Meeting Savannah

It was a cold wet day at the LaCanada/Flintridge farmer’s market. Every weather front seemed to roll though.

A blue Uber Prius arrives. I open the back passenger door, place my shoulder bag on the floor, sit and shut the door. As the driver pulls away, I ignore the female passenger beside me. I’ve already done the first chakra scan on her. You know the one. “Is this candle worth the flame?” She’s a nerd. Not my type. Nevertheless, I’m rattled..

I then realize she’s unaffected.

I say “hi” and quickly turn away.

The Prius has a Lysol stink inside and moves on the 210 South in eerie silence. Prius tires randomly bump on road reflectiors. She’s early twenties, twig-thin, and wears circular gold wire-rimmed glasses. Faded sweatshirt, worn knee-patched jeans and UGG boots. All black. Slightly tousled brown hair chopped to her neck. You know. Early Julia Roberts. She holds a silver I-6 in her right hand.

“That’s a nice hat”

I smile. I’m tired. Suburban markets are not my scene. I can’t be a showman there like I can in Hollywood.

“Yes. A friend gave it to me. It’s a Stetson worth $150.00. She found it in the trash. We’ve guessed that it was there as a result of a break-up. She threw everything of his into the garbage can,

“Do you dumpster dive?”

“No”, I say. “Do you?”

“No. I’m not that much of an anarchist”

“I’m Moe.” I reach out my hand.

“I’m Savannah.” She offers hers.

There are three kinds of handshakes. The first is the “Phffft”, a finger tugging, palm rejecting handshake. it’s an ISIS handshake; passive-aggressive, self-righteous and territorial.

The second is the “Boneless” The full hand is offered, yet lacks structure and heft. It’s shames. It’s the handshake where you crush the others hand. You then recoil in reply, guilt-stricken for your aggressiveness.

The third is the “I’ve Been Met” It’s the handshake of commitment. Of lusty bravado and joie de vivre. I’s vodka meeting vermouth, Jefferson meeting Lafayette. Ben Franklin meeting Ernest Hemingway. I mean, after all, what good handshake isn’t Ernest in its intent.

My hand envelops hers. The structure of her gripping hand holds. Bolts of energy move down our arms alloying a tensile strength that builds as far as it needs to go.

I feel I’ve been enchanted.

“That’s a beautiful name. What do you do?” I say.

“I go to art school” she replies

There’s shyness in her voice. And a touch of shame.

“Live here?” I say

“In Santa Clarita. I’m visiting friends. What about you. Where are you from?”

“SoPas. Originally from Lodi, Caifornia. Dairy farmers. Dairy farmers don’t wear cowboy hats though.”

“Cool”

There’s silence.

Me: “Are you an anarchist?”

Savannah: “No. But I really respect those who are.”

Me: I’m reading Ursula LeGuin’s translation of the Tao Te Ching. She says that Taoists and Anarchists would make great playmates.”

She sets her I-Phone on the seat and slides under her thigh. The Prius stops. I’m home. I want to encourage her and not sound like a presumptuous fool.

Fuck it.

“I’ve had fun talking. Keep doing what you’re doing. Ride that pony as far as you can.” I say.

“Thanks. And I like your fashion sense”

I hate separations.