Having waited awhile in the Wells Fargo drive thru line for an appointment to update address per my recent move back to Pueblo, Colorado, I have 90 minutes before a noon opening with a banker. Lured by the thought of a sausage and egg croissant at Dunkin' Donuts, I hit their drive thru and park at a hotel facing a frontage road just off I-25. Windows down to catch the sun-warmed spring breeze, I savor my meal while watching passers-by: two youth on motorized scooters, an attractive young Latinx man with a backpack, and a tall, stooped woman who makes her way slowly from the hotel to a nearby bus stop bench. She intrigues me, from her off-kilter brown wig fringing a navy ski jacket to her dark knee-length skirt, yellow anklets, and laced flat black shoes...a certain style in her dishevelment.
A green city bus sporting a sleek sign for Canna (marijuana--legal in Colorado where local dispensaries appear to be booming) soon arrives. The woman approaches the bus door; it opens briefly. The driver must have said no entry without a mask; the woman fumbles in her purse while the man with backpack, mask in place, stands the recommended six feet away. After a few minutes the bus leaves would-be riders at the curb just as the woman dons her mask. So much for their plans! The two exchange a few words; the man, who had come from the north, proceeds south. He’s young and strong and can walk a distance. But what of the woman? She may have medical needs. I watch her enter the automatic hotel doors through my rearview mirror, take the last sips of my coffee. I should help her.
She sits in a lounge chair in the lobby, magazine in hand. “I’m a registered nurse; I saw you were not able to get on the bus and wonder if I could take you where you want or need to go.” “Come a bit closer, I’m having a little trouble hearing you.” Intelligence in her bespectacled brown eyes and calm, measured voice. She displays no obvious signs of illness and she's not a sputterer who, were she presymptomatic for COVID-19 or an asymptomatic carrier, could potentially share the virus while talking. I follow local health department news: the Pueblo case count low, contact tracing* of the infected happening, wise protocols in place for the past few weeks. My time of concern after being with son Owen who could have been exposed to the virus while trucking around California is over. Taking her in my car is a minimal risk for us both. We exchange names. A young woman with an encouraging smile (no mask) comes from behind the lobby desk--with its plastic shield--and stands a few feet away: “Thank you; she's been with us a long time.”
“I was going to Walmart” says Margo (I've changed her name), rising, her open jacket exposing a grease-stained red turtleneck, “but it would be more interesting for you if we go to the art museum, wouldn't it?” “I think it may be closed,” I say. “I was just there a couple days ago,” she smiles. “We’ll give it a try, then.”
We drive to the museum (closed, but a friendly young man with bandana over his nose and mouth emerges to let us know some exhibits are available online) and then on to Walmart, all the while talking easily. She speaks of her life in Paris, New York City. “I was born in the 1700s,” she says. Hmm...delusion? dementia? maybe she believes in reincarnation? "What kind of work have you done, Margo?" "I published a magazine on politics and culture for awhile." Her father Dutch, we exchange some Dutch phrases and a little Spanish and French after she tells me she speaks five languages and I mention my years in Mexico, in Africa with Dutch volunteers, work in Haiti.
“What brought you to Pueblo,” I ask. “Unfulfilled hope for an interesting place away from a big city." She bemoans lack of access to a computer and the New York Times since closure of Pueblo libraries. Later I google her name, learn more of her robust life (she is almost 90)...now confined by circumstances to Walmart outings and a small hotel room with TV, microwave, fridge; "It's quite crowded with all my books."
Parting at Walmart, she asks: “Do you ever come by the hotel?” “No, but I can.” She smiles: “We could enjoy coffee or lunch together.” “I'd like that, Margo." Exiting the Walmart bathroom minutes later, I meet her driving a motorized cart. She asks: "Can I buy you a small treat here? It's a sausage tidbit." "Thanks so much, but I must get to my appointment. We'll meet again." She smiles and nods.
* Contact tracing (and accurate testing) essential to infection management, reducing fear, allowing economies to revive!
Two more excellent, important articles:
