiet, unobtrusive, politely away from other people’s conversations and hearing. Clearly I would be overmatched in an argument. I also added in my tongue, tallied up the consonants and letter combinations I might trip over in my reproach, and calculated all the potential awkwardness and embarrassment. I let it go.

A man at the drive-through window covered the mouthpiece of his headset. “I’ll be right with you ma’am.”

Best of luck, buddy, I thought, but the woman let it go with a loud “Hmmph!” and returned talking to her friend.

I was deliberating over my order – burrito? chalupa? both? – when the woman turned toward me. In a flash of panic, I wondered what I had done to earn her attention. Had I accidentally stepped forward and kicked her ankle? Did she need to return to her car for something and I stood in her way? Did she somehow know about the confrontation I had briefly envisioned? Could she look into head, see into my heart? Was this about to get loud and uncomfortable?

She stared right at me, smiling. “How you tonight, child?”

“Oh… um, okay, I’m just getting around to getting some dinner and – “

She was suddenly fluttering her fingers near my face. “You got a glow about you, yes you do! I see that, mm hmm, a glow.”

A glow? The radiation should have run its course months ago. I wondered if I’d gotten any sun that day. Had I drunk any coffee? Anything that might have reddened my face?

“A glow? Really? I, uh – “

“Oh, and you’ve had some surgery, child, I see that too, mm hmm.” Her finger traced a path from below the corner of her jaw to the center of her throat, mirroring the scar on my neck.

My heart flooded with delight in that instant. She had gawked and pointed. Most people are too damned polite to acknowledge the scars. After I’ve told my tale and pointed out the one on my neck, many people claim it had escaped their notice and try to assure me “Oh, you can barely see it!” As if I’d want it obscured. I know my surgeon did an exceptional job with the incision around my throat, tucking it into one of the creases of the neck, and the scar can fall under the shadow of my jaw, but I believe it’s still pronounced, perfectly visible. This woman noted it after just a few seconds. The scar on my left forearm, which the surgeon promised would resemble a shark bite, is undeniable. I sometimes make a point of using my left hand to set down a beer or a check at a table, twisting my palm up afterwards so the thing is on full display to customers. Even so, I never get a reaction or questions. People are polite. I understand. They’re just being sensitive since many people, I understand, are sensitive about their scars, try to hide them, would draw back and put a hand on them or pull a sleeve over them if noticed. These people may be the majority. I’ve seen the ads on television for creams and lotions promising to remove or minimize the appearance of scar tissue and help you return to your untouched, unblemished self. I even have a few of these solutions, given to me by friends, but I’ve never used them. Never would. My vanity runs in the opposite direction.

“Yeah, I had cancer!” I said. “Cancer!” I almost hollered. Like a child demonstrating a new toy or recounting the plot of a movie, I rambled on in great excitement and detail, pointing to my mouth and flipping over my arm, revealing the large oval of rippled tissue on the inside of my wrist and the thick pink ribbon running nearly to the elbow, and explaining in a mad rush of words everything the doctors had done. And then this happened, and this, and that!

Her eyes popped wide at my recitation. “Oooohh, cancer, that’s something! Oh child. Well, you got a glow about you. You blessed. The Lord’s watching out for you, yes He is. You blessed. He’s touched you.” And she grabbed me and hugged me tight to her expansive chest.

And then it was time for she and her friend to place their order.

I don’t know about a glow or God or His Hand upon me. I won’t admit to any divine imprint or deny the woman what she claims to have seen. My own beliefs don’t run in that direction – though after everything that’s happened, I have wondered on occasion if I’ve been cursed (and certainly I’ve been blessed, as much as anyone whose family has had his back at every turn). But I have been marked and set apart. Not to sound melodramatic, but I’ve suffered and endured some relatively unique things and the experience is written plainly on my body. Carved into it in a few places. I would never try to hide or erase it. I would rather people, on occasion, stop and gawk and ask, “What the hell happened there?” But, in our collective civility, they almost never do. And sometimes I feel like shouting and snapping my fingers at them: “Look at this! Now recognize!”

This entry was posted on Saturday, August 1st, 2009 at 12:58 pm and is filed under The Big C. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.