See me, Don't See Me.

Muggy today, Ain'it? I heard a voice say behind me. Music blared above the slow crowd at the Bel air swap meet. I turned without haste to see who was speaking, did not recognize the face, and resumed my search for bargains of any sort. A tall man bent over a stack of old photographs rubbed my elbow, oh, sorry! He exclaimed. His tone was deferential yet, intimate as if he addressed me, the person, me, the woman.

The morning air was already laden with smog, breath came with some effort, and clothes clung to bodies, the tall man's t-shirt stuck to the small of his back, i smiled at him, timidly. Arms full of hard to find items, i hesitated to run to the van to deposit my treasures. So much could be missed in a matter of minutes, i had lost so many opportunities during my flea market forays, such as the Ming vase at the price of a plastic bouquet, enough to make me stomp my foot in existential agony. I glanced at surrounding tables, not seeing anything i could live with, i decided to make a dash for my storage area.

I moved closer to the old pictures and said something about them, i don't remember now, my pulse was racing and the air thickened in my lungs. The man took an antique toaster and a cast iron griddle from the stack in my arms.
May i help you carry that?
Yes, please, i replied,
we walked away from the eager merchant, oblivious to his manners, both of us had obvious experience in dealing with junk peddlers. I opened the door of the van with much hesitation, i trusted the man, i simply did not anticipate his reaction to the cache of antiques in the rear compartment of the vehicle. His eyes smiled with excitement. I felt relieved.

He asked if i had old photographs, a verbal invitation to sharing the moment,
only my own album, i said.
The leather suitcase full of family photos was always stored up front along with small family trivia. In case of accident or fire, i wanted to keep my cherished belongings nearby. I knew i could always find pleasure in the refuse of mankind; I could not replace the heritage contained in these two suitcases. The man turned to me silently, i reached for the first case. The strap buckle stuck for all the weight and swelling upon it, the man's hand brushed mine as he pulled with gentle pressure on the thick leather. I withdrew, fearing the sweat of the day would waft up from my blouse and alienate him.

Closeness in the American wilderness was a matter of choice, i chose to remain at bay. Too many people, too little comfort. This one was a loner as well, i sensed it. The suitcase opened, i began to sort through the older sets. We sat on the edge of the side door where shade still protected us.
This one is my grand father, this is probably my maternal grandmother or her mother, no one ever explained it to me. Children were not allowed to ask questions in our so-called polite society and my mother's family was not the favorite side anyway.
That's taken from the porch on my aunt's home in the woods of Arkansas, i went on.
I was absorbed in the continuum of human chain, my ancestors never failed to elicit an essential connectivity.

The man pulled a sepia toned photo from an envelope on the floorboard, i retreated sharply. He asked if he could look at these older ones, my mouth was pinched and mute for a few seconds.
No, no, he offered, i don't have to see these if you don't want me to.
I don't mind, i slanted my head apologetically.
My father's face peered from the thick photo. I saw him, frustrated about a life of work and inequity. Dad's raised hand, dad's sarcasm, downplaying every accomplishment, never to spoil the child. As if he feared the power of his love and the weakening of his resolve.

Our silence contrasted with the county fair atmosphere of Cherry boulevard on this first Saturday of the month. Mexicans were having a truck side fiesta, they spoke excitedly and touched their women, their children danced and laughed among the crowd. Beer flowed in plastic mugs and mariachis whined their corazons out on the low rider truck radio. It was summer and it was a day of fun for most.

Bent over the icons of forgotten youth, my shoulders encased my very being in postural protection, suddenly i found it unbearably hot and humid. The man took a thick frame from my hand, he set it on the seat, and looked away at some point in the invisible hills above the valley. I forced myself to feign interest, but he knew i was not present; i had slipped away in a place of discomfort below consciousness.
Is your father still alive? He inquired softly.
Yes, he's still back there, i heard myself speak.
I had not thought of my pa for years, i believe.
You seem sad, he intuited.
I don't know if sad is the word, i shook my head.

I suddenly was drained of will. I wanted to rest my tired body against this stranger and remain still for a long time. The photograph of my dad faced the fabric on the van seat, i felt a prickly surge of anger, not certain of the reason, not yet. My eyes kept disappearing behind deep absorption. My arms close to my sides could not move for all the weight on my mind. No hunger, no thirst, i only felt the heat of the day. I had known such clammy afternoons in the South, and father had been there. I turned to this man, aware that he did not know me, and i suddenly asked if we could go to the restaurant at the corner of Sierra, he instantly agreed.

Just as we entered the lobby of the Country Kitchen, a newspaper box touted the front page case of an actress suing her father for past transgressions. My escort's eyes drilled into me to an uncomfortable depth. We sat where the gracious hostess had led us. Everyone, so courteous, so engaging, i resented the positivity in such contrast with my own turmoil. Why were they cheerful? Isn't this place overpopulated, isn't the minimum wage so low? A generic anger rose out of my plexus, i was spouting social rhetoric across the table and my companion agreed intelligently to every statement i made, occasionally finding space to insert a comment of his own.

By dessert, i felt satiated and exhausted, yet i ordered the most creamy chocolate as if to punish my body for past excess. The thin man starred at his long fingers, thanked the waitress and waited for me to slowly add this to my loaded digestion. Guilt, pleasure, guilt, what guilt? For whatever i may have thought or done? Glimpses of past arguments hurtled across the defaced culinary artwork on my plate. Headlines of beautiful talented actresses touting parental abuse to the surrounding world. I resented the fury, mine and theirs. I felt wedged between resolved issues and present unrest. Across from a relative stranger, i felt denuded. Disappointed in self for wanting to hide whatever stirred and discovering the source of the emotion right there in a restaurant near the hellish highway.

I did not want to know who my new acquaintance was, the vague mystery comforted the artist within me. Too much was known and too many secrets revealed in this populist society. The sun crept upon our booth and glared at the water glass, i saw the reflection in the man's glasses and instantly i knew that whatever had happened to me, whenever i was small, i had never been and never would consider myself a victim. I would not use the public arena to vent my life struggles, not me, no!.

Laden with the extra calories, i throw distracting comments to the wind along the drive back to the old outdoor movie theater that attracts treasure seekers like us to the backside of Los Angeles. Humidity has lifted the yellow sky, Jurupa hills have revealed tormented rocks and the asphalt begs for shade. I open the envelope and spread all of my father's pictures on the floorboard.
This is my dad before he had to marry my mother, i leave no room for comment at the end of each sentence. My friend's eye is no longer questioning.

Cars leave the giant parking lot, one by loaded one, the packet of old photographs has sold, one small loss among many finds. The man seems contented, i fold the distressing news article, i may never read it again.
Reporters are too happy to stir the individual pot of troubled minds, i say casually.
No psychologist will soothe the personal leftovers of long term problems, no lawyer will completely erase societal stigma. No one is a unique victim in a complex issue.
I'm glad that actress is writing a book about all that, women need the comfort, he nods.
Yeah! Men need the awareness as well, they are the product of their own failures, as well as the architects of mutual misery. It's not about punishment, it's about relations, relationships.
I look away, then intently scan his face.
No one can legislate morality and secrecy worsens matters, i shake my head.
Don't you want some justice?
You mean revenge?
Well, no, just a sense of making things right for what may have been done, to get closure as they say? He winks, i smile,
no! retribution for material goods is fine, vendetta for mental confusion is not healthy for anyone, i add pensively.
Mesquite trees shake in the afternoon zephyr, dogs bark and this traffic is driving me nuts, i want to go home for awhile, just awhile!

I have seen too many scars and tattoos, i have heard too many confessions and sad stories. Life shared ad nauseam repels autonomy. I want to fry a fish in my new antique Griswold griddle, not fry the past and watch it smoke. I want to see my father now, not to speak, not to ask, only to present a new picture, one of him and perhaps myself in the background somewhere against the innocuous garden, where good things grow from composted memories.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...