Meeting Savannah

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

The market is over. I’m happy to see Uber arrive. The driver has a rider who sits in the rear. I make the quick decision to sit in the back. I open the right passenger door, and slide in. I place my blue shoulder bag on the floor at my feel, begin to settle into an Uber aloofness, and close the door. I greet the driver as he pulls away. I turn to do the same to the passenger. Maintaining the aloofness, I say “hi” and quickly turn away. I have noticed that she is a young woman, wears circular gold wire-rimmed glasses and is as thin as a twig. She wears a black sweatshirt, worn and faded black jeans and black UGG boots. With slightly tousled brown hair chopped to her neck and covered up bumpy skin on her upper cheeks, she holds a silver I-6 in her right hand.

I wouldn’t be wrong if I said she is a nerd. That would be an Uber definition; defensive, safe and easily disposed of.

The only thing truthful I can say about her is that she seems unaffected.

The blue Prius pulls away. The three of us are silent. While my feet are aching in my black Doc Martins, I am bundled warm in my army green colored thermal top, black knit scarf, and wool lined Levi’s jacket.

“That’s a nice hat”

Though tired, I smile.

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

“Do you dumpster dive?”

“No. I did have friends who would dive in Beverly Hills. Do you?”

“No. I am not that much of an anarchist”

There is a brief moment of silence as we go back to our respective positions. She has become less of a nerd and more of a Dr. Who loving, cheeseburger obsessed, young Winona Ryder-like character in a Tom Robbins novel.

“My name is Maurice.” I reach out my hand.

“My name is Savannah.” She grabs it.

Now there are three kinds of handshakes. The first is the “Phffft” This is the finger tugging, palm rejecting handshake. Spiced with passive aggressivness and rooted in fear, it is an ISIS handshake; furtive, self-righteous and territorial.

The second handshake is the “Boneless” While the full hand is offered, it lacks structure and heft and is, therefore, shaming. This is the handshake where you feel that you have crushed the others hand. You recoil, guilt-stricken, and diminish yourself for your over — aggressiveness and strength.

The third handshake is the “Meet Up” (Bucky Fuller would step in here and call it a “Meet Out” as on a spherical Planet there is no such thing as “up” or “down”. Only “out” or “in”. Which here, on a microscopic level, is true. Thank you, Bucky)

The “Meet up” is the handshake of commitment. Of lusty bravado
and joie de vivre. It’s Ben Franklin meeting Ernest Hemingway (after all, what good handshake isn’t Ernest in intent) Thomas Jefferson meeting LaFayette. Vodka meeting vermouth.

Her hand is tiny. I can feel my hand envelop hers. There is no trembling. No passivity on her part. As the structure of her gripping hand holds and while she is in the process of showing her own strength, bolts of energy move down (or out) our arms alloying a tensile strength that builds as far as it needs to go.

“That’s a beautiful name.”

And it’s true. I feel as if I’ve been enchanted.

“What do you do” (I hate asking that question. And I really want to know)

“I go to art school”

I hear shyness in her voice. Maybe a touch of shame.

“Do you live here?” (I hate that question too. And still I really want to know)

“I live in Santa Clarita. I’m going to visit a friend. What about you. Where are you from?”

“I live in SoPas. Originally from Lodi, a small cowtown south of Sacramento. Dairy farmers. Dairy farmers don’t wear cowboy hats though. I left there to go to UCLA”

“Cool”

A short window of silence.

Me: “I have to ask you. Are you an anarchist?”

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

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

(There’s that handshake thing again)

We go silent. I see her look at her I-Phone and slide it on the seat under her thigh. I am almost home. I want encourage her in some way. I don’t want to sound like a presumptuous fool.

Fuck it.

As we turn the corner near my drop off spot, I turn and say to her…

“I’ve had great fun talking with you. Keep doing what you’re doing and ride that pony as far as you can.”

“Thanks. And I like your fashion sense”

I hate separation.

For a long while a friend of mine wrote flash poetry at the Hollywood Farmer’s Market. One would give her a word or a theme and she would type out a poem for you on the spot. My ritual with her was to give her a five-spot, bring to her either a pastry, bagel, papusa or Korean pot stickers with noodles (for short and long term nourishment) and ask for three poems in return.

If she were there tomorrow, I would ask her to write a poem entitled “Savannah”