Magdalena
At the turn of the century I lived in San Jose in the sort of neighborhood that's diplomatically described as in transition. Most of the houses were duplexes built in the Twenties, and nearly all of the duplexes rentals. Some money was moving in, some gentrification being done, but on the whole the place was gloriously seedy. One hot summer evening, as I was reading, a snaggletoothed old man opened my screen door and casually walked in as if he were taking possession. "Can I help you?" I asked from my berth on the couch. He backed out of the room and retreated to his shopping cart at the curb, mumbling all the while-a fairly typical encounter.
Renting the other half of my duplex was a striking young woman I'll call Magdalena. Although she had been born in Guatemala and had a profile from a Mayan frieze, she could not have been more American in her manner and attitudes-more American than I, in fact. She spoke English like a native, and the day after 9-11 a small Stars-and-Stripes appeared on her car's antenna. I remember how much I appreciated that, since the smallest positive gesture carried enormous weight that ghastly week.
We weren’t friends but were friendly, and most of our conversations amounted to an exchange of pleasantries when one of us was leaving the premises or arriving. I thanked my lucky stars Magdalena was such a quiet neighbor; I never heard a TV or stereo through the adjoining wall. The only sign of life from her side of the duplex was the sound of her pumps on the linoleum as she left for work.
But a soft touch my young neighbor was not. She worked in Human Resources for a manufacturing company and bragged about firing people. “Wow,” I remember thinking to myself after we first met. “She’s a hard one.” The relish with which she described her 'terminations' was a bit off-putting. She seemed to have a low opinion of most people.
When I absently remarked once that I might be in the market for a new car, she advised me when (to the day of the week and hour) to go to the dealership, how to dicker and bluff and parse my counteroffers, when to feign cold feet and and cut my losses. I was spellbound by her shrewdness and grateful for the information, even as I knew I lacked the gumption to carry it off. The image she cultivated was of someone who knew how to maneuver and was not to be messed with: in a word, invulnerable. Maybe even invincible.
Returning home from work on a Monday evening one late October, I noticed a commotion a distance down the Alameda, between the Shell station where I'd gas up and the coffee shop where my landlord and I would sometimes have breakfast. A couple blocks later I saw, to my astonishment, that it was a helicopter. It lay crumpled in the middle of the Alameda like a huge winged insect, utterly defeated. I assumed there were fatalities and turned on the news as soon as I got home, which was all of a minute away.
It turned out to be a police helicopter that had developed engine trouble minutes after leaving the nearby airport. The pilot was a 38 year-old officer who’d been with the San Jose PD for ten years. He managed to steer the faltering craft to the least populated spot he could find, avoiding restaurants, gas stations, motels, the 880 freeway, houses, apartment houses, and our duplex (According to my ex-landlord, the people of the district are grateful to this day for Officer Desmond Casey’s heroism). He and his flight partner, a mechanic, were killed on impact.
The newscast done, I began cooking dinner when I heard a knock at the door. It was Magdalena, but not the Magdalena I knew. She was almost mute with grief but badly needed to talk. “Did you . . . see the helicopter?” she stammered. “Did you see it there on the street?” She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. “Those poor men . . .”. I couldn’t believe it was the same person. She seemed both diminished and perfected: smaller, quieter, simpler, almost childlike.
We talked for a few minutes (the usual philosophizing on shit happens) and she returned to her side of the duplex and I to my rice. We didn’t exactly become friends after that, and I never saw her soften again, but I certainly saw her with new eyes. Beneath the hard shell was a tender heart. I think that’s true of most such people, and that the hard shell is more a matter of protection than aggression; you never really know how people have been hurt, or how much, or how badly. I resolved henceforth to be less judgmental and to give everyone I met more of a chance before dismissing them outright. Fifteen years later, there have been many such resolutions.
Magdalena and I lived next door to each other for over three years, and I don't remember ever saying goodbye when I moved back to San Francisco, though I must have. I only think of her occasionally, but can think of little else whenever a helicopter falls from the sky.
.
Renting the other half of my duplex was a striking young woman I'll call Magdalena. Although she had been born in Guatemala and had a profile from a Mayan frieze, she could not have been more American in her manner and attitudes-more American than I, in fact. She spoke English like a native, and the day after 9-11 a small Stars-and-Stripes appeared on her car's antenna. I remember how much I appreciated that, since the smallest positive gesture carried enormous weight that ghastly week.
We weren’t friends but were friendly, and most of our conversations amounted to an exchange of pleasantries when one of us was leaving the premises or arriving. I thanked my lucky stars Magdalena was such a quiet neighbor; I never heard a TV or stereo through the adjoining wall. The only sign of life from her side of the duplex was the sound of her pumps on the linoleum as she left for work.
But a soft touch my young neighbor was not. She worked in Human Resources for a manufacturing company and bragged about firing people. “Wow,” I remember thinking to myself after we first met. “She’s a hard one.” The relish with which she described her 'terminations' was a bit off-putting. She seemed to have a low opinion of most people.
When I absently remarked once that I might be in the market for a new car, she advised me when (to the day of the week and hour) to go to the dealership, how to dicker and bluff and parse my counteroffers, when to feign cold feet and and cut my losses. I was spellbound by her shrewdness and grateful for the information, even as I knew I lacked the gumption to carry it off. The image she cultivated was of someone who knew how to maneuver and was not to be messed with: in a word, invulnerable. Maybe even invincible.
Returning home from work on a Monday evening one late October, I noticed a commotion a distance down the Alameda, between the Shell station where I'd gas up and the coffee shop where my landlord and I would sometimes have breakfast. A couple blocks later I saw, to my astonishment, that it was a helicopter. It lay crumpled in the middle of the Alameda like a huge winged insect, utterly defeated. I assumed there were fatalities and turned on the news as soon as I got home, which was all of a minute away.
It turned out to be a police helicopter that had developed engine trouble minutes after leaving the nearby airport. The pilot was a 38 year-old officer who’d been with the San Jose PD for ten years. He managed to steer the faltering craft to the least populated spot he could find, avoiding restaurants, gas stations, motels, the 880 freeway, houses, apartment houses, and our duplex (According to my ex-landlord, the people of the district are grateful to this day for Officer Desmond Casey’s heroism). He and his flight partner, a mechanic, were killed on impact.
The newscast done, I began cooking dinner when I heard a knock at the door. It was Magdalena, but not the Magdalena I knew. She was almost mute with grief but badly needed to talk. “Did you . . . see the helicopter?” she stammered. “Did you see it there on the street?” She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. “Those poor men . . .”. I couldn’t believe it was the same person. She seemed both diminished and perfected: smaller, quieter, simpler, almost childlike.
We talked for a few minutes (the usual philosophizing on shit happens) and she returned to her side of the duplex and I to my rice. We didn’t exactly become friends after that, and I never saw her soften again, but I certainly saw her with new eyes. Beneath the hard shell was a tender heart. I think that’s true of most such people, and that the hard shell is more a matter of protection than aggression; you never really know how people have been hurt, or how much, or how badly. I resolved henceforth to be less judgmental and to give everyone I met more of a chance before dismissing them outright. Fifteen years later, there have been many such resolutions.
Magdalena and I lived next door to each other for over three years, and I don't remember ever saying goodbye when I moved back to San Francisco, though I must have. I only think of her occasionally, but can think of little else whenever a helicopter falls from the sky.
.