“Didn’t Your Mama Ever Tell You?”

It was a gray day, but she waited nonetheless, counting aloud the lines on the sidewalk the same as she did every day. A gangly family of pigeons scuttled around her worn leather moccasins, as they always did, and she sat complacent and smiling on the same metal bench beneath the same dying oak tree. She was here every day at seven in the morning with nothing but the company of a cheap bag of birdseed, and I imagined she probably didn’t travel too far away at any given time.

I jogged this path religiously and always wondered if she’d noticed me as I’d noticed her. It seemed no one else who followed this trail paid any mind to her at all, but against the drab landscape of the city park, she stood out like a spotlight to me. Faded pink floral trousers and a tattered white Donald Duck tee were her mainstays, but today she wore a yellow crocheted beanie on her head, pulled all the way over her ears. Yesterday her hat was green, and I’ve even once seen it red with white stripes around the Christmas season. Her head was the only thing about her that ever changed.

Today I stopped. Today I said hello and gave her my name, but her expression didn’t budge. Her counting, however, ceased without a hitch as soon as I spoke. She continued to smile her nearly vacant smile and said, “Hello.  My name's Amanda.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” I wasn’t expecting a response, so, surprised, I could only reply in observation, “I see you here every day, ma’am.”

I can’t be certain why I decided to approach her. Perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps concern, but as I attempted to read what may or may not have been amusement at my disregard for well-mannered conversation on her face, I sure wished I’d taken the time to think of something thoughtful to say.

“I see you here every day, ma’am,” she replied, and the corners of her mouth rose towards her ears by only a hair. Yes, she was amused.

I didn’t have an intention of being rude, but I couldn’t help but study her. She sat silent, still gazing into the direction I’d come from, so it was easy to stare. Lines had formed in arcs where her mouth curved, as if she had been frozen into a grin for a lifetime. Crow’s feet tapered into soft, pale papery cheeks, and she was tiny, thin as a rail, smelling of peanut butter and mildew. She must have been at least eighty.

“M-may I sit for a moment with you,” I was hesitant for the split second before I asked, but I did so with a friendly nod of my own, and she answered, “May I sit for a moment with you?”

I made sure to seat myself close enough on the metal bench to feel amicable but not too close for comfort, and I attempted to carry on this seemingly one-sided conversation.

“So, are you from here - from Chicago?” She faithfully kept her sight locked on the tunnel I’d emerged from and repeated me once again, “So, are you from here - from Chicago?”

“Um, okay. Yeah, I am. Are you hungry? Would you like to get some breakfast together?” Somehow, her reply was easily predictable, “Um, okay. Yeah, I am. Are you hungry? Would you like to get some breakfast together?”

Obviously this woman was a little loose mentally, so I stood slowly and bent towards her, my palm open for hers. I thought I may as well take matters into my own hands.

“Yes, I am! I’m starving. There’s a little diner right around the -"

Before I could finish, she gripped tight to my wrist - wild, bloodshot eyes burned fervently into my own.  They danced with an ominous menace I'd never seen, and her smile was now wide and maniacal, filled with rotten brown teeth and reeking of decayed meat.

Her voice was different than before, something like a deep Creole accent shot from her putrid mouth as she continued to smirk, "Di'nt you Ma-Ma evuh tell you to don't talk to stranguhs, gal?  That how you get took!"

The "k"she cracked with her closing "took" annunciated a warning so vile that my head spun.  My heart stopped for just that moment, her cackle filled my air so thick I could not catch a breath.  I ripped my hand from her grasp, tripping backwards on my heels, and hit the pavement.  

Then I just ran. I ran away in the style of a campy horror movie victim, knowing I was doomed to something, somehow.  I couldn't hear her laughter as I fled back through the tunnel I'd entered by, but I didn't stop. I dug my feet into the concrete and pushed my knees into the light from the other side, racing for dear life.

But something wasn't right. My heart was screaming, and I couldn't breathe. A sharp stab tore through the back of my skull, and I couldn't help but wonder if I was having a stroke or something worse. My ribs cracked as if I'd never run a day in my life.  This didn't make sense.  I ran marathons on my goddamn period, for heaven's sake!

Heaving, I found the main road beyond the park's tunnel entrance. The little diner I wanted to bring her to sat with an inviting wooden bench out front, so I stumbled towards it for relief.

As I approached, the window caught a glimpse of her yellow beanie. She must have followed me somehow.  How the hell was she so fast?  

I twisted to catch her, aching left shoulder blade and crackling knees, heart still beating out of my head, but she was nowhere to be seen.  I must have imagined it.  

I collapsed onto the bench seat, slouching haggardly and dripping sweat, panting like a dog in heat.  It must have been the panic.  I couldn't understand what the hell about that old bag scared me so badly, but I'd never freaked out so hard in my life.

Suddenly, a faded floral pattern, pink roses and paisley came into focus as I sat nearly doubled over.  Wrinkled hands pocked in liver spots and mottled with bulging blue veins dangled between my thighs.  My thighs.  

I shot out of the bench and pulled myself to the diner window, searching for my reflection, but I couldn't find it.  What stood in that window was a wretched old witch wearing a Donald Duck tee and smirk straight from hell, mocking me.  A yellow beanie sat atop her head.  

I screamed for help, but no one heard.  I grabbed at passersby, but they took no notice of me.  I couldn't run any longer, I was too winded, so I just fell.  I knew I was sobbing, and I knew this was impossible, but touching my cheeks, there were no tears.  Only a smile that would not leave.  Only rotten teeth and the smell of my rank mouth penetrating my nostrils.

I had to get back to her.  She never left the park bench, and she was going to fix this.  I didn't know what was happening to me.  I didn't know if I was dreaming.  I didn't know who I even was, but this was not my body and those were not my fucking trousers.

The walk back to the park was a blur, probably faster than it felt, and my heart never had a chance to slow down.  The tunnel seemed a hundred miles long in my condition.  I was only twenty five, but I had become a corpse in waiting.

Finally, the bench was in view, but she was gone.  I was gone.  I wasn't even sure what I was expecting to find.  People everywhere, but no one that resembled me, and I was the only person here that was her.  No one heard me, no one saw me.  I was nothing.

Sitting on the bench was a bag of birdseed, so I joined it.  I waited for myself to return, to emerge from that tunnel at seven the next morning as I always did.  To find me sitting on this same old park bench, under this same dying oak tree.  I was here every morning, but I never came.  

********

It was a gray day, but she waited nonetheless, counting aloud the lines on the sidewalk the same as she did every day. A gangly family of pigeons scuttled around her worn leather moccasins, as they always did, and she sat complacent and smiling on the same metal bench beneath the same dying oak tree. She was here every day at seven in the morning with nothing but the company of a cheap bag of birdseed, and I imagined she probably didn’t travel too far away at any given time.

I don't know why, but I decided to say hello today, and I did.

"Hello, ma'am.  I'm Brady.  I see you here everyday, so I thought I should say hello."

She responded, "Hello, ma'am.  I'm Brady.  I see you here everyday, so I thought I should say hello."