The word “paranoia” has its origins in the Greek word for distracted, “paranoos.” Literally a distracted or irregular mind. Dr. Stein says to look things up when you don’t understand them. Demystify them, she says, make them so ordinary it’s boring. Shrink your fears into glyphs. I’m suspicious of words. Who decided meaning? Why do some words have unknown origins? Was no one keeping track?
Today, I allow myself to leave. Just a walk. Short, breezy. I remind myself that people do this sort of thing to relax. Nothing bad can happen in twenty minutes. I repeat this to myself as I walk down Dickens Avenue, past the North Shore Youth Center towards Collins. I’ll be safe in daylight. I repeat this as if it’s true, as if I’m dumb. Bad things don’t happen close to home. I repeat my mantras. I repeat my sweet lies. “Repeat” comes from the French “repetere.” From the words back and seek. I am seeking peace, calm, an empty observance. I am seeking something I can share with Dr. Stein next week when she asks me if I tried leaving the house.
She thinks I don’t try.
Sometimes I don’t.
When I reach The Burger Shack on 74th and Collins Ave, I look across to the beach. The palms have a gold tint, a shimmer almost. They sway like hands waving at us mortals from the crosswalk. I can’t see the ocean, but I can smell the saltwater, sargassum, coconut oil from people’s sunscreens and sunblocks—I’m unsure of the difference—and the heat. Heat has a smell. Hot pavement after rain smells sweet and metallic. Maybe I’m wrong. Heat also fries the brain.
I continue.
I avoid the people at the outdoor tables, their crossed legs jutting out like hurdles. I avoid the men whose eyes are tracing my figure and following. They are the ones bold enough to block my path or holler something about my ass or tits or make a little whistling sound. There’s debate about the wolf whistle’s origin, that light lip glissando. Some think it started as a tradition in the navy or with Tex Avery’s horny wolf howling at Red.
Once I pass the Dade County library and the women with clipboards asking strangers if they’re registered to vote, I decide I’ve gone far enough. Far enough to impress Dr. Stein. She’ll give me that little nod of hers when she likes something, almost a bow.
At the nearby bus stop, on 76th, there’s an old woman. Her hair is white, and the top of her head is draped in a silk baby blue kerchief, and her outfit makes me think of Little House on the Prairie. She’s looking at her feet. Perhaps, she’s imagining the shape of some bunion, the loose, folded skin underneath the welt. She’s in black flats. I notice this before turning. Her heels must be cut up and raw, peeling if she didn’t use a Band-Aid. Mama said the Band-Aids defeat the purpose. You are supposed to chafe the skin good until it callouses. Then you can wear whatever you want.
When the woman’s eyes meet mine, I turn.
Sometimes that’s all people need to pull you into their scam or grift or con.
A kind eye is an invitation.
A kind eye is weakness in this world.
I march, looking behind me. There’s two men. I look again. Yes, it’s two men. They’re going in the same direction. Their tread is light and close—I think I can feel their breath on my nape. Are they following me? Will one distract me, while the other blocks my path? If I died, how long would it take for anyone to notice? Would the bus stop woman testify that she saw me? Would I end up on some true crime podcast?
Relax. I remind myself that Collins is a busy street. Lots of people walking lots of ways. A tourist hotspot. I look at them once more. They’re in swim trunks. One is holding a towel and has goggles on his head. They’re heading to the beach. No one is following me.
As I cross towards the Bandshell—empty, and with an old announcement for a Tito Puente cover artist, Tito Bridge—I hear a voice.
“Scuse me!”
I keep walking.
You’re not supposed to stop. I’ve lived in Miami long enough to know this. Not for the voice calling you by the color of your shirt or the person who’s holding a map and scratching their head wildly or the person calling you pretty lady. People who need help ask store clerks or police. Not small women. They don’t ask the vulnerable. Only certain types seek out the vulnerable.
Maybe they ask women specifically because they know we’ve been socialized to smile, to be polite, to be nice and agreeable. Women are supposed to be nice. Woman from the Old German wifman, a female servant.
“Excuse me, please,” the voice continues.
It’s following me.
“Ma’am!”
When did I become a ma’am? Aren’t I still a miss?
I see the intersection to cross 73rd street, but the light changes. Shit. The little white crossing body changes into a flashing red palm. STOP. If I believed in signs, I’d think it were the universe telling me to STOP and go be a good person. Maybe I could still cross. Sometimes distracted drivers need a second before changing pedals. Or haven’t finished sending their text yet. But a Corolla—one of those that’ll last forever— zips through the intersection, followed by a beadlike procession of vehicles, unbroken. No gaps to seize.
“Excuse me!” The voice is right behind me. I can feel the breath on my bare nape. Hot, stale, like the tuft of air from a cafetera. “Ma’am, scuse me.”
I turn.
It’s a woman. She’s large, expansive—the way gum stretches before it splinters— with a round, pink face. The pink of scraped knees and uncooked chicken breast. Her features are clustered around the center of her face and her hair is a pale braid thrown over her shoulder like a sash. She looks like someone who in her youth must have been beautiful. Did she get used to that word as if it were an honorific? Did she wail when its use declined? When I complained about catcalling, my mother always said, “One day, you’ll miss it.”
The woman wears a drawstring backpack and holds a brown peeling valise. A yellow sleeve hangs out the edge like a jaundiced tongue.
“Yes?” I mumble. I look back at the sign. I still can’t cross. Maybe I’d make it, brakes are more sensitive these days.
“Hi, I lost my wallet in my taxi. We’re so, so, so hungry. Do you think you could spot us some cash? We need to get to the airport.”
I’m not sure how any of those ideas connect to each other. I feel barraged like a strolling Londoner caught outside during the Blitz. It’s a scam. It has to be a scam. No one talks that fast or gives that many reasons for why they need help. Right? Sometimes it’s that a car broke down and they need to use your phone to call a tow. Other times they need a lift to the gas station but have no canister. Or they need help finding an address that doesn’t exist, and when you walk to the driver’s window their cock is out.
I have fallen for all of these. Is there something on my face that screams sucker? Chump? Dummy?
The etymology for the word scam is unknown. No one was keeping track, I suppose.
“I’m sorry,” I say. What else am I supposed to say? Why am I even apologizing?
“Do you have any money? We asked the police, but they told us to go to a church.”
I wonder why she keeps saying we. Is plurality supposed to make me feel like I’m helping society, something larger and beyond her.
No. I won’t get taken advantage of, not again. I’m smarter now. I’ve learned.
“Sorry. I don’t have cash. Only plastic.”
“Oh.” She says, like she’s a little balloon and all the air is being squeezed out of her face. “Well, there’s an ATM right there.”
She immediately points to the Bank of America ATM on the other side of the street. How did she find it that quickly? A tourist wouldn’t be that oriented. Maybe she’s walked this street long enough, asking everyone, to have taken in the sites.
“I’m sorry–”
Then there’s another voice, a girl. Maybe twelve or thirteen. I’ve always been bad with guessing children’s ages.
“Mom, I’m hungry,” the girl says, ignoring me completely. She tugs at her mom’s shirt sleeve. “Mom.”
This is new. Is this an evolved scam? Cons sometimes evolve faster than businesses themselves. Like those robo-calls that tell you your warranty or insurance is outdated with a stern, deep, cautionary tone that mimics both concern and administrative rage. Or the fake antivirus software that flashes on your screen like an ambulance strobe. WARNING! WARNING! Or the grandparent scam where callers pretend to have kidnapped their grandchildren and demand a ransom.
However, I rarely see kids in the mix.
“This is my daughter, Annie,” the woman says.
I raise my hand up to say hi. The girl is lanky, sunburnt, and her curled hair is tied up in two high pigtails. She stands partially behind her mother, as if I’m the danger.
“Ma!” The girl pulls on her mother’s hand, hard enough to make the woman lose balance.
“Shh, the grownups are talking.”
The little girl also has a backpack. Maybe the story is true. Why would she have roped her daughter into a scam? Then she must be genuine. But what if she’s not? Maybe it’s the next evolution in grifting— an easy way to gain sympathy. A child lends credibility. No, I’m being crazy. Sometimes good people need help.
“If you give me your address, I can mail you a check,” the woman says.
“Oh, I’m not sure—”
“Ma’am, we’ve been out here all day.”
I don’t know how to say no. I never have. It’s probably why Spencer stuck around for so long. No, Dr. Stein says to not think of him. It’s not healthy. Don’t think of him. Stop. But he asked for money like this woman. He’d mention the boys, Jaden and Austin, or his “trifling cunt” of an ex-wife. What was his line? Oh, right. I wish I was you. No debt. No kids, single. You don’t know how good you have it. You can spend your money on dumb things. I can’t.
“I’ll be right back,” I manage. “I have to go to my car and get my wallet. I live right there.” I point at one of the high rises on the beach. This seems to satisfy the woman and she nods. Of course she’d agree. If I don’t have money, she’d want me to rush along and get it.
“We’ll be waiting right here.”
“Okay.”
I walk off. I’ve escaped. I’m Steve McQueen. I’ve left a dummy in my cot and no one’s the wiser.
I have to now walk towards the luxury beach front apartment complex that I pretended I lived in. Once I pass it, I can cut across and loop around to get back on 71st Street. I will not be a fool again. I will not.
As my feet kick up a cloud of sand, I think of Spencer again. His thinning hair was the color of sand, as were his light eyebrows and his wispy beard.
At the end of meals, he’d slide the bill over to me, casually like clearing dust from a countertop. Why couldn’t I just say no? He’d mention how expensive Montessori was or how he needed to save up for Florida Prepaid. Two kids, two college tuitions whoo, he would say. What would I do without you, little darling?
Everything was little. He wanted to diminish and make all diminutive. My problems, the check, our romance—little.
Remorse comes from the old Latin modere, to bite. He took so many bites out of me, I wonder if he and his ex-wife just laughed at me. What a dumb bitch, they must have said, counting out the bills I had given him for Freddy’s elementary graduation cap and gown. I promised myself I’d never be tricked again. Never. And yet, I still sometimes wait for a call or an email or carrier pigeon with an apology. I keep waiting. I keep waiting for the world to show me people aren’t bad. I keep waiting.
I stop and catch my breath. I’m in the apartment building’s shadow. The sand here is cold and a bit wet. I take off my sandals and dig my toes into it, watching them disappear. I feel the ocean’s breeze. It’s like a breath, an inhale and exhale. I practice the breathing techniques Dr. Stein suggested. In and then out. Why am I still thinking of him? The doc called intrusive thoughts leaves on a stream. “Watch them at a remove,” she said, “we are not our thoughts.”
But what if the bus pulls you on, straps you into your seat, and zips off towards a cliff’s edge? Like in Speed with Keanu Reeves. I’m duct taped to the vinyl seats.
I sit and tuck my knees into my chest. There aren’t a lot of people in the water. It’s a weekday. The people here are the ones from these buildings. The sun is flanked by clouds. In the distance, a seagull dives into the water. A fish thrashes against its bill, a wild semaphore, until it’s tossed back. Gone.
Across from me are a woman and her baby. She’s blending sunscreen into his pudgy cheeks in quick, short strokes. He’s pulling away, towards the water. His little fingers stretch and point towards the water.
Dr. Stein always ended her sessions by saying, “You can’t let your past make you worse. Don’t let other people make you cruel.”
But, why not? Why not evolve into someone stronger? Isn’t that the next evolution in human form?
As I watch the mom make sure the baby is zinced up all over, my stomach growls. I let myself feel this, imagining it’s a voice shared by the woman and her daughter. I remember my childhood hunger and how my mother tried filling me up with sugar water or cornmeal mush. All those years had not made my mother cruel per se, but austere, cold to outsiders, unafraid of shame if it meant we’d get some cream cheese spread or orange juice.
What if that woman and her daughter do need the money? What if everyone else has already said no? How hungry is the girl right now?
I pick up a clump of sand and run it over my legs. Why me? Why should I help? It’s not like she’ll die or starve to death. Someone else, someone better than me, will come along and give. Why should I care?
The mom and baby, in bright orange water wings, waddle away from their umbrella on the hot sand towards the water. She’s holding his hand. As they walk, he struggles, tugging on her wrist for release, and then runs free. He gets a few feet, still on land, then stumbles, his ankle rolling, and falls face first into dry seaweed. The mother rushes to him. She dusts him off. His eyes are wide and bulbous. His bottom lip quivers. He’s about to bawl. The mother yanks him back to his feet. Together they rush towards the water. The mother is now running alongside him, matching his baby pace, towards the shallow stretch of shore.
What if the woman and girl have fallen and there’s no one to yank them back onto their feet?
Fuck.
They’re at the same intersection when I return. They didn’t move. The woman and daughter both smile at me in recognition. I guess we’re at the point where we recognize one another. No longer strangers.
The woman fans herself with a folded pamphlet of places to see in Miami. The daughter hangs back under a Colombian restaurant’s awning.
“Here.” I hold out two tens. It’s all I had in my wallet—and an expired Publix coupon, but I’m sure they don’t want that.
When she takes the ends, I pause a beat before I release them. There’s a small tug-of-war. I can still change my mind, pull, refuse. For a moment, I think Alexander Hamilton on the bills is telling me to run.
The woman curls her lips, a half-smile. I’m still holding the bills. I can turn back—Dr. Stein says people have the right to change their minds. My bicep twitches before I finally open my palm. She’s won.
I look at her pale eyes as if some truth will come out, some evidence, or gotcha-ness. I see kind eyes—those same ones that welcome and invite. Will this be a lesson to her daughter? This is how you spot a chump or there are still decent folk.
But I’m not decent folk. I feel stupid closing my pocketbook empty.
“Annie, come here,” the woman calls, waving the girl over. “Say thank you to the nice lady.”
“No, it’s okay,” I say. The intersection is clear. I can leave now.
But the girl comes out of the shade in a slow, defeated amble from the sun’s heat. “Thank you, nice lady.” The girl paws at the money, but the woman retracts it quickly and slips it into her bra.
“Have a good one.” What a dumb thing to say. They’re obviously still trying to get back home. Maybe I should have quoted someone important on charity. No. That’s worse than sounding dumb, moralizing and all.
As I turn to leave, I hear the woman again. “What’s your address, dear? When I get back to Harrisburg, I’ll mail you the money.”
You’re not supposed to mail cash. I can’t remember who taught me that or if that’s just one of those things you learn over time or from a 20/20 special.
I don’t want to go to the mailbox everyday expecting something, waiting, anticipating. I can already see myself, in pajamas, staring into the inbox’s empty mouth every day. Disappointed. Or watching the USPS truck in the driveway with some flicker of hope. No, I know myself. I’ll wait, hoping to be proven wrong or right. I know what that wait will do to me. I still check my spam folder.
I know what waiting does to me.
“It’s okay. Save the stamp.” I say and I wave goodbye, imitating the grace of the palm fronds when they make a similar gesture.
Maybe the world needs chumps. Maybe.
I walk back home, taking 73rd back up to Dickens. The sun bears down on my head and shoulders. I feel the sweat on my back. I repeat the exchange in my head (going back and seeking). Why didn’t doing the right thing feel right?
As I cross the 71st street bridge that connects to Normandy Isle, I notice my heel’s begun chafing. The skin’s raw, peeling. I’m not calloused yet. I’ll need to get a Band-Aid later.
