On Begging

In 1995, at 11:30pm, after a long day of helping my boyfriend, Frank host a garden party and then cleaning up for many hours into the late evening, what kept me going all those after hours when I was extremely exhausted was dreaming into curling up in his arms and relaxing in an all-night embrace.  

“I have a headache.” He growls at me in passing. “Here”, he says, with insistent conviction and determination, “throw this away at your house,” as he hands me a brown paper lunch bag of garbage, “my can is too full.”

I stare at him blankly.  He is no longer cordial.  I felt in need of love, appreciation, and gratitude for all my hard work hosting, cleaning up, after a full day of decorating, setting up, serving, and tending to guests all afternoon, while offering upbeat greetings and delicious, meticulously prepared food, repeatedly clearing finished plates and refilling drinks. 

Even though his request feels weirdly unnecessary, my deflated heart and dejected ego had no effort left to plead with him. Clearly, anyone can cram a gallon-size, completely full lunch sack into a thirty-nine-gallon size garbage can – by stuffing it in.  

My vacant chest sank from the weight of deep sorrows and lack of welcome and belonging. I take the bag of trash as I leave and walk out into the darkness. Just to prove a point, I head around to the side yard and quietly lift the lid on his large garbage can and gently place the gallon-size bag right on top of the full contents barely stuffing it down then delicately balance the teetering lid on top of the small bag of garbage so he will not miss that I did not take his smelly trash into my vehicle, nor to my house.

Welling tears blurred the path to my white, 89, Honda Civic. As I unlock my car door, my mind reviews the dangers of the night in the area surrounding where he lives – (the (then) murder capital of the US – worse than Oakland and Washington DC).*

My mind quickly runs through all my possible options for a safe, warm, protective masculine shoulder to cry on and realize it is too late to just drop in on any (non-romantic partner) guys for emotional support without leading them to think it was actually just a booty call.  Not going there.

As I start up my car and see the gauges light up, I recognize the yellow “out-of-gas” warning light and the red needle of the gage dropped all the way to the bottom below the empty gas tank marker... and I realize, I put off getting gas that morning before the party to save time, thinking I would get some tomorrow morning in broad daylight when it is safer to be in that neighborhood.  Now, I have to get gas, or I might not make it home.  

Due to feeling vulnerable wearing a long flowing dress, I say a prayer for protection and I head out to the closest gas station across the freeway in the heart of East Palo Alto. CA

It’s nearly midnight and there are cars and a few people milling about the Chevron station on the corner. I pull up to the self-serve pump away from others and get out of my car, then I lean back into my car over the driver’s seat to get my gas card out of my glove box.  

As I back my rear out from being bent overhead and torso inside my car, suddenly there is a black man standing just a few inches from my butt – who was way too close for comfort. He barely backs away nearly touching me as I move to stand in the open doorway of my car. Both my arms are outstretched to the sides, one gripping my car on my left, while the other, still holding my gas card, holds the open door on my right.

“Here let me do that!” he says as he enthusiastically lurches toward my hand clasped around my gas card.

Startled, I draw my hand back to my waist and look at him sternly to scrutinize his eager presence. 

(No, I am not handing you my gas card!)

Excitedly, he says, “My name is Stephen Mack, what is yours?” 

I decline to tell him and instead, look at him intently scrutinizing him. To try to call him out to break through the scam I inquire in a flat tone.

“What are you up to?” 

I dare to reach past him to the pump and swipe my card and select the cheapest unleaded. He grabs the nozzle in one hand, unwinds the cap inside my open gas flap on the side of my car and inserts the nozzle into my gas intake, and starts the pump.  I lean back into my vehicle to put my gas card safely away and return to standing in my open doorway.

“I understand what you think”, he says, “I struggle to stay off the streets. I can’t afford a place to live. It has been hard to get to work. I can no longer afford to drive my car which makes it hard to get to jobs.  I try to keep my spirits up. And I would rather do something for people than beg.”

I sense he is sincere.  “I believe you,” I tell him gently while reaching to touch his arm.  He reaches out his hand and I take it and hold it.

“I wish I could give you something.” I say, hoping my truth and care reach him, “but I can’t afford to, I do not have any cash, and I go into debt every month. I am sorry.”

He looks at me and sees me, yet still also sees me as other and different, says, “At least you do not have to beg!” 

A flurry of common understanding about deprivation flashes through my heart about my life, his life, and all that is not willingly offered to both of us and I suddenly get that even though as a single mom I often do not make ends meet and I need financial assistance; I felt much more intensely forced to beg for affection – which feels terribly demeaning.

So, I reply, “Oh, I have to beg - in my own way - and it is just as humiliating.”

Suddenly all the intense sadness about the lack of harmonious intimate connection wells up floods out, and a river of hot tears streams down my face.

Stephen reaches out toward me to hug me and I melt into his embrace and let my pent-up sadness out, in a hug that lasts for the next twenty minutes. 

In those moments, nothing else mattered, not the people who might have seen or judged or witnessed this unusual healing event; not the scent of his clothing; nor my vulnerability.  All that mattered was slowing down enough to receive and offer the shared comfort and healing we both needed. 

I accepted his hug as God’s care coming through this angel of a man I initially feared, in the middle of the night at a gas station in East Palo Alto. 

*(http://articles.latimes.com/1993-01-05/local/me-833_1_east-palo-alto)

                                                                                                                Initially written by (then) Erin Bouquin

Published Dec 1996, in "The Sun" Magazine of Ideas,  Reader’s Write, issue 252

Rewritten by (now) Erin Castelan, January 2018.