Tuesday, August 19, 2008
After a long hiatus, I decided to spend my lunch hour at the Barnes & Noble bookstore in Georgetown and catch up on some periodical reading. I carefully picked out a batch of magazines along with a book or two and ascended the escalator toward the large, overstuffed chairs that had made that store so pleasant.
To my dismay, I discovered that those plushy chairs were no longer there.
The management apparently had adopted a policy of making the reading public a little bit less comfortable. I can't say that I blame them, since some of their readers seemed to settle into their settees for the day.
As a matter of fact, the last time I was there, the coveted chaise next to mine was vacated and a well-scrubbed, tidy, middle-aged "bag lady" with an equally tidy, well-packed shopping cart promptly took possession of it.
She parked some of her belongings there to "dibs" it and then disappeared into the stacks.
When she reappeared. she had a large collection of coffee table books with her. I'd never considered the reading tastes of the homeless before, and I became very curious about what the subject matter would be. Perhaps how-to books on camping, self-defense or finding a job? Maybe self-help books on dealing with mental illness or personal finance? Possibly treatises on housing policy or unemployment?
I discreetly peeked over my book to see what her actual literary choices were. Her titles were all beautiful, glossy volumes and all about wedding dresses and pastries. She slowly pored over scores of pictures of frilly crinoline gowns with her fingers seemingly trying to stroke the expensive material. She then stared at page after page of puffy, layered confections while running her tongue over her lips as if trying to imagine their delicate sweetness.
Had this woman been a jilted bride years ago and thereby been launched into her current trajectory? Had she been a caterer, a pastry chef, a seamstress, a designer or a wedding planner who come on hard times?
Whatever it was, it was utterly heartbreaking to watch. I packed up my books and quietly slunk away, embarrassed by too great a surreptitious glance into another's soul.
Maybe that's why they got rid of those chairs.
-- Dan Wittenberg, Bethesda
Face Value
When I first came to Washington, I greatly preferred landscape paintings to portraits. But 25 years of riding Metro has made me a student of faces. On every ride, I see serious faces, sleepy faces, beautiful faces, worried faces, intense faces and faces looking off into another world. There are faces that could be in period pictures, over Elizabethan collars or under powdered wigs. Faces pensive, faces impenetrable, faces serene, all gliding along together underground.
When passing through the Gallery Place Station, I sometimes wonder whether the more interesting faces are up above in the National Portrait Gallery or down below in a long, rolling, ever-changing display.
-- Jon Mathis, Kensington
Not The Reaction He Expected
For some reason, people I run into aren't nearly as nice as, say, the typical Washingtonian. Or maybe I meet average, not exemplary, citizens.
Early one afternoon a few months ago, I stood in line at my local Wachovia. I'd lost my debit card; I could get cash only from a human teller. Complicating matters, there was only one teller. A woman was in line ahead of me. And the current customer was engaged in a loud, animated discussion -- no, an argument -- with the teller.
The customer was, I gathered, in his late 50s or early 60s and clean and articulate in a Joe Biden sort of way. He cradled an armload of papers and forms. No, he wasn't homeless, but he sounded desperate. Because I'd eavesdropped, I knew why.
He had come in to deposit a big government check. Apparently, he had briefly left to get more papers. When he returned, he couldn't find the check. He claimed that he had left it with the teller, but the teller said she didn't have it and hadn't seen it. The man didn't believe her, but, in any event, wanted her to help him get the check canceled and reissued.
I tried to help. I glanced around the floor of the bank for the check. I saw it face-down about 30 feet from the teller's window. It was easy to spot; banks have very clean floors. I went over and picked it up. It was, indeed, a big U.S. Treasury check, for well over $50,000. And it was endorsed.
"Sir, is this your check?" I politely asked.
"Uh, yes. Thanks," the man said. He took the check from my hand and returned to the teller's window. No smile. No handshake. No pat on the back. No nothing. Zilch. If anything, the man looked annoyed. Maybe I'd embarrassed him by finding the check, exonerating the teller. Who knows.
Worse, now that the man had his check, he began to conduct his business, a complex financial transaction that seemed to involve every one of the papers and forms he'd carried into the bank in his arms.
After fifteen minutes, another teller opened up a window. I got my money from her.
The first teller flashed me a big smile as I left the bank. Okay, maybe I'd made her day. But I'm thinking, next time, I leave the check on the floor.
-- Anthony E. Harris, Washington
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