Gentlemen, Please

Fall was just a tingle in the air, a stray leaf clinging, cadmium yellow, a hint of rose madder lacing its edge.  For me eating color might have been an option had I not known of Van Gogh’s dietary proclivities resulting in the loss of his ear.  I love color, love writing about color, love being an artist, love fall’s dramatic displays but thus far in my life have mostly stayed within the lines. 

I’ve always tried to keep what I had been taught was my place.  Girls didn’t go to school so I got a job, got married, had kids.  But trying to do what was expected was difficult as I also wanted to excel, to receive the approval I craved.  I went a little overboard.  After the birth of our eighth child my husband and I both figured we’d had enough. 

My overachiever lifestyle is only eclipsed by a desire to stay within the bounds that form the parameters of my life.   What bounds, one may justifiably ask?  You’ve got eight kids for Pete’s sake.  Well, for me the boundaries of my life are wrapped up in being wife to one, mother to eight, nana to nineteen and counting, student, teacher, writer, designer, artist, and oh, yes, did I mention Mormon.  I fit right into the LDS culture when I set out to find out what life held for me at nineteen.  Not only comfortable within the culture, I felt like I was coming home to a place I almost remembered.  I was listened to; encouraged to ask questions, to grow, to be more than I was and yet felt fully accepted for who I was at the time. 

I’ve been a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints for nearly forty years.  I have worked with children, teenagers, and adults.  For the last three years I work one evening a week helping out in the Portland, Lake Oswego, Temple.  Taking seven to eight hours mid-week from a twenty plus credit semester load at Pacific University would seem over the top yet it is during this time that deep renewal and recharging takes place.  Some of my best ideas occur to me as the world and its pressures fall away.  No matter how stressed I get, I know that Wednesday at four I’ll step out of the world and into the temple. 

I didn’t think that this Wednesday would be any different.  I’d just finished taking a copperplate pen class and had mentioned to the teacher that I’d come back to The On Purpose Bookbinder later that week to discuss and purchase the products I still needed to complete the work on my senior show.  I still had some questions about what went with what, how did this work, and based on what I was doing, did she see anything else I needed.   My early Wednesday class was finished, and I worked on some homework not wanting to intrude on my friendship with a shopkeeper.  I’ll give her time to set up and then go over about 11 AM. 

I pulled up, parked across the street, and got out noticing that the sky was Cerulean, cloudless, September at its best.  The distance wasn’t great from my house, but I didn’t want to schlep my supplies home on my back, so I justified the gas spent in the short drive.   I could almost feel the heat generated by my credit card as it glowed in my wallet. 

Entering the shop, I walked past its miniature guardian, a little white Scottie dog, Lily, and noticed that the owner wasn’t at her usual station in front of the computer.   Pamela Lawn was one Oregon’s top bookbinder, perhaps one of the top in the nation.  She owned the shop.  Pauline Richards, a midwife and calligrapher, was her partner and best friend.  They were usually both around, so I was surprised when neither shouted a greeting.  Knowing my way in and out of the shop and feeling comfortable in my relationship with the two women, I peeked through the open door to the back of the shop.  The bathroom door was ajar.  Odd, I thought.  A tiny prickle of concern began to form, which I quickly brushed off.  They must be in the studio in the back. 

I walked through the storage area to the open workspace.  Tables, chairs, the back-glass door closed.  Nothing amiss.  This is more than odd, I thought to myself.  They never would leave the shop unattended. 

“I’m down here.”  It was a little voice, but I couldn’t locate its owner.  I saw nothing.  Who was down where?  My eyes searched the cluttered art studio, cupboards, shelves stacked to overflowing.  Then I saw a small tuft of curly grey hair and two blue eyes staring at me from behind the center table.  Still at a loss, I wondered what Pamela was doing on the floor behind the table.  Why didn’t she get up?  I walked around and comprehension dawned.

“Pammy, are you okay?” 

“I fell.”

Pammy’s girth is not quite as large as her talent, which combined with a double knee replacement had kept her foundered on the hard cement floor for what I came to learn was nearly an hour when I chanced to enter.  I quickly looked around scanning for options that would help her rise but only came up with a towel that she could kneel on.   She had pulled over two short padded ironing boards but then quickly had decided that the metal in her knee replacements wouldn’t survive the pressure of kneeling on them.   Fire department or ambulance?  I could feel her embarrassment.  All the jokes about “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” ran through my mind.  Except they weren’t funny.  I’d experience a moment several years ago when I had felt the helplessness of not being able to instantly rise from the floor.  It was immediately followed by a diet coupled with a regimen of yoga and core strengthening Pilates. Independent to a fault, that moment had defined for me what I would not be as I aged.

“What if I go into one of the shops and find a man to help?  I saw several at Pizza Schmizza on the corner when I drove in or I’ll call the fire department.” 

I knew she was embarrassed.  I didn’t want to make it worse and told her I would do nothing until she decided what she wanted but that I wasn’t going to leave her on the floor.   She explained that she had tripped over several boxes of paper and had hit her face on some clay bricks she had been holding.  I saw a slight reddening on her face, then scanned the cement beneath and around her.  It was slightly stained, but the dark mark was old not fresh.   A loss of consciousness can lead to a loss of bladder control.  I didn’t believe she had blacked out.  Most likely just bruised.  She was coherent and seemed to remember everything.  I offered once again to find someone to help her up.

Concerned the fire department would draw too much attention, she finally gave me permission to find a man to help her in the local shops.  One won’t be enough, she suggested and looked away.

Heading out the front door, the street seemed empty of life though the day was still crisp, cool.  I headed to the barber shop.  I knew I’d find men there.  The handle didn’t move.  Then I noticed the “Gone to Lunch” sign.  There was a gift shop a little further on.  I peeked inside the open door, just a woman behind the counter waiting on another woman and a slight young man.  No help here.  Okay, I thought, even though she doesn’t want me to disturb someone at lunch, I’ll go to the pizzeria.  I turned back, crossed the alleyway, past the front of Pamela’s shop, and looked up. 

The sign for My Place hung in the morning air like an answer to my problem, except that I’d never been in a bar in my life.  To a practicing Mormon the Word of Wisdom is not considered a suggestion, it is a way of living.  Outsiders look at it and say it’s just common sense, eat well, get plenty of sleep, exercise, not too much red meat.  Most now agree that smoking is best left to chimneys; however, there are still complaints about the restriction on alcohol consumption.  I never minded.  Alcohol was never a large component in my life.  I neither smoked nor drank and therefore had no reason to enter a bar.  What would people think of me actually ran through my mind as I paused outside the darkened doorway.

I’d been raised to mind my own business, never go where you are not wanted, stay in lighted areas where people are around, wash your hands, and keep your nose clean.  All these injunctions had been delivered with the best of intentions and all had been adhered to scrupulously throughout my life.  Yet, these were unusual circumstances.  I’d been to pubs in England but then that is basically the only place to purchase a meal.  I’d been to restaurants with bars attached but I’d never been in a real bar before. 

The door was open.  I looked inside.  It was dark, forbidding, a cave of testosterone.  I stepped through before I could talk myself out of it, expecting… I’m not sure what.  My peripheral vision picked up some young men sitting at a table, an older man playing a video game.  My eyes were focused on the long wooden bar.  Moisture pricked behind my contact lenses as my eyes swept a row of six or seven biker types, jacket sleeves torn off, ragged beards, tattoos. . . “sleeves” I think they call them.  My daughter had told me that one time in a discussion about procuring yet another tattoo.  I stood still.  Now what?  No one turned.  No one noticed that “one of these things doesn’t belong here, one of these things just isn’t the same.”

Jan, I spoke to myself.  Woman down.  I drew breath thinking about my purpose in standing there, ignoring the what-if’s.

“Gentlemen.”  My voice was surprisingly calm to my own ears.  Was it loud enough?  Yes, all heads turned and stared at me.  It was only later that I thought about how incongruous the word gentlemen must have sounded to these bar hounds.

“Gentlemen, I need some help.  There is a rather large woman who has fallen next door and I need help getting her up.”

I was not prepared for them to rise as one.

“I, I only need two,” I said then turned quickly and escaped out the open door back into the sunshine, hoping that they were following yet a little afraid that they would.  A peek behind me revealed three, two major biker types and one a younger, sandy haired, biker-in-training.

They followed me through the shop, their dark visages incongruous among the brightly colored papers and paints.  The thought of ducklettes travelling in a row behind their leader passed through my thoughts.  I was having a surreal experience.  I hollered out to Pamela that I was back with help, hoping to prepare her for the help I was bringing, all the while babbling to my volunteers that she had fallen, had replacement knees, and we really appreciated their willingness to help.   I have a tendency to babble when I’m nervous, hoping it hides my discomfort.  The gentlemen didn’t seem to notice.

Two of the larger men approached Pammy, positioning themselves at her sides and bracing her under her arms tried to lift her.  She rose only inches before they lowered her to the floor.  They couldn’t get the leverage needed.  The youngest nearly vaulted over them.

“I’ll get her from behind.”

It was then that the something remarkable happened.  It wasn’t lightening or a voice from above.  It was a quiet realization that I was seeing two images simultaneously, much like the old woman/young woman pen and ink drawing that is used to amaze young students. 

Here was my friend sitting on a concrete floor unable to rise.   Where before me just moments earlier had stood three slightly scary males, who invoked all that I had been trained to avoid, stood instead three “gentle” men.  Reaching through Pammy’s arms from behind her back, I noticed that the youngest rather than gain purchase by grasping Pammy’s chest, had courteously splayed his hands to the side.  Gently, carefully they lifted, restoring her to an upright position.  Had she been their mother, they could not have treated her more respectfully.  Seeing her vertical and accepting our thanks, the three turned as one and walked out of the store, presumably to return to the drinks they had left behind on the bar. 

I stayed another hour with Pamela, making sure she was all right and then left.  I had another errand to run; Paula was now overdue and would arrive momentarily.   I left, heading toward Lake Oswego and my weekly shift at the temple. 

I parked and walked past drifting leaves and the last of the autumn flowers, pushed open the double front doors, changed into white, and completed my service that night. Yet time and time again my thoughts returned to the three strangers.  Who were these men?  Was it because I addressed them as gentlemen that they were so willing to help? Certainly, they had mothers, maybe wives or girlfriends, maybe even daughters.  What had led them to reside in a darkened bar before noon, nursing drinks and perhaps hurts?  Maybe they were just passing through.  Maybe they were regulars.  Maybe they, too, saw the viridian green leaves turn to chrome yellow, vermillion, and magenta.  Maybe they had the souls of poets.  I expect I’ll never know and that will be my loss.